Leaving you

[Delta40]

I have dressed death
in wide, embroidered lapels
The sequins glisten,
twinkle in the strobe
of our last jive
in platform heels.
Blanketed on a sofa
Reality tv has given me
more illusions than I know.
My inevitable end
cuts me at the stem.
But death is no wilting, fragile flower
shedding its petals.
It is more like
knotted clumps of fur
stuck between floorboards.
I fear your grief
when I leave this world
will be freedom
chained to a post.
While macaroni cheese
bubbles on the stove
You tease my skin sores
and say they look like
ginger nut biscuit crumbs
I laugh and slap
you with the spoon
that you proffer so I can
taste morsels of our last supper,
kiss your lips and tell you
everything you do
will always be al dente.
I cough
lose breath
collapse
Under coloured disco lights
in my sparkling death cloak
we grind our hips,
twirl our bodies
to the heady beat
of funky music of the worst kind.
While you weep over
the void of my lifelessness
and pick the clumps of fur
stuck to my face,
the cheesy pasta boils dry

[PrinceMyshkin]

Either I was too overwhelmed by the hyper-vivid images throughout or you were a wee bit negligent in providing further steps to the conclusion, after the opening hint:


I think a void
is the same as freedom


Because the end, when the poem came back to it, caught me by surprise.

[Delta40]

I just edited some parts. Does it help at all?

[PrinceMyshkin]

I just edited some parts. Does it help at all?

Of course I no longer have the original to judge by but I do think you added an early reference to her leaving him that wasn't there before, and yet... I don't think I grasp the nub of why she's intent on leaving him?

[firefangled]

Delta, these are stunning images. I'm with Prince on this that there is still too much missing to make such incredibly vivid metaphors and descriptions pay off as of yet.

I would not abandon this. You set a tough job for yourself with the quality of imagery.

[Delta40]

Really? I thought Leaving You was pretty clear. She is dying and has fantasised about where her mind will be as she dies yet knows he will be hit with the harsh reality of her end

what do you think I need to change or add for this to be more apparent?

[PrinceMyshkin]

Really? I thought Leaving You was pretty clear. She is dying and has fantasised about where her mind will be as she dies yet knows he will be hit with the harsh reality of her end

what do you think I need to change or add for this to be more apparent?

All you need to change (in my case) is the zeitgeist! That is, whenever I read a poem by a female writer that begins "I fear the void I create / when I leave you / is the same as freedom" I assume that the narrator is leaving because she has been in one way or another demeaned or subordinated by her male partner.

So I paid too little attention to the vivid descriptions of death that soon followed.

[Delta40]

Ok, for you Prince, I have edited the beginning and made some subtle changes. Perhaps as Firefangled says with the metaphors and description more info is needed but I trust to the integrity of all who read it! and of course am open to suggestions

[PrinceMyshkin]

Ok, for you Prince, I have edited the beginning and made some subtle changes. Perhaps as Firefangled says with the metaphors and description more info is needed but I trust to the integrity of all who read it! and of course am open to suggestions

Yes, that absolutely clarifies it - and it is a vivid, sharply etched poem.

[Delta40]

It does read better this way. Thanks

[firefangled]

Delta, now I am even more intrigued that you've spilled your intent with this poem.

It is not entirely clear to me that the mind is speaking with the soon to be dead body. You've chosen a difficult thing to portray in the voice you have elected to use. Perhaps, start off with something like:


Death, I have dressed you
in wide, embroidered lapels.

These next lines are the first that attempt to reveal what's going on, I think.


Blanketed on a sofa
Reality tv has given me
more illusions than I know.


Again I think establishing separation might help. Perhaps:


With you, blanketed on a sofa,
Reality TV has given me
more illusions than I know.


I think there are some key places where this separation needs to be established. Having done this, the later references in the poem will be clearer, such as this marvelous description:


I laugh and slap
you with the spoon
that you proffer, so I can
taste morsels of our last supper,
kiss your lips and tell you
everything you do
will always be al dente.


There are also places where punctuation would add some clarity.

Your poem reminds me somewhat of Sylvia Plath's, Fever 103˚ from Ariel.

I think you have nearly succeeded with this poem. I would not stop refining yet. The best are the most frustrating to go back to for me.

[Delta40]

wow I am honoured I would be compared to Plath! I think there may be some confusion between her, him and death and that is where the problem of separation lies. I will work on it - perhaps Death would be better served holding the spoon.

Here is a revision. What do you think?

Death I have dressed you
in wide, embroidered lapels.
Sequins
Sparkle
Twinkle
dance in the strobe
of our last jive
on platform heels.

Crouched over me
like a sofa blanket
Reality tv
Flashes
Glances
Flickers
illusions of what will be
the inevitable end.

Life on
Life off

Cut me at the stem
if you must!
Fragile, wilting flowers
shed petals like teardrops,
dull
weakling
that I am
Yet you give me
knotted clumps of fur
caught between grainy floorboards.

You, Death agitate
The grief stricken bones
Of the lost.
Lost lives
Loves
Uses
I will be a wild dog
Whose frothy snarl
Must be chained to a post.

While macaroni cheese
bubbles on the stove
You tease my skin sores
then lick
taste
suckle their gingery texture

I laugh and slap
you with the spoon
which you proffer.
Let me catch a whiff
of our last supper
Morsels
Tidbits

I kiss your lips
and tell you
everything you must do
will always be al dente.
soft moist cough
breath in
breath out

Death pours over
the eternal void of lifelessness
It picks the clumps of fur
stuck to my face,
as my cheesy pasta boils dry.

Under coloured disco lights
You Death drape me in your cloak.
We grind hips,
Twist
twirl our bodies
to the heady beat
of funky music

Strobe off, on, off, on

[Delta40]

If anyone is happy to compare both versions of this poem and give me some feedback, I'd really appreciate it. :)

[Hawkman]

Actually Delta I had little problem with your first draft but the second (now in the first post of this thread) worked completely for me. I really don't like the latest version. It has become fragmented and prissyfied, (I really loath one word lines that just disrupt the flow of a poem). Your initial instincts were sound and the minor edit you made with the addition of a couple of lines, resulted in a powerful, intimate portrait of a woman coming to terms with her iminent death and reflecting on the effect it would have on her partner. The description of the symptoms:

"You tease my skin sores
and say they look like
ginger nut biscuit crumbs"

sounded to me like skin cancer. I think this poem works on many levels, conveying complex emotions and vivd imagery. Well done, sport.

Live and be well. H

[Delta40]

Thanks Hawk. I was not sure and took out the partner leaving just her and Death. It sounds a little hollow to me too.

[firefangled]

Sorry I could not get back to this sooner, Delta. And I am afraid my elaborate criticism may have set you on a wrong path. I guess I missed the fact that this was involving the feelings of a partner, rather than her mind.

Comparing the two, I would have to choose the first post over the last.

[Delta40]

That's ok Firefangled. I was interested in playing with it. I like the first one too. I'm a poor editor. Usually, if I don't fix a poem immediately upon its creation, it sets like cement for some odd reason..