A Secret Garden

[TheFifthElement]

Briars tug at my arms,
catching and scratching skin
once young, now hardened
against their nipping teeth.
They can’t hurt me anymore.

The fullness of summer has passed
leaving an unkempt, tangled mess,
like hair in need of a good washing.
This is not the neatly tailored
garden I remember, clipped
and pared in postage stamp squares,
everything in its proper place.

In the corner, the tree has grown wild.
Dead branches linger, thin witches fingers
pulling hair; and there is a gash that runs
down the centre of the trunk,
an open, bloodless heart beating dryly.
It dominates, ballooning like a
mushroom cloud, vast and bitter,
its size a compensation for love
lost and inattention; it stretches
to the sky without hope or success.

Sunlight bleeds through the hedgerow
squeezing through the small holes
with penetrating light. It is a sharp stick
poking the yolks from my eyes;
they run down my cheeks
in thick yellow streams.
Is this where my childhood went,
devoured, dipped in toasted soldiers
running down a midday chin?

I shudder in the cooling wind
that wraps around me, like the arms
of an old lover I no longer need.
I shouldn’t have come here.
Turning, I trip over the skeleton
of a bicycle consumed by the tall grass.
Its fish eye wheels stare coldly
without the ghost of a memory.

The rusted gate creaks as I leave,
there is nothing here for me.

[PrinceMyshkin]

My God! This was at time almost unbearably painful to read! With what mastery, what an unerring eye, you present us with what are unmistakeably a garden, an actual bicycle, the soft-boiled egg, and at thesame time, without being forced upon us, the map of your inner landscape. Nothing stands out in such a way as to disrupt the movement of this great poem and yet there are some lines



there is a gash that runs
down the centre of the trunk,
an open, bloodless heart beating dryly.


Sunlight... is a sharp stick
poking the yolks from my eyes;
they run down my cheeks
in thick yellow streams.
Is this where my childhood went,
devoured, dipped in toasted soldiers
running down a midday chin?


the arms
of an old lover I no longer need.


Turning, I trip over the skeleton
of a bicycle consumed by the tall grass.
Its fish eye wheels stare coldly
without the ghost of a memory.

That strike even harder than others.

Are you familiar with the critical term: Wow!

[CdnReader]

This is a magnificent piece of writing, Fifth. I especially liked these lines...



The fullness of summer has passed
leaving an unkempt, tangled mess,
like hair in need of a good washing.


It is a sharp stick
poking the yolks from my eyes;
they run down my cheeks
in thick yellow streams.

...and the utter simplicity and honesty of this...


I shouldn’t have come here.


Well done indeed!

[TheFifthElement]

Thanks Jerry, and Cdn :D

Interestingly the tree image, the gash like an open heart, was a tree I saw on Friday near a garden centre. Clearly it had suffered some damage at some point when it was growing, and the scar had grown into an elongated heart shape. Perhaps next time I'm there I'll take a photo and post it.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Thanks Jerry, and Cdn :D

Interestingly the tree image, the gash like an open heart, was a tree I saw on Friday near a garden centre. Clearly it had suffered some damage at some point when it was growing, and the scar had grown into an elongated heart shape. Perhaps next time I'm there I'll take a photo and post it.

This raises a couple of interesting speculations for me about the relationship between poetry, psychology and life. A "New Age" way of looking at what you describe might be to say that that tree was there in order to provoke the perception or thought it created in you.

In a less metaphysical way, however, some might say that the heart-scar you saw was something that already existed for you in yourself and you might indeed have found it somewhere else because you needed to find it, you needed to express what it provided you the image/metaphor to express; and that any number of others had walked by, seen the tree and the scar in some other way than you did - or not all.

Above all, may I say that this poem has not yet received the readership I feel it deserves nor the deep appreciation it merits.

[TheFifthElement]

This raises a couple of interesting speculations for me about the relationship between poetry, psychology and life. A "New Age" way of looking at what you describe might be to say that that tree was there in order to provoke the perception or thought it created in you.

In a less metaphysical way, however, some might say that the heart-scar you saw was something that already existed for you in yourself and you might indeed have found it somewhere else because you needed to find it, you needed to express what it provided you the image/metaphor to express; and that any number of others had walked by, seen the tree and the scar in some other way than you did - or not all.

