Wildwood Mass.

[Adsum]

Another piece that needs editing, suggestions welcome. Thank you. I wrote this several years ago but never changed it much from the original form.

Wildwood Mass.


I remember leaning over my grandmother
with soup, noodles adrift upon a powdered
pond, my reflection golden, hazily
affirmative, “Eat this; it is warm.”
She glanced at me; like a plant over-
watered waited -- Put it
down. Walled out my imprecise love
with a cheek, as a baby turns
from an oozing spoonful: offended,
This is not what I eat.

Instead she ate afternoons, light-
littered walls, wanted the window closer,
and the million mouthfuls of green sprinkled on
the pudding of spring’s damp earth, thought
often she heard her boys’ voices tossing over
the lawn, knew the blueberries were full
and barely hanging
on.

I found my rest as she dreamt,
By walking my father’s way, the path
like an old spoon, polished by wear’s perfect
rub, shining.

A gate without a fence, hooked into honey-
colored bushes in bloom, stood ajar. Beyond
blueberry shrubs huddled upon the ripe earth
like fat birds. I have a small steel pail
the hue of grandmother’s hair, and I fill the
pail. I come back to her bed.

She calls me by my father’s name. To her, my
father and I have crowded into the same shape.
I know it does not matter. Love fills
what skin it will; it is the same sweetness.

I show her these:
blue memories.

She recognizes them and opens. She opens.
Her mouth’s petal pushes out as it often does
to cup a pill in its tender arc. I take a fat
blue one and rest it on her tongue.

[Hawkman]

Gosh this is good. One thing though, please choose a more legible font. Not all of us have young eyes :D

Personally I like this poem as it is.

Best, H

[Adsum]

Thanks Hawkman. I'm new here and learning how to chose font and size. I think I edited it and increased the size, hope that helps. I also thought it was small when I posted it but didn't know how to fix that at the time.

[blank|verse]

Yes, there's some brilliantly arresting imagery in this wonderful piece of writing; you're clearly fantasically imaginative.

Personally, I found the more simplistic images the more successful:

noodles adrift upon a powdered
pond

[she] wanted the window closer

A gate without a fence, hooked into honey-
colored bushes in bloom, stood ajar.

I have a small steel pail
the hue of grandmother’s hair,
And this is outstanding:

Love fills
what skin it will; it is the same sweetness.

Overall, my two main comments are that I found it read too much like prose, and wondered if it would be better simply written as a short story; and secondly, that there's just too much going on! There are lots of brilliant images - but too many. It's a bit like going to a restaurant and having the starter, main, dessert and everything else all on one plate! This bit:

She glanced at me; like a plant over-
watered waited -- Put it
down. Walled out my imprecise love
with a cheek, as a baby turns
from an oozing spoonful: offended,
This is not what I eat.
left me puzzled as I couldn't work out what 'like a plant over-watered waited' actually means. The sentence starting 'walled' is also confusing, because its lack of subject left me having to re-read it several times, which meant the poem was very slow to read. (Maybe just putting another dash after 'down' and having a lower-case 'w' would fix that.)

There are a few other things, like italicising 'blue memories' made me think they were of a sexual nature, which is very unfortunate, not to mention plain weird, in context.

The ending is fanstasically powerful though, leaving the reader to wonder just what the 'blue pill' actually is - just an essential health tablet, or something more sinister?

But this was great to read, thanks for posting it.

[Adsum]

Thank you blank verse. You made some good points! Someone else liked the baby imagery but perhaps I am doing too much with the plant... then "walled".

Your input is much appreciated.

I am not sure how blue memories could be sexual...maybe you know more than I do!

The blue pill is the blueberry... but really the blueberry is a stand in for memory.

Thanks again, I will look over it and try another version.

[blank|verse]

Thanks for the response, Adsum.

I did wonder afterwards if the 'blue' comment is just a British thing. Here a 'blue movie' is pornography; a 'blue' comedian is one who tells dirty, adult jokes. I thought it was known in America, but maybe I'm wrong. But yes, I see what you mean with the blueberries, and I think that's just me not having read it thoroughly enough, and had linked 'blue' with 'pill'; but then, that's nicely ambiguous as it stands.

Anyway, I can't find the quote, but I think it was Ezra Pound (or maybe Hemingway!) who said a poet should 'kill his [literary] children'! The point is always to be critical of one's own writing and realise when to employ imagery and when to hold back. It's a very Modernist attitude of course, but is a good thing to consider for amateur writers; usually, the flowery, literary bits that we feel very proud of are the weaker moments because we've got too indulgent.

For example, the section I quoted could be reduced to just this without any loss of meaning:

She glanced at me;
This is not what I eat.
but then, it's up to you to decide when to hold back and when to burst forth.