A Critique for One Stop Poetry

Pete Marshall, one of the editors at One Stop Poetry, asked me and several others to participate in a poetry critique exercise today, to help people get used to the idea of criticism as a part of what poetry is all about. Criticism is a sensitive subject. Done well, it can help a poet grow and improve; done poorly, it can be ugly and destructive. I’ve seen it done both ways (and recently). But a poet has to be prepared for both, for both kinds can be ways to learn and grow.

Pete bravely offered up one of his own poems, one he wrote as a teenager. Here’s his original poem and what I posted in the comments, followed by how I would rewrite the poem.

Thoughts From A Decaying Age
by Pete Marshall

Let life live on a desolate shore
untouched by man and free of law
where all who live are but creature & flower
on a paradise island these dreams are our
fantasies that wont come true
for Man destroys anything who
stands in his way to accomplish a dream
with Science, War, Religion & we
who all just sit back and watch
do not try to stop as the world destructs.

Let their blood flow on through the valley
covering the land raped by the tyranny
scorching the Earth so dry & disfigured
where once stood trees & flowers & people.
hard to believe there once was life here
this barren land savaged by the years
but no river runs cold when you fight for existence
to live & breathe & laugh is resistance.

Critique

In my own work, I tend to the spare and sparse; not quite minimalist, but with an enthusiastic leaning in that direction. I’m also not overly fond of rhyming. I start with here to set my own biases up first – it’s all too easy for a critic to view everything through that overly personal lens. And that lens can’t be entirely escaped, for criticism is ultimately as personal as the poem itself.

I have at least three positive reactions.

I like how it sounds when it’s read aloud. It has a rhythm and flow that’s easy to miss if you only read it silently.

It has a defined point-of-view; it takes a stand.

It has a rather dark theme, but it offers hope. It takes a dim view of the destructive tendencies within humanity, tendencies that the poet suggests are inherent.

I have four concerns.

First, a grammar issue: “…for Man destroys anything who…” “Who” is the wrong word (so, too, in the first stanza). I see it and immediately ask, is this deliberate or simply unknowing? But it stops me for a moment from reading the poem, to ask the question. It seems small thing but small things can be telling things. And some periods seem to be missing, or something to indicate the end of one thought and the beginning of another (see the third and fourth lines of the first stanza).

Second, there’s an overreliance on the ampersand. It’s as if the poet were in a hurry and didn’t take the time to write out “and.” Again, a small thing. But it stops me to ask that “deliberate or unknowing” question.

Third, the rhyming is not consistent, or rather, it’s slightly disorderly, almost as if it can’t make up its mind whether it wants a rhyme or not. This is true in both stanzas.

Fourth, there seems to be break between the two stanzas, a break not quite bridged. Whose blood, exactly, should be allowed to flow?

A suggested rewrite (and if more time were available, I would work this over several times; the theme is worthy of a series of rewrites):

Thoughts from a Decaying Age
By Pete Marshall (edited)

I want life to live on a desolate shore,
untouched by man and free of law,
where all who live are but creature and flower.
Yet even on a paradise island this desire
is fantasy, a mirage that only shimmers,
for Man destroys what stands
in his way, to realize a dream
of Science, War, Religion while we stand aside
to observe, and to watch, and do nothing,
nothing to stop as the world destructs.

Let blood flow through the valley;
let blood cover the land raped by the tyranny
scorching the Earth so dry and disfigured,
Earth now scarred of trees and flowers and life.
There once was life here, they say,
this barren land savaged by the years.
Yet no river runs cold when you fight for existence;
to live and breathe and laugh is resistance.

To see what others offered as acriticism and various suggested rewrites of the poem, please visit One Stop Poetry.

Photograph: Dramatic Landscape by Petr Kratochvil via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Saturday Good Reads

One of this week’s selections – “Beauty’s Promise” by Kathleen Overby – could have fit in prose, poetry or photographs. She combined all three creative forms into something else again. Strictly for conveience, I’ve listed it in Prose. It joins a lot of other wonderful things this week.

Prose

“Oh Say Can You See” and “Lenten Journal: Life Together” by Milton Brasher-Cunningham at Don’t Eat Alone.

“The church is a Galilean hillside” by Bob Spencer at Wilderness Fandango.

“Nice is Overrated” by Russell Holloway at Bullets & Butterflies.

“On the Awesomeness of God” by Diane Walker at Contemplative Photography.

“Brave Heart” by Jeanne Damoff at The View From Here.

“Dear Future Mark” by Kathy Richards at Katdish.

“New Life” by Mike Dellosso.

“Allison” by Billy Coffey at What I Learned Today.

“The more I see of Christians the tighter I cling to Christ” and “Forgiving, Releasing and Love” by Jessica McGuire at Jezamama.

“Afraid to Pray” by Michelle DeRusha at Graceful.

“The Angel of Long Point” by Louise Gallagher at Recover Your Joy.

“Western Auto and Bikes” by Harriett Gillham at The Other Side of the Mountain.

“Worship Wins” by Fatha Frank at Public Christianity.

“Michael and Charles and Their Loving Father” by Dusty Rayburn.