Above all, may I say that this poem has not yet received the readership I feel it deserves nor the deep appreciation it merits.

It does raise a question doesn't it. Perhaps another person could have seen the tree and the scar and acknowledge its shape but think nothing of it, and move on.

As for readership well, it is weekend, and people are busy and wrapped up in their own business. If they visit, and they read, and they enjoy then it has served its purpose, if not, no worries, they're probably having fun doing whatever it is they're doing! Good for them :)

[Sweets America]

It is a wonderful poem!! :)
Very sad. I prefer the beginning:


Briars tug at my arms,
catching and scratching skin
once young, now hardened
against their nipping teeth.
They can’t hurt me anymore.

The fullness of summer has passed
leaving an unkempt, tangled mess,
like hair in need of a good washing.

and the ending:


I shudder in the cooling wind
that wraps around me, like the arms
of an old lover I no longer need.
I shouldn’t have come here.
Turning, I trip over the skeleton
of a bicycle consumed by the tall grass.
Its fish eye wheels stare coldly
without the ghost of a memory.

The rusted gate creaks as I leave,
there is nothing here for me.

It is painful, yes, and it gets sharper in the end.
Great poem!

[TheFifthElement]

Thanks Sweets America :)

[jon1jt]

The imagery is immaculate, but midway I wondered whether this was about to be mere descripton, a summer wonderland - beautiful at that - or something more? And then it surfaced, that vital 'something,' a slight impurity, perhaps, but necessary and wanting. Read on...


Turning, I trip over the skeleton
of a bicycle consumed by the tall grass.
Its fish eye wheels stare coldly
without the ghost of a memory.

This is a cold turn in what otherwise appears as a warm, hospitable, even magical landscape


I shudder in the cooling wind
that wraps around me, like the arms
of an old lover I no longer need.
I shouldn’t have come here.


"skeleton...coldly...ghost" strewn across four lines...This texture is already present, or presencing.

This is minor, but I didn't get this line at all. Perhaps it's something I'm missing in the larger context I'm not sure.

dipped in toasted soldiers
running down a midday chin?

I loved this, my favorite of the whole piece:

It dominates, ballooning like a
mushroom cloud, vast and bitter,
its size a compensation for love
lost and inattention;

"hope and success" coming shortly after works, but it's cliche compared.

I think it starts breaking down after here:

I shouldn't have come here.

Leading down to here:

there is nothing here for me.

Fifth, there's absolutely nothing wrong with the poetry. Like I said, I think the 'I' reconsidering herself in the midst of the imagery is all necessary and makes it your poem, but I don't think it's elevated. There's no resolve and that's fine--that's the secret---but that something is abidingly impersonal when it comes, ungiving. Or, perhaps it comes too late and it's my fault because I was unable to change gears and ride with it, accept it. There's something under the surface unsaid, and it's the space between what's said and that inward turn.

Now let me contradict myself. What I take from your poem, which is beautiful, making me in some sense feel a deep connection to a core, is, there is nothing more real than a mirage.

I'll come back and read it again, and again.

[TheFifthElement]

The imagery is immaculate, but midway I wondered whether this was about to be mere descripton, a summer wonderland - beautiful at that - or something more? And then it surfaced, that vital 'something,' a slight impurity, perhaps, but necessary and wanting. Read on...

This is a cold turn in what otherwise appears as a warm, hospitable, even magical landscape

hmm, warm, hospitable?

Of all your comments, this interested me the most:


There's no resolve and that's fine--that's the secret---but that something is abidingly impersonal

perhaps because this is, for me, a deeply personal poem, more so than I can say here, and things would be lost in the explanation anyway. So, let me say these things,

it is a poem on two levels, both an external and internal landscape.

this point :

Is this where my childhood went,
devoured, dipped in toasted soldiers
running down a midday chin?

is the nub of it. A reflection of myself, age 13.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I'm returning to comment on this again because having read it several more times, I'm more mindful of the architecture, of a structure that is as solid as the skin is beautiful. To begin with,




Briars tug at my arms,
catching and scratching skin
once young, now hardened
against their nipping teeth.
They can’t hurt me anymore.

introduces an ambivalence that we will read on in the hope that it may be resolved, e.g., it is a good thing that the briars can no longer hurt her - but was it worth the cost of once young skin, now hardened?


