Shadows of the Soul

[thoth]

OK, here goes :'(
I am very new at this style so please, crit hard and tear it pieces. This is a practice piece and does go on a bit too long. (I cut out some verses in the centre to save the burden)


Rev1

Self righteousness hides a personality disorder that prayers can never heal and eventually the predator becomes his own prey.

Gathering shadows
filter softly through the shuttered windows,
licking away the feeble yellow lamp-light
that hovers insecurely round a tiny fragile globe.
Smudge away those brazen resolutions that you made
when sunlight poured its warmth upon your soul.

Roaring in silence
multitudes of ghosts applaud the twilight.
I move aside the flimsy linen covers,
lay down now beside you, in your troubled desperate sleep.
Ah Sir, you squirm away from me, from my concerned embrace ;
I do believe you know why I am here.

Let me caress you,
this night holds many secrets and a promise,
mysteries of darkness yet uncovered.
walk these shadowed trails with me, your righteous hand in mine,
where once you blazed in pious rage their gruesome truths will tell ,
we’ll journey down to plumb your murky mind.

Beg for salvation,
unheeded cries that echo back to you.
from self-built walls within your prison fortress .
where once you were tormentor, now tormenting we’ll explore,
within these corridors your God averts his eyes from shame
in giving absolution once again.

See, smiles of daylight
have come to grant you rest - but no reprieve,
and I, good friend, must bid you fond adieu.
Tomorrow then, we’ll search again, and every night henceforth,
through all the troubled shadows of your mind.

- † -

Origional:
s1
Gathering shadows filter softly
through the shuttered windows,
sucking away the feeble yellow light
that hovers insecurely around a tiny fragile globe.
They smudge away all those bold and brazen resolutions
made in the comforting light of day
when the sun poured warmth
upon your soul.
s2
Inevitably I arrive
through the roaring silence,
moving aside the flimsy covers
to lay beside you, in your troubled desperate sleep.
Oh, Sir, why do you squirm from my concerned embrace?
do my searching icy hands make you toss and worry?
Please, let me caress your perspiring brow,
for this night promises much.
s3
Fear not for the darkness,
is my own domain, so come,
walk with me, your trembling hand in mine,
as you and I together, will travel once again those shadowed trails
roads you blazed so long ago. Back in time, and down,
we journey into the murky ocean
of your soul
s4
cut away.
s9
Focus now, and pay attention!
as the victims try to flee
but only briefly is their freedom found.
Ruthlessly, it quickly hunts them down,
smears them in its own sticky excretion, then bellows out
accusingly, that all may hear, how blameless is
this poor persecuted
thing.
s10
Alas, the smiling dawn -
so soon has come for you,
and I, good friend, must take my leave.
Those lessons learned and promises made by night,
will sadly lie forgotten, neglected in the busy comfort of your day.
Tomorrow then, I shall return, we’ll search once more,
together through the shadows
of your mind.
s11
As fading sunlight dances
with the falling autumn leaves,
and shadows gather waiting in the dusk.
I know your darkest secret, your every trick and ploy,
remember Sir, unless you see - and move towards the light,
your weakness (That too I know so well)
shall draw you writhing down alone
into the final
night.
-

[jeannerené]

Wally,

I will be back tomorrow. It is late ... and when someone asks for a critique I always do so when time allows me to give my all.

So tomorrow I have no meetings and I will be back.

Thanks for allowing us to give you our thoughts....

.jeanne

[jeannerené]

s1
Gathering shadows filter softly
through the shuttered windows,
sucking away the feeble yellow light
that hovers insecurely around a tiny fragile globe.
They smudge away all those bold and brazen resolutions
made in the comforting light of day
when the sun poured warmth
upon your soul.
s2
Inevitably I arrive
through the roaring silence,
moving aside the flimsy covers
to lay beside you, in your troubled desperate sleep.
Oh, Sir, why do you squirm from my concerned embrace?
do my searching icy hands make you toss and worry?
Please, let me caress your perspiring brow,
for this night promises much.
s3
Fear not for the darkness,
is my own domain, so come,
walk with me, your trembling hand in mine,
as you and I together, will travel once again those shadowed trails
roads you blazed so long ago. Back in time, and down,
we journey into the murky ocean
of your soul
s4
cut away.
s9

thing.
s10
Alas, the smiling dawn -
so soon has come for you,
and I, good friend, must take my leave.
Those lessons learned and promises made by night,
will sadly lie forgotten, neglected in the busy comfort of your day.
Tomorrow then, I shall return, we’ll search once more,
together through the shadows
of your mind.
s11
As fading sunlight dances
with the falling autumn leaves,
and shadows gather waiting in the dusk.
I know your darkest secret, your every trick and ploy,
remember Sir, unless you see - and move towards the light,
your weakness (That too I know so well)
shall draw you writhing down alone
into the final
night.
-

Wally,

Each stanza is worded and phrased with with considerable craft.  There were two small words that I put a "strike" through because I felt them unnecessary.  So, as far as construction of the poem there is nothing that I would criticize, not even the length as it is now.  However, you mentioned that you did cut a few verses - a good choice, because longer than that which you have now could very well prove to be too long.