“Beauty’s Promise” by Kathleen Overby at Almost Paradisical.

“I’m a Lenten Failure” by Sandra Heska King.

Poetry

“Shhh…listen” by Jerry Barrett at Under the Door Frame.

“The Slow Rain of Promise” by Jay Cookingham at Soulfari.

“Third Cup” and “St. Michael and Manannan” by Brendan MacOdrum at Oran’s Well.

“No curtain call” and “Another Hotel Room” by Steven M. Grant at Urbanality.

"Their Struggle is Your Struggle" by Maureen Doallas at Writing Without Paper.

“Lent Again, a Poem for Ash Wednesday” by Jim Schmotzer at Faithful Skeptic.

“The Keepers” by Rob Kistner at Image & Verse.

“The Poetry Boss” and "Horizon" by Bradley Moore at And the Other Thing Is.

“Sense” by Nancy Rosback at A little somethin’.

“Profound” by Leslie Moon at Moondustwriter.

“The Darkened Tales – The Complete Series” by Pete Marshall.

“Appearances” by Melissa at All the Words.

Paintings and Photographs

“Bottled Up” and “Trails” by Susan Etole at Just…A Moment.

“Thicket,” oil on canvas by Randall David Tipton.

“Dance” by Deidra Riggs at Jumping Tandem.


Photograph: Cat Ladder by Nancy Rosback. Used with permission.

A year of blessing

My grandson is one year old today.

A year ago, we faced the prospect of Cameron’s father, my firstborn, dealing with brain surgery while my daughter-in-law was in labor. My son is telling that story on his blog; you can find all the details there, with his account of what happened on March 9, March 10 and March 11, 2010.

It’s still very difficult for me to talk about. Even writing about it makes me veer toward losing it. My son has no memory whatsoever of a 12-hour period. But I do.

So here is Cameron Andrew Young, one year old, threatening to walk at any moment.

We call him the little happy baby. The happy little guy. The laid-back baby (well, he's laid back compared to his father and uncle). He has a sweetness about him that totally beguiles his grandparents and has his grandfather in the palm of his hand. Last year, my son and daughter-in-law took him on the grand tour of Louisiana, to meet all the relatives in New Orleans and Shreveport, and Cameron conquered there, too.

So many things about him totally delight me, but few as much as watching him when my wife walks in the room and his face breaks into this huge smile.

He’s a lot of work. All babies are a lot of work. He spent four days with us in January while his parents went off to San Francisco, and we were forcibly introduced to just how much work babies are, even ones as sweet as this one. (The weather was also bad, so it was four days inside.)

But what a blessing this child is.

I knew I was likely to be totally enthralled, but the reality has been something else again. I have to practice patience and forbearance, and do it consciously. I would babysit at the drop of a hat. I’d drive my son and daughter-in-law crazy if I showed up at their house every time I wanted to.

We saw him last night, to celebrate an early birthday for him and us. The big party is on Saturday (when I have to share him with everyone else.)

I think back to one year ago, and I know how good God is.

Photographs: Cameron Young, by Cameron Young's grandfather. The bottom photograph is of Cameron and his paternal grandmother, who usually doesn't like posing for pictures but one can get away with it when she's holding her grandson.

Rest is a Beach

It seems like it’s been a long winter. A very long winter. I shoveled snow off my driveway more times than I care to think about. And the sidewalks – did I mention the sidewalks? Or that we live on a corner and we are (theoretically) required by our municipality to shovel the snow from our sidewalks? There are two us within a six-block radius of my house who shovel our sidewalks. The last snow was so bad that both us opted to follow the rest of world and wait for it to melt from the sidewalks.

For me, after a winter like this, my thoughts turn to (1) moving south, like really far south and (2) vacationing south.

If you live in the Midwest, a vacation to the south means – the beach.

I’m not making this up. The first time we vacationed at Gulf Shores, Alabama, the people next to us on the beach (we were renting condos in the same development) were from St. Charles, Missouri, about 20 minutes from where I live in St. Louis.

I love the beach. We went to Charleston, South Carolina, for vacation in 1996 – and snuck in a day at the Isle of Palms (one of the places where photographer Kelly Sauer takes really cool photographs). We went to Williamsburg in 1987 (and a few times since), and spent a day at Virginia Beach. In the rain.

The very first vacation I can remember is when I was 4, and we spent a longish weekend at Biloxi on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. I remember the sand and water that tasted like rotten eggs (high sulfur content). When I was older, my family spent several years alternating vacations between the Smoky Mountains and Pensacola Beach.

I attended a conference in San Diego once, and used my free afternoon to drive up to Del Mar and have dinner on the beach, watching the sunset. Another time I was at a meeting at Laguna Niguel and got up early each morning to walk the beach as the sun rose.

The second time our family went to Gulf Shores, we spent almost the entire week on the beach. Each morning, I’d get up, usually with the youngest, and we’d eat something and head to the beach, renting our beach umbrella. We’d walk through the surf, looking for shells, and then sit under the umbrella. He would dig and build and I’d read. I read the unabridged Don Quixote de la Mancha by Cervantes straight through that week, sitting under the umbrella.