The fullness of summer of youth and hope?
has passed
leaving an unkempt, tangled mess,
like hair in need of a good washing.
This is not the neatly tailored
garden I remember, clipped
and pared in postage stamp squares,
everything in its proper place.

as things were, once, under the tutelage of one's parents.


In the corner, the tree has grown wild.
Dead branches linger, thin witches fingers
pulling hair; and there is a gash that runs
down the centre of the trunk,
an open, bloodless heart beating dryly.
It dominates, ballooning like a
mushroom cloud,

This image of "the mushroom cloud" is the one thing that jars somewhat in this poem, because in this day and age can that image avoid suggesting the aftermath of the dropping of an atom bomb? But the poem is in no way about the martial history of the 20th c.

Other than that, however, the preceding lines continue the theme of the decay of one's post-childhood years, as do the succeeding lines:


the vast and bitter,
its size a compensation for love
lost and inattention; it stretches
to the sky without hope or success.

Sunlight bleeds through the hedgerow
squeezing through the small holes
with penetrating light. It is a sharp stick
poking the yolks from my eyes;
they run down my cheeks
in thick yellow streams.
Is this where my childhood went,
devoured, dipped in toasted soldiers
running down a midday chin?

I take it these "toasted soldiers" are the tidily cut rectangles of toasted bread one dips into a soft-boiled egg?


I shudder in the cooling wind
that wraps around me, like the arms
of an old lover I no longer need.
I shouldn’t have come here.
Turning, I trip over the skeleton
of a bicycle consumed by the tall grass.
Its fish eye wheels stare coldly
without the ghost of a memory.

Which furthers the sense of lost youth, lost hope, lost - illusions?


The rusted gate creaks as I leave,
there is nothing here for me.



And in this last line you reiterate the note of ambivalence sounded in the opening. There is nothing (any longer) to be recovered from the past, no redemption, no restoration of lost illusions. But the "nothing" of the last line is both a triumph and a defeat. A triumph because the wasted garden you have shown us is clearly no place in which to dwell. A defeat because implicitly you went there in the hope of finding something, did not - and the poem refuses (quite properly) so much as to hint at the possibility that there is a somethig else somewhere else.

So the poem ends, brilliantly, with a reiteration of the ambivalence, now transformed into ambiguity, with which it began.

[dibyendra]

Briars tug at my arms,
catching and scratching skin
once young, now hardened
against their nipping teeth.
They can’t hurt me anymore.

The fullness of summer has passed
leaving an unkempt, tangled mess,
like hair in need of a good washing.
This is not the neatly tailored
garden I remember, clipped
and pared in postage stamp squares,
everything in its proper place.

In the corner, the tree has grown wild.
Dead branches linger, thin witches fingers
pulling hair; and there is a gash that runs
down the centre of the trunk,
an open, bloodless heart beating dryly.
It dominates, ballooning like a
mushroom cloud, vast and bitter,
its size a compensation for love
lost and inattention; it stretches
to the sky without hope or success.

Sunlight bleeds through the hedgerow
squeezing through the small holes
with penetrating light. It is a sharp stick
poking the yolks from my eyes;
they run down my cheeks
in thick yellow streams.
Is this where my childhood went,
devoured, dipped in toasted soldiers
running down a midday chin?

I shudder in the cooling wind
that wraps around me, like the arms
of an old lover I no longer need.
I shouldn’t have come here.
Turning, I trip over the skeleton
of a bicycle consumed by the tall grass.
Its fish eye wheels stare coldly
without the ghost of a memory.

The rusted gate creaks as I leave,
there is nothing here for me.

