Grandmother (Memory)

[IceM]

On summer evenings
I picture us standing beside the falls—
How the setting sun’s final rays poked through the poinsettia patch,
as droplets of mist,
tinged with crimson against a sanguine sky,
graced our sunburned skin.

Autumn smelled of saffron and the nightly bonfire.
As fresh cedar and pine chips crackled like your joints,
you’d gesture to the heavens,
where stars,
silver, like the tail of Tancho’s Comet,
shimmered with humble incandescence on the midnight
face of the lake.
It was to here where we would steal with baskets full of apples
and fresh cinnamon—our midnight snack.

How fascinating it was, in Winter,
that after every “glomp” in the lake’s center,
our eburnean pebbles would cast endless ripples,
shimmers the color of the cesious sky,
towards us. At night, we
would tromp home through snow,
racing against the rainstorms
towards our cabin
together.

Time ebbed on. Spring,
with viridian water-lilies,
beckoned us outside. Towards the meadows we marched,
where we picked orchids,
purple like the boysenberry stains on my clothing.
And the dahlias,
cinnabar like your faded dress,
would intermix with California poppies and blooming violets
and span across the meadow, a subtle
diminuendo in color that, you said,
resembled your daily mood.

You’d hold my hand as we returned at night
and guide me to your favourite spot,
where, in the meadow, moonflowers grew.
Now they adorn your grave.

[Hawkman]

Hi IceM. This is a vivid, evocative and flowing poem. If I have a criticism it is that perhaps it flows just a little too much. However, there is so much to like I’ll just mention the parts that aren’t quite right. There are a few commas missing. You need one at the end of L3, otherwise you are saying that the sun’s rays are droplets of mist. “…graced themselves upon…” Not sure about this, overly wordy and how does a droplet of mist grace itself? Much better to say, “…graced our sunburned skin.”

In S2 you should have a comma after silver. A bushel is a quanity or container for a volume of 8 gallons! Now that’s quite a midnight snack! Cant help thinking it’d be a bit hard to steal anywhere dragging a couple of 8 gallon barrels. Definitely overkill.

As S2 has you by the lake, in autumn, at night, S3 continues with you by the lake so we think it’s still autumn and night. Consequently, having said that the lake had a midnight face, one wonders where the new colour has come from. I’d recommend establishing the new season earlier. This Stanza is the weakest. Patient shimmers? And this;

“tromp home through snow,
racing against the rainstorms
towards our cabin,
rushing onwards
together.”

You need an or before racing. Otherwise you are doing both at the same time, and having said racing, you don’t need to say rushing. I’d lose rushing onwards.

In S4 the list of colours becomes tiresome because of the way you describe them. It’s un necessarily long winded. Eg, the orchids are purple like boysenberry, “…Cinnibar like your faded dress. It would be better to present these by saying, purple orchids that matched the berry stains on my clothes and …your dress, faded to cinnabar.

Same with the last verse, better as:

“You’d hold my hand as we returned at night
and guide me to your favourite spot
where in the meadow, moonflowers grew.
Now they adorn your grave.”

I do like this poem and I think it is a tender tribute to its namesake, but it could use a little tightening up.

Live and be well - H

[IceM]

Thanks for reading Hawk! I was sifting through a few memories to use for a poem, and I got carried away with the color-imagery. I'm still deciding how to sort through most of the fourth stanza, but I've applied your recommendations, and I will continue to edit as time passes by. Thank you for reading!

I'll make sure my next "coming-out-of-sabbatical" poem is a better tour de force.

[hillwalker]

I enjoyed this but I agree with the Hawk - you need to curb your exuberant style slightly (think of your readers).

Verse 1 is the one that most obviously outstays its welcome (I don't see a need for the final line - it's as if the stanza is quietly running out of steam but you had to flog it to death anyway)

- and 'eburnean pebbles' seems more a case of showing off your erudition than describing a scene so the reader can share your sense of wonder.

H