You always wore blue and heather,
but all I remember is red.
Tinsel threaded through your hair on the 4th of July,
glinting in the hot summer sun that made
black asphalt quiver and baked the back of our
legs neon.
Picking rust off chains and flinging ourselves
arching to the ground, spitting out sand and bitter words
pretending they didn’t burn our tongues.
The scratch just above your eyelid and sliced across
your cheekbone by stray claws you fed
under the stairwell. Crescents carved into your palms
that never scabbed over.
Chapped lips hid behind crooked toothed smiles.
Your tired face, glowing in a flash of ambulance lights
before fading back into the night.
And the crackling hymnbooks clasped in small white hands…
Author notes
forged memories.
still not fully satisfied, but its almost there.
feel free to rip into it. all comments welcomed!
(january 2007)
Comments
1 - 13 of 13
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This brought a tear to my eye. Not an easy thing to do. The sadness and loss, the longing for the past are so perfectly crafted. As young as you are, it would seem your old soul has been around forever.
You create a depth to the character revealed here that leaves the reader thinking they know this person. How beautifully you foreshadow the end of the poem with the "but all I remember is red" line.
What part of you can bring these thoughts to words? My God, you make my hands tremble.
Thank you. If I ever write a poem of this quality then I can die a happy man.
Garrison
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well
What can I say, really emotional.Quite descriptive. Do some reading apply what you have read to what you write with a little tinkering this one will be great.
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great poem! i love the ending and how it pulls everything together. the title is perfect, too!
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I honestly don't know what to say,
I am stunned into near speechlessness by the brilliant descriptions. Your originality and wit shine through in this one, especially the part about "baked the back of our legs neon" - that has to be the most innovative use of imagery to describe sunburn I've ever come across.
Your style is so impeccable.
Criticisms? Are you kidding?
I don't think the image this burned into my mind will ever leave... I don't think I want it to. -
This piece is beautiful. Subtle hints cloaked in great imagery "black asphalt quiver and baked the back of our
legs neon."
"The scratch just above your eyelid and sliced across
your cheekbone by stray claws you fed
under the stairwell. The crescents carved into your palms
that never scabbed over." This hints at healing that still hasn't happened over this relationship...over the loss of this friend to an untimely death?
Very well written. I enjoyed it immensely.
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Great job.. reminds me of a warm summer day and just diving into the moment!
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Forged memories?
I'm curious.
I love the imagery this piece gives off.
And the sense of ...I don't know what emotion. Understanding? A giving into death? But without the defeat... Mhmm..
Don't have much on commentary here. Not constructive atleast...
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This was interesting.
This was a very unusual piece for me. By what I read into it, I thought it was going to be about anger. Maybe in a way it is. Death and anger go sometimes hand in hand, even when there is admiration for someone. It's sad to me, I'm not even sure why, but that's the affect it has on me. I think that it needs a little bit more, it just doesn't get all of what you're talking about clearly across. It's a good poem, I think it just needs some fine tuning. Connie -
When you first started discribing the fatal
scars, I didn't catch on that the person was dead.
Maybe it was just me though.
Because I didn't catch on the the subject had
passed until later on (probably farther in
than you wanted people to see the turning point.)
Though all of this is beautifully written I loved
all of it! I just needed to let you know
that maybe it was a little too subtle to begin
with (though I love the subtlty at the ending,
it brought a stunning image!)
peace to all ~flight
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Subtle Violence
I love the imagery in the second stanza of the fourth of July. I am probably biased, however, as I went to a fourth of July parade every year as a kid and saw lots of tinsel. Hot asphalt is also a memory that always gets me excited, because I love summer.
The violence in the poem has a vagueness to it that interests me. I think of someone digging their own nails into their palms when I read "The crescents carved into your palms that never scabbed over." I also wonder why they never scab over. Perhaps the person with crescents in her skin dies. -
Wonderful write! I echo the sentiments of the previous commenters. This is mature freeverse - you tell us barely enough, we want more. That makes a great poem!
I throw roses at your feat!
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I read your profile - are you really 17 years old? The way you write seems to me to way surpass your age. I really loved the way the poem began. The first two lines are beautiful to me.
I noticed you used the word 'quiver'. I like that . . . quiver is one of my favorite words right now and it's nice to see it used in a good way.
It's interesting for the reader (or maybe it's just me) to read about these memories you have. What makes it so interesting, I think, is that you don't tell us exactly what happened so it leaves it to the imagination. We can create our own story based on the description you've given us.
The only stanza I wasn't quite convinced with was the fourth:
"The scratch just above your eyelid and sliced across
your cheekbone by stray claws you fed
under the stairwell."
It may just be that I'm having a problem understanding it, but for some reason this sentence doesn't make sense to me.
I really loved this poem, it's sweet and well-written.
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oh memories!
Is the subject of this also the subject of "after"?
I like the way you suggest that your memories may be made up....and I know how often this happens that the memory takes over from what actually was....or maybe the memory is trying to make sense of what was....sometimes "stories imagined" bear more truth than hard fact.
Anyway...I keep reading this poem ...and enjoy it and am challenged.
I really like the verse with "spitting out sand and bitter words, pretending they didn't burn our tongues" and how that burning resonates with the "black asphalt quiver" and the burning legs and the "red"
and then "the face glowing" before it fades back into the night.
This poem touched something in me.
Thankyou.
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