A Little Place I Know

[lallison]

Know I Place Little A

[Hawkman]

There is some fantastic imagery in this.

"The sleepy, green headdress and limestone cliffs of an island
Peeking his forehead over the waves,
Backed by a curl of clouds
And on either side, endless ripples dip to the horizon."

is so evocative. You paint such vivid pictures. Thanks,

H

[PrinceMyshkin]

As Hawkman noted, there is some (much) magnificent detail in this, detail that speaks not only as an objective, photographic description of the scene, but as the way a lover might express his love in the closely observed way he described his lover.

I have a wee problem, though, with


Take a four-wheel drive up the treacherous curves
To the lookout, but be sure not to get lost.

Unless the last part is meant ironically, I don't see the point of it? Of course one doesn't want to get lost, but how can one be sure of that?

By contrast, a line that might seem to be similarly authorial:


The right is a steep decline to the rocks.
Night can come quickly, but don’t let that make you nervous

Has the immediate sense of the author's comradely empathy.

[Bar22do]

Here’s a little place I know,
It’s not much, but if you’re looking to get away,
There’s nowhere else like it.

Begin in Manado, a city on the Indonesian island of Sulawesi,
And take a ferry from there. It feels great to be at sea,
Skipping west, and long after the city is behind,
Something else begins to materialize:
The sleepy, green headdress and limestone cliffs of an island
Peeking his forehead over the waves,
Backed by a curl of clouds
And on either side, endless ripples dip to the horizon.

As the boat gets closer, the dock comes into view
And then the land sags with brush,
Bunching together to form hills.

Take a four-wheel drive up the treacherous curves
To the lookout, but be sure not to get lost.
There is a forest with a stream, swollen from previous rains.
Crawl through it carefully, there are no bridges or switchbacks,
Only steep drops down to ridges and up again.
In some places the tarmac has completely washed out,
And wheels spin through dry sand. Cling to the ledges
On sharp curves, and wale the horn
To alert oncoming motorists. The brush hangs further out
As the road narrows at an almost indiscernible rate,
until, upon meeting an oncoming car, one must pull aside.

You can park in the center of a coastal village,
And although the afternoon may begin to darken,
Just take the path leading through the random scattering of shacks.
The hillside here is dense with insects’ buzz
And the slope to the left rises to jungle;
The right is a steep decline to the rocks.
Night can come quickly, but don’t let that make you nervous,
Because there it is, reflecting its bulk against the dim sea,
Close to the bottom of a rocky slope,
And reached by a scrambling, barely visible path,
If you could call it that.
Tell your interest to the old woman
Draped in a headscarf. She’ll grin and hand you a key,
Then just climb down and you can unpack.

The cabin sticks from the slope like a mine entrance
Letting the porch jut over the water
Just above where the waves crash onto the rocks.
Its interior isn’t much:
A bed with a mosquito net,
A plywood table, and a simple toilet,
But the hammock slanting across the porch
From one corner to the other
Is divine. Lie there endlessly, breathing, swinging,
And listening to the tides rhythmic thunder.

again - dense interesting imagery, ah, the way in which you see the world! so attentive and sensitive! - thanks lallison!

[Hayseed Huck]

Why not close the lines and
post this in general writing
as prose?

As prose, very nice.

As poetry, ???

HH

[lallison]

Thanks for your comments; all are appreciated. PM, It’s amazing that you noticed that line “be careful not to get lost,” which was meant with irony, but I was also trying to create a subtle sense of foreboding. I’m not sure it worked and was wondering about that. Anyhow, i do think it stood out as weak so I’ve yanked it out after some thought.

As to whether or not this is poetry or prose, I would say that is a valid criticism, one that I’ve been thinking about a lot with the past few poems I’ve written. What makes a poem a poem and prose prose is something you’ll find a lot of different opinions about, but essentially, I think there is a strong argument that this is a poem and not prose.

Of course, although rhyme and meter are poetic elements, they are not the only things that make a poem, and are no longer even essential. And although just having line breaks doesn’t make something a poem, would closing the line breaks strengthen or weaken this piece? I’ve tried it, and I thought it made it much weaker. It de-emphasizes lines that are important to emphasize, and it seems to flow less and sounds more awkward.

Beyond that, it contains many other poetic elements: the poem itself is a metaphor and contains a number of similes. There are a few poetic allusions stuck in there and a lot of consonance and assonance and some alliteration which give it its clear cadence, if not rhythm.

The prosy, linear narration gives the reader a sense that the line breaks can be cut out, but whatever one thinks of the quality of this piece, it reads a lot worse to me without the breaks. Anyhow, I realize there’s room for debate on that and that debate I find helpful. I appreciate your feedback. Thanks.