Solid and intimate visuals, and I especially felt your opening stanza was right on the mark, creating both location and mood.

.... OK ... lets move on to emotional content.

I sense the pain ... the secrets... the cloaked and self indulgent despair of "sir."  I can put a face ... a smell ... an empathetic hand on the chest of "sir."

I cannot do the same with the figure who moves "aside the flimsy covers." 

Those lessons learned and promises made by night,
will sadly lie forgotten, neglected in the busy comfort of your day.
Tomorrow then, I shall return, we’ll search once more,
together through the shadows
of your mind.

Why return? What weakness of this nightly guest feeds off of Sir?
What part of herself does she see reflected or lost in her lover's eyes.

s11
As fading sunlight dances
with the falling autumn leaves,
and shadows gather waiting in the dusk.
I know your darkest secret, your every trick and ploy,
remember Sir, unless you see - and move towards the light,
your weakness (That too I know so well)
shall draw you writhing down alone
into the final
night.

Is there a danger of the lover being drawn down as well?

This is a fine poem ... that reaches into the dark and passionate underbelly of the soul, but the emotionality is cut short by not revealing/suggesting what is at risk for the lover.

Focus now, and pay attention!
as the victims try to flee
but only briefly is their freedom found.
Ruthlessly, it quickly hunts them down,
smears them in its own sticky excretion, then bellows out
accusingly, that all may hear, how blameless is
this poor persecuted

... Line 4 ... Question ... who are you referring to in "it quickly hunts them down" .... Do you mean freedom hunts them down.  If so that does work for me, putting an interesting twist on the notion of freedom, perhaps the abuse of indulgent freedom.  Just a little unsure what was intended.

Wally ... I hope that helps you a bit when revising.  Please keep in mind I am only one person with one opinion and nothing I say might or must hold true for the next person who reads.  One reason I enjoy poetry so much is it lends itself to be interpreted differently by each individual reader ........ and I do believe that is the way it should be.

Thank you for trusting us with a critique of your work, and thank you for sharing your talent with us as well.

.jeanne.

[thoth]

Jean,
Thank you for that detailed crit and your valued impressions.

The poem is about a person with a personality disorder (BPD) who during the day is a violent abusive character who does not recognize his own symptoms and feel no remorse or guilt for his compulsive behaviour. (Everyone else is an idiot)

Each night his conscience awakes to trouble him but when daylight retuns he suppresses it and thus is unable to break the cycle and behave as a healthy person. Madness will eventually ensue as the condition spirals into total breakdown. 

This is a true scenario as explained to me by a dear friend who sadly married and so became the victim of such a demon. The condition is actually distressingly common in our modern society and although gentetic, is dormant until triggered by abuse we receive when young. Thus the cycle of violence is perpetuated.

Clearly I will need to work on making the message more explanitory and concise but I am encouraged by your words to complete this intricate project.

Hugs, Wally

[jeannerené]

Wally,

I am very familiar with BPD being in Special Education and also within my family circle as well.

Now I know what the "it" is and Stanza 9 becomes crystal clear. "Focus now and pay attention" .... yes, perfect.

Last night while reading I had a feeling that much more was at stake in your poem, but I just wasn't sure. I know you can work this out to give the poem its full range of emotional content and attachment .... and I of course do not mean by spelling it out literally .... but with further suggestion and nuance as you have done already.

Just a little tweaking ........ I think ......

... and let me say you should never shy away from free verse... include it in your talents.........



.j.

[davidmm]

thoth
When reading a poem it is often difficult to differentiate between the content and the format used to present the content. This makes the task of offering any form of critique difficult. If one has little knowledge of the content, how can one pare it away from the words presenting it? Conversely, if one has little understanding of the word format does that belittle the subject?
I confess to having little knowledge of BPD other than through snippets I have read - often in a sensationalised manner. Your description is very vivid, thoth. It has the quality of making the reader think, "There but for fortune go I." Your descriptions are dispassionate and show great empathy.
I also confess to having minimal knowledge and understanding of free verse. Please don't interpret that as a blanket disapproval of the form - maybe it is a form of poetic dyslexia. When I see blocks of free verse, I see prose with illogical line breaks. That, however, is just my personal view.
So why am I responding to your posting? I appreciate your handling of a difficult subject written in a format I suspect you also find alien to a degree. For that you deserve admiration and I look forward to seeing more posts - hopefully of the style I appreciate but, above all, PH needs people with the commitment to writing that you obviously have.

[thoth]

David
Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. Yes, I understand as that is exactly how I feel about freeform. I am determined to practice and hopefully perfect the skill though as it seems to me, rhymers are not taken seriously in litterary circles these days. Why?

I have revised the poem, so further comments will be appreciated.

Hugs, Wally

[jeannerené]

I will be reading.

I am determined to practice and hopefully perfect the skill though as it seems to me, rhymers are not taken seriously in litterary circles these days. Why?

I admire your willingness/efforts/interests in exploring and perfecting your free verse.  I know it seems that rhymers perhaps are not taken seriously, however, I still believe that anyone who truly values and appreciates that art of poetry will recognize that a writer who can master rhyming possesses a skill that probably most free verse poets cannot conquer.  A poem that rhymes, without ever letting that objective of rhyming become its focus is a complete pleasure to read. .....