As far as vacations go, it was well nigh perfect.

For me, the beach, the sound the waves, the odd critters scampering by or tunneling into the sand, the shells, the sun, all of it is about rest. It’s an emptying out, doing nothing in particular except reading or perhaps a little writing but usually reading and just staring at the sea. It’s a total disruption in a busy routine, and it is good.

After this winter, we’re again talking about going south on vacation. I suspect it will be near a beach.


To see more posts on rest, please visit Bonnie Gray at Faith Barista. She’s busy this month celebrating rest. (Wait, is that a contradiction? Can you be busy at rest?)

Photograph: Beach by Bobby Mikul via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Ash Wednesday

I always envied my friends
who came to school
the day after Mardi Gras
with a smudged forehead,
a spot of ash or soot
index-fingered
upon skin to signify
what – exactly?
They told me the priest
at church did it but
they didn’t know why.
I didn’t know either but
ignorance never stopped me
from wanting my own smudge.

If you'd like to know more about Ash Wednesday, Pastor Mark Roberts over at Belief Net posted a column yesterday that describes its history and current practice.

Also see "40 Days of Lent" by Cassandra Frear at Moonboat Cafe.

A Rose in the Water

The boatman poles on, oblivious
even to the chilled pale loveliness
before him, oblivious to all
except grief, a grief
more consuming
more profound,
more destructive
with each stroke, each thrust,
each sound pushing into
the shallowness of silence.

A small jarring; the boat
shudders in slight movement,
a barely felt motion of death
as a soul wings free.
A rose falls from its wreath,
its promise of beauty unfulfilled,
its heavenly scent submerged,
its promise of life drowned
by true devotion unreturned.
The boatman poles on, oblivious.

Painting: Elaine (1874) by Toby Edward Rosenthal; Art Institute of Chicago.

This poem started with a simple glance at a short news brief in the Art Institute of Chicago’s magazine – a regular feature on a work “from the collection.” The painting was created in 1874 by Toby Edward Rosenthal; it depicts the body of Elaine of Astalot being taken to Camelot, as described by Alfred Lord Tennyson in Idylls of the King. She had died of a broken heart, her love for Sir Lancelot unrequited. Something about the work moved me so much that I went searching and found my copy of Idylls on a bookshelf in my basement and read that section of the epic, entitled “Elaine and Lancelot."

Following exhibits in Berlin (the American artist lived in Munich) and Boston, the painting created something of a national frenzy by the time it was displayed in a San Francisco art gallery for 12 days in 1875. More than a thousand a people a day lined up to pay 25 cents to see the painting. According to research by the Art Institute, Elaine clubs sprang up, an Elaine waltz was written and even an Elaine cigar was manufactured and sold. Something about the painting struck some kind of chord in the American psyche. The painting was also shown at the Centennial Exhibition of 1876 in Philadelphia. It was given to the Art Institute of Chicago in 1917 by Mrs. Maurice Rosenfeld, the year that the artist died in Munich.

Inspired by the story of Elaine and Lancelot, the American composer Edward McDowell created this symphonic poem, "Lancelot and Elaine, Op 25" in 1886:



This poem is submitted to One Shot Wednesday sponsored by One Stop Poetry. to see other poems, please visit the site. the links will be live at 4 p.m. Central time today.

The Future Isn't What It Used to Be

There was a time when the future was a place, a place I was going to.

I had to plan for it, think about, strategize it, implement it, refine it, rethink it and plan again – but it was indeed a place. This place was usually associated with accomplishing something – an achievement, an award, a recognition, a milestone, a promotion.

I wasn’t so foolish as to think that accomplishing something would bring happiness, fame, wealth and contentment – I had learned that lesson in college.

But I was still reaching. Part of that reaching included having a family, finding gifts I could use, get a Master’s degree, in effect assembling the pieces of what I thought, or my wife and I thought, should be were we wanted to go.

Something changed, though. Exactly when I can’t say. The future stopped being a place or destination. It became something else.

Was it the day I held my first-born, my second-born?

Was it the day I held my grandson?

Was it the day I biked to the Chain of Rocks Bridge in north St. Louis, biked up the bridge and looked south to see the city in the hazy distance?

Was it when I saw the Lincoln Memorial at night?

Or the day I sat in the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula at the Tower of London and considered all the royal enemies lying buried beneath my feet?

Was it the day I wrote a poem, a poem that affected me far more than I could understand, and I knew I never would?

Perhaps it was the day my first journalism professor wrote “not bad for a cub” across the top of my assignment.

Or the day my father died.

Or the day my heart was joined to my wife’s, or the day my soul was claimed for eternity.

Whenever it was, whatever day it was, the future changed from a place to the real. And I found myself, find myself, living more and more in the real, and learning that the real matters so much more, more than I ever could have known.

The future isn’t what it used to be.

And that’s good.


This post is submitted to the One Word Blog Carnival on “future” over at Peter Pollock’s place. To see more posts, please visit the site.
Photograph: Stone Tile Wall Background by Andrew Schmidt via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.