a poem

alfa beta

I stand here ill at ease.
Her hand is squeezed in mine,
her grip too tight.
Her eyes stare with painful recognition
and simple, awful fear.
Why have I come here
to see her this way?

Yet tears are kept inside.
She will not go there,
not yet, not today.
A nurse fidgets with something,
says ‘now’ and smiles and walks away.

Tubes and hooks and electronic
blips and whirrs and rain
streaming down the window pane
outside. Mist being blown
relentlessly against
the cold window pane.
It’s a cold and wet New Years Day.

There’s nothing to see out there,
except a parking lot, a building site,
empty and grey and desolate.
I saw them yesterday
while she slept,
unmoving and sad.

I thought of the whale
that swam up the Thames
to find itself a final mudbank.
Attempts were made to turn it away.
But all attempts failed.

The crisp, clean, white, washed, sheets
will do nothing to keep the mud at bay.
The mud is lurking.
It won’t be long they say.
It will rise to the surface and on it she will lay
and, as comfortably as she can, she will wash
from her hands all the work of her days.

I will look at her then and whisper quietly,
I miss you, so very, very much.

And I will always feel that way.

Arthur Rimbaud

I'm not sure how appropriate it is to critique, and possibly ruin, what may be a very sore personal expression, almost as personal as a diary entry.

I love the run on lines I think some of the stanzas could be merged and partly demolished. I'll give you one example of a candidate for demolition, which in fact is caught up in a verse I really liked.

Tubes and hooks and electronic
blips and whirrs and rain
streaming down the window pane
outside. Mist being blown
relentlessly against
the cold window pane.
It’s a cold and wet New Years Day.

I love the drama of the run-on lines until you get to line 4. But thereafter, it's already taken for granted that the rain is streaming down outside, and outside is redundant, as is the remainder of the stanza, until the final line. I think this would be a much more powerful stanza if it read:

Tubes and hooks and electronic
blips and whirrs and rain
streaming down the window
pane. Today is
New Years Day.

Or replace what has been cut out with new content.

Moving on to the part about the whale on the Thames, this is really great stuff. I love how these lines exude MUD all over them, gloopy and plopping in rain and water. You have a really fantastic potential for symbolism there, but I don't think it is being used to its full potential. I think this poem needs more smeary, viscous, dirty, scary, oncoming mud.

Despite the very sensitive content of the piece, don't feel like you have to end in a sentimental way. Don't be afraid to end on fear, anguish, something gutteral and awful, like a slug. Make this woman a slug. Smear mud all over her bed, have it plop and pulse all over the hospital floor. That is poetry: capture the unspeakable, unsayable truth.

alfa beta

interesting stuff arthur, thanks

i think if you and I were given the same topic and asked to write something creative around it, we'd end up in very different places using very different language

candy-gal1

Tears in the morning
Tears in the night
I try and I try
With all my might
But nothings right
I wait for light
Whats in my sight
I know what I see
I know what i need
To stop the tears it will lead
If only I could find the good deed
And make him take heed
For If nothing at all you are my friend
My best, good Id hold you till the end
I wish I could send
Or give you a lend
Just so you know my heart couldnt bend