I mean who can beat the shear thrill of reading epics like The Raven by Poe and The Highway Man by Noyes... wow... I never ever tire of reading or listening to an recording of either one.


I have always felt overwhelmed with emotion reading:

What Voice at Moth-Hour by Robert Penn Warren

What voice at moth-hour did I hear calling
As I stood in the orchard while the white
Petals of apple blossoms were falling,
Whiter than moth-wing in that twilight?

What voice did I hear as I stood by the stream,
Bemused in the murmurous wisdom there uttered,
While ripples at stone, in their steely gleam,
Caught last light before it was shuttered?

What voice did I hear as I wandered alone
In a premature night of cedar, beech, oak,
Each foot set soft, then still as stone
Standing to wait while the first owl spoke?

The voice that I heard once at dew-fall, I now
Can hear by a simple trick. If I close
My eyes, in that dusk I again know
The feel of damp grass between bare toes,

Can see the last zigzag, sky-skittering, high,
Of a bullbat, and even hear, far off, from
Swamp-cover, the whip-o-will, and as I
Once heard, hear the voice: It's late! Come home.

... I could go on ....

I can't write rhyming poetry without struggling, sweat dripping off my brow ............... lol........ staring at a page with line after line crossed out ....

But I appreciate rhyming poetry as the "perfect rose" in the garden!

.j.

[thoth]

Dearest Jean,
Thanks for those interesting thoughts and the encouragement.

While there is a huge resurgence in fixed form poetry on the web by ordinary poetry lovers and amateurs like us, I am referring to the academic world, where things are different, rhyming poetry is something the old masters wrote, and the style has no place in modern writing.

Just see when last any classic form rhyming work (Author) won or even featured in the places and publications like the naked press, IBPC or any other prestigious competition. Political message and abstract thought seems to override all else.

And now you have confused me more. The poem you featured above, while containing some really excellent phrases imagery and content is (in my book ) very sub standard.

It features;

• Poor and slanted rhymes (now/know)
• Rhymes forced through enjambment
• Very erratic metre (anapaestic / iambic, wrongly stressed or missing syllables))

Without prior knowledge, to me, it seems to come from a good free-form poet who is attempting a rhyming form without any understanding the basic requirements. This makes it very difficult and lumpy to read. The first lines start in a beautiful anapaestic rhythm ;

“What VOICE/ did I HEAR /as I STOOD /by the STREAM,
BeMUSED /in the MURM/urous WIS/dom there UTT/ered,”

Exquisite stuff indeed!

And then is simply not followed through with stressed syllables going completely astray. Inappropriate enjambment destroys the rhythm every time it begins to build.

In high critique workshop, this particular post would be ripped to pieces, and yet, to your ear this is a wonderful piece, and presumably you selected it as an example of a successful rhyming poem. Why? Simply because the author is a famous poet? Or is there really something there? ( With due respect to Penn Warren whose work “Evening Hawk” is among of my favorite free-form pieces.)

Of course what the poet did in this case was to deliberately veer from the conventional; an experiment. It is our duty as poets to push the envelope of normal accepted ways and create the channels along which language flows.

So there you are! Art is (as always) in the mind of the beholder. I guess my quest to discover the perfect form is a bit like searching for the Holy Grail. If it exists, no-one would know it as it hides in the open, right before our eyes. Besides we don’t know what it looks like so how would we recognize it?

Oh I ramble on too much! I must get back to work.
Hugs, Wally

[jeannerené]

Wally,

... sorry ... I don't mean to confuse.  I really do not have the knowledge that you and David, Jim and I'm sure other poets here have concerning the rules of proper rhyme and meter.  I wish did... I admit to always being a bit befuddled by certain aspects of rhyme and meter despite what I may have read.  Part of the reason I created a sub-board (Random Helpful Information) in the Critique Forum was to actually help myself understand better the art of creating classical poetry.  I've not kept up with the postings as I had wished to .... please feel free to add to the board with any information you wish.

poetichorizons.proboards56.com/index.cgi?board=random

Perhaps in the long run it all comes down to what a poem says to the reader ... no matter what format it takes on.  As to Warren's poem  What Voice at Moth-Hour, I first read the poem I'd say probably about 1977 ... being just a young women and certainly not anywhere near my Moth-Hour.  Still the poem held me captive and I cut it out and placed it under the glass on my desk at work.  From there the same little piece of print, has traveled with me displayed in various locations and speaks to me still to this day.... and with even more meaning that it held in the past,  now that I am a 'mature' woman .................  That's a long time for a poem to capture ones deeper thoughts and imagination.  I could only hope that any one line I write would stick with someone for more than a day.

Of course what the poet did in this case was to deliberately veer from the conventional; an experiment. It is our duty as poets to push the envelope of normal accepted ways and create the channels along which language flows.

....I've always agreed with the above sentiments, but respect others how do not agree ....

Oh I ramble on too much!

... please do ramble more ...


Wally, I have not gotten back to your revision yet.... but rest assured I will.

.jeanne