Young Writers Society

I

Mom told that the kids
in that one school west and north and a desert
from here take questionnaires about suicidal
thoughts
and motives, but I told her that life is just one big
suicide dive onto wrinkled death-beds
and little sparks of hope and doubt.
She disagrees. She thinks that youth
is like that new blue carpet, with the made in Egypt
cotton embroidery; it shouldn't be stained with dark
bile, or whatever color, really.
That's why we have to house-break the dog, she says.

II

I like small things, but not too small;
that lipstick you gave me was perfect, though you know
I'll never use it. Lipstick canisters
are more for looking, and smelling,
and shifting between drawers and other drawers.
I like when I see it, dusty small things,
that I pull from between time's fingernails
and braid into cracked lips.

III

Mom's tea is still simmering, but I keep forgetting
about it and all those other small things
that interlock in my open palm.
Mom used the metaphor of the train,
but I like the metaphor of the tree more,
because the roots
are always there, always small,
and the trunk is like a column
of suicides who forgot to take the questionnaire.

This was absolutely brilliant. I loved the use of imagery and the significance of the lines each break and line held a certain amount of weight and significance and that is the key to a good poem. It really is similar to Raymond Carver it it's style and finality, he often references how he is writing within the piece and the fact that that yours directly labels the tree as a metaphor is great. The second stanza almost makes it seems like the narrator is contemplating suicide, because it gives off this nostalgia but at the same time a sort of pain all directed at dusty memories. But by the end of the second stanza there is almost a peacefulness to it which make the suicide seem almost rational, which I love.
I only have one issue and that is this line

I'll never use it. Lipstick canisters
are more for looking, and smelling,

It felt like the break was in the wrong place, but maybe it's just me. I really love your work, and I would be honored if a poet of your talent could give me their opinion on my work.
Wow, just.... Wow,

Thers.

It's a little unnerving dear boy. I was never one for poetry, but it is you and I owe you a review or two by now.
So I will make a couple of notes.

Kafkaescence wrote:I
but I told her that life is just one big
suicide dive onto wrinkled death-beds

This is a little unnerving, probably because I ignored the fact that you are licensed as a writer to employ a narrator to express these harrowing metaphors, It's not Kafka.

That's why we have to house-break the dog, she says

I'm not trying to make a point by asking you this, because I truly don't understand the structure of most poetry and the eclectic punctuation, but I will ask, why did you leave the full-stop off the end of the sentence? It's not like you to miss something like that, but I can't work out why it would be left off.

I like when I see it, dusty small things,
that I pull from between time's fingernails
and braid into cracked lips.

I like when I see it, dusty small things

I understand poetry gives you a little bit more freedom to ignore the rules and devise detached and fragmented segues between images and ideas. But either you have done away with the Kafka like editing for this piece -- let one or two things slip -- or I am missing something.

Mom's tea is still simmering, but I keep forgetting
about it and all those other small things(lovely)
that interlock in my open palm.
Mom used the metaphor of the train,
but I like the metaphor of the tree more,
because the roots
are always there, always small,
and the trunk is like a column
of suicide victims who forgot to take the questionnaire.

This last bit is a master class, it really is. The final image is a forlorn rehash of the ideas you touch upon earlier, the imagery in its entirety seems to arrive through a grey film but it is never more dour than that last line. Though I would say one thing, I don't like the suicide victims part. Change victims it really detracts from that otherwise brilliant last line.

The message of the poem is bitter-sweet. Some of the ideas you touch upon are mature and intelligent though at part II you seem to lose focus, that metaphorical drive wavers a little, like you needed to fill it with something that works but doesn't necessarily strengthen the piece, its like the scene in every James Bond movie where our hero falls into the arms of an arbitrary lover. It's just there and our opinion doesn't change and we aren't taken any closer to resolve but we are entertained no less. I would prefer to see something closer to the theme, something biting. Perhaps lead us one way than pull us back.

JP

Incredible poetry! I love how the first part was so personal, I almost felt ashamed to read it. THAT takes depth. Life really is like a tree, branching out in unexpected twists and waves.