Private Harvest

Private Harvest

In the fifth stage of sleep you
you open me up. Down the middle,
the head separates, then the sternum.
The pelvis breaks. Piece by piece, I vanish.
Every time, the hand provides. It is
supreme. I am magnetized to judgment.
But shame comes easily to those who wait,
doesn’t it? Where there should be
paper halos, there are dizzying roses. They paint fields.
Among them, two scorpions plunge into
each other. Both of them are me.
Faced with my own flesh, I endure only what I know:
Rage-possessed novas searing though darkness,
the hearts incessant monologue—
all blood and bile and bleating rain.

Sad and poignant, Dyne. Perhaps just a bit too obvious and for that worthwhile rethinking, but it's an involving poem, Dyne, and N, so very much alone...

Hello dyne. This is a strange poem. It has powerful imagery but it is sprinkled with incongruous phrases which feel out of place to me. "Every time the hand provides" whose hand, provides what?

"They paint fields" I guess this one is intended to convey that the roses provide splashes of colour in the fields, but it doesn't read quite like that; the image I had was of roses with brushes and paint.

The line: "Both of them are me" was a little too telling for me. As Bar says, a little obvious perhaps.

It might be worth considering excising all of these as I think the poem wouldn't suffer for their exclusion. One last thing; is the repetition of "you" at the end of line 1 at the begining of L2 intentional or is it a mistake? If it's intentional a comma after the first would be in order.

The last four lines of this poem are particularly powerful. An interesting read.

Live and be well - H

I remember your poem "Matricide." That was brilliant. I meant to comment on it way back when. I think you should try to get that poem published.

Sorry I don't have any comments for this particular piece, but it is good work.

I am in no way immune but this felt melodramatic with effect in mind rather than feeling. Scorpions and roses? But who am I to say?

You're perpetually in fine form, dyne.





J