I found such a great imagination in this poem Fifth! Thanks to that secret garden which had been your muse and helped you to craft this poem. I highly appreciate this poem! Keep up your good work. :thumbs_up

[TheFifthElement]

I found such a great imagination in this poem Fifth! Thanks to that secret garden which had been your muse and helped you to craft this poem. I highly appreciate this poem! Keep up your good work. :thumbs_up

Thanks dibyendra - nice to see you around :)




This image of "the mushroom cloud" is the one thing that jars somewhat in this poem, because in this day and age can that image avoid suggesting the aftermath of the dropping of an atom bomb? But the poem is in no way about the martial history of the 20th c.

Jerry, yes your analysis of the poem was right on the mark. As regards the mushroom cloud, consider it a figurative atomic bomb.


I take it these "toasted soldiers" are the tidily cut rectangles of toasted bread one dips into a soft-boiled egg?


Yes! But I am reeling here, as I now understand that boiled egg and toasted soldiers may not be a universal thing, but perhaps something uniquely British. Wow, that's such a weird feeling.

[Pendragon]

The eldrich skeletal remains of a memory garden, the tree now a gashed and bleeding nightmare, the forgotten remnants of youth (the bicycle) a rusted hollow skeleton with staring eyes. Even the plants have grown teeth and nibble at you as you pass. Excellent!

Pen

[PrinceMyshkin]

I'm back for one more kick at the can (a tribute to how seriously I take & appreciate this poem), to plead for a change of title. For one thing of course it reminds me of Francis Hodgson Burnett's classic, The Secret Garden, which kind of established a proprietary right to that image; but even if it were not for that, I think "A Secret Garden" is such a cuddly title, such a promise of tender sensitive confidences, the reader's most empathetic heart gets ready to bleed with and for you...

And of course the poem is tender and sensitive - but much tougher than that, much stronger than that. And in no way merely (ugh) literary!

[TheFifthElement]

The eldrich skeletal remains of a memory garden, the tree now a gashed and bleeding nightmare, the forgotten remnants of youth (the bicycle) a rusted hollow skeleton with staring eyes. Even the plants have grown teeth and nibble at you as you pass. Excellent!

Pen

Thanks Pen, and what a wonderful word 'eldrich', yes eldrich indeed.


I'm back for one more kick at the can (a tribute to how seriously I take & appreciate this poem), to plead for a change of title.

he he he, okay I'll bow to your better judgement on this and give the poem a new title. Not sure what though, I'm thinking maybe an address would be good No. 13 Caxton Road or something?

I'm thinking of cutting the final line. I recently submitted a poem to a competition, and after the closing date they provide you with a free critique (before the results are out, phew!) and overall it was good but a comment was made about the 'telling' style in the last few lines. I realised that I have a tendancy to need to explain, and this often comes towards the end, I think you referred to this before as 'tucking the baby in'! I think I've done this here, and in 'Gravity' as well, but if I cut that last line it leaves it more open-ended, I think.

[PrinceMyshkin]

he he he, okay I'll bow to your better judgement on this and give the poem a new title. Not sure what though, I'm thinking maybe an address would be good No. 13 Caxton Road or something?

I'm thinking of cutting the final line. I recently submitted a poem to a competition, and after the closing date they provide you with a free critique (before the results are out, phew!) and overall it was good but a comment was made about the 'telling' style in the last few lines. I realised that I have a tendancy to need to explain, and this often comes towards the end, I think you referred to this before as 'tucking the baby in'! I think I've done this here, and in 'Gravity' as well, but if I cut that last line it leaves it more open-ended, I think.

Yes, No. 13 Caxton Road would do better for me, in that it would be less of an immediate tug at my heartstrings.

I strongly disagree, however, with the advice to cut either or both of the last lines in this poem, most especially re the very last line. I think you've altogether earned the right to a valedictory line there, to a coming out from behind the scrupulously objective quality of the observations of the exterior world.

As for,


I'm thinking of cutting the final line. I recently submitted a poem to a competition, and after the closing date they provide you with a free critique (before the results are out, phew!) and overall it was good but a comment was made about the 'telling' style in the last few lines. I realised that I have a tendancy to need to explain, and this often comes towards the end, I think you referred to this before as 'tucking the baby in'! I think I've done this here, and in 'Gravity' as well, but if I cut that last line it leaves it more open-ended, I think.

however, maybe you could leave out the last line of that! :lol: