I was busy,
and you were tired, and so
we did not meet until
the weekend, when our
trivial tragedies
spilled unheard onto
the broken sidewalk.
We walked under
the molten sky,
though the clouds
cared nothing for our
scattered thoughts.
A change in the wind
brought a taste of
bitter leafmould,
and I turned suddenly,
feeling a fragile distance
loom in the inches
between us.
When the stars came out,
we huddled for warmth
in our jackets,
afraid of contact,
yearning for the electric touch
of each other,
yet unable to stir ourselves
from our crystallized apathy.
Your breath misted,
and there were
hidden tears beneath the
mask of your scarf.
We parted
with a brief caress,
stung by the mockery
of what we had been.
It was cold, and then
you were far away.
Please tell me things. Lots of things.
Comments
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I might say mold instead of mould, but otherwise, I can feel your desire to rework the piece and at the same time I am frightened that it would somehow take away from the delicate nakedness of it's truth. I can feel a yearn for better form or structure, yet somehow now, the piece flows effortlessly. Perhaps the yearn is just our constraints that have been ingrained in us sice childhood, that we try so hard to break out of...
"This one has a litte car,
This one has a litte star..."
I love your story and your bravery to share it here.
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I can't offer any advise for revision aside for one thign! It's beautiful. I do the same thing with seperating sentences and ideas into the core pieces of each thought. It isn't a bad thing, but it makes the rhythm feel choppy. It adds to the feeling of awkwardness and insecurity, but unless you really value the effect I suggest you piece together some of the stanzas.
This was a wonderful piece, I felt the emotions and images very clearly adn I hold that in high esteem. Hurray!
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Oh, there is such a sense of responsibility when a poet asks for constructive critique, for any suggestion may only be borne of individual perception.
I have no constructive critique, I felt the changing within the shades. Lines 1 through to 7 revealed circumstance and when met the liberty taken to forget. The phraseology of molten sky is one often used but not one that has a picturesque clarity, from line eight you painted the cavalier, cold, river bed need of ache within the need of the other to negate, the cold, clammy atmosphere was clear as what was once held close was distant rather than measured by distance.
Crystallized apathy poured poetically...
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