The Writers Block

Nice work.


We skimmed stones
Along the Magiore shore
And counted the skips
As children do. (If your intent is to state narrator is a child recalling this event, you should replace "do" with "will" because it reads you are skipping stones lke a child would

And some days walked
Among chestnut groves
And threw spiky balls
Empty casements

The first snows fell in silence
Blankets of darkness
Obliterated the far shore
Opposite Miralago

Judith Hart my first (This is your best stanza)
I read her name
On her toothbrush
The closest I ever got

On the worst nights
The lightening flashed (Typo on lightning)
Frightened us as much
as anal thermometers

We longed for home
Waiting for the Red cross (Cross)
Anxiously running
To grip a friendly hand

Sudden inclusion of the Red Cross probably opens more questions than this stanza answers. Unless there is some reference in your title ot the location of the poem that the reader should be familiar with, I cannot recall readily any event which would bring the Red Cross...

How it reads is as if thge narrator is encamped in some temporary refugee status as a child. if this is the case, you'd likley need to ground the poem more with concrete information.

I like the feel of this, very subtle beginnings with skimming stones and the spiky balls..

Just need clarification.

Thanks kenneth for the spotting of spelling and capitalisation errors, I wonder why my speller checking tool did not spot this error.


regards

Ieuan

Ieuan---


Displaced Persons Camp

my suggestion to help the reader understand the nature of the sanitorium---or cancer ward, or what ever, but directing the reader, informing the reader.


you have a rich story here, start with it---

We skimmed stones
Along the Maggiore shore
And counted the skips
As children do

And some days walked
Among chestnut groves
And threw spiky balls
Empty casements

start here:

The first snows fell in silence
in darkness obliterating
the far shore
opposite Miralago


compress to impress:


The snow fell in silence
obliterating Mirlago
and the fallow
Maggiore shore


more personal, intimate and mysterious?


the hospital wards
clean as buckets
children carry at seaside.

rows of chestnut trees
big as steam shovels,
the yard marshy
and unusable much of the year.




action, pictures, drama, fast information to the reader.




my first
I read Judith Hart
on her toothbrush,
The closest I ever got

the nights frightened
us and we sunk
under our wools stretched
over heavy planks.
.


i don't know, but something lively---

On the worst nights
The lightning* flashed
Frightened us as much
as anal thermometers



We longed for home
Waiting for the Red Cross*



beautiful move beyond your comfort zone, thrilling and scarry isn't it?

all the nuts and bolts are here, assemble your starship, commander---fly!



bernie

Fully agree with bernie, this has mostof the framework for a very good piece of work....

Iewan,

I see repetitions, in the first two stanzas I have just reread, and I will just point to them, or maybe I could highlight them:

We skimmed smooth stones, flat pebbles
shiny from the lappings of the Maggiore shore
strolled among tall groves of chestnut treesthrew spiky casement shells as children do

In the third stanza, you have contradiction and repeat "snow" three times, "falling" and "slow". I am not sure it makes the poem prettier. Maybe you do.

First snows fell in silence, enchantingus at Miralago. Gloom descended with
vast blankets of snow, cascading in endless
clouds, falling fast and falling slow - falling


Following, I may leave out distant friend since it mentions "the closests I ever got..." with more detail and she already has a name.

Judith Hart my first, my distant friend
The closest I ever got was to read
her name on her toothbrush
fleeting memories, shadows and whispers

Here, I like the line I underlined, but I do not see it as enhanced by the preceding lines in the stanza. I get an image of lightining outlining the nurse's profile which seems rather alluring, almost saintly, far more intriguing than being afraid of a storm.

On the worst nights electric storms
rode the alps and the wole world roared
with sound and light. Frightened we cowered
under duvets. Nurse stood outlined at the window

The following stanza, to me, lacks vital signs. German matrons, nannies, tutors, have a reputation for being tough. Why not show just how tough they can be, tied the narrator to a chair and took off her belt. sauerkraut seems nostalgic, which is missing home, but mixed with the cold hard matron, both expressions get watered down.

She cold be cold and hard and sometime rough
when we complained over the sauerkraut and vorst
matron came and reminded us we had chocolate
but we still wanted butter for our brood
The German kinder never complained

In the following the narratorS explain why they miss home, so all the more, the above seems bland. Longing for "love" is vague. The line highlighted is my favorite line of the poem. It spells home and love all in one sentence.

It gets really wordy after that and I have lost this and it looks bad and do not know how to fix it, so I can only hope you will understand what I am trying to say. I think the last two stanzas could be made into one.

I like the message and the feeling of youth and hope not lost despite the ordeal and pain suffered. I think you have great potential pictures, snapshots that want to be more vivid than they come through, almost as if the narrators were afraid to express them, but here is where the poet takes the maestro knows best attitude and pulls the belt from the nurse and steals that strength to convey the message with fire and lightning, with starvation and dungeons of black moss, whatever it takes to bring the same message and pictures to their fullest effect.

pen

We longed for home, I grieved for Mam
Her flour dusted apron in our warm kitchen
We longed for love. The day came for our release
we were well. I ran to greet the Red Cross lady
and gripped her gloved hand and told her we
preferred British nurses, and of course she agreed.

The aftermath was full of sleepwalkings
nightmares and readjustments, years
later some memories hurt. A Christmas party
for former inmates, the innocent victims
of the poverty and deprivations
of WW2. God bless the Red cross.

I think the rewrite is so vastly superior, it is hard to connect it to its predecessor. I am really impressed with the quality, the tone, to the point I'd urge you to submit it somewhere.

A lot of poets resist editing, but you've reaffirmed here my absolute belief in the process. It will be done when it is done and no sooner.

Maybe a few chips and bangs, but you've definitely got the meat of this one.

Nice work.

Orginally I wrote this to anwer the demands of Mojave. Use a place he said and so I did. Kenneth the critique process is so often underrated.

oh this rolls so nicely.

what a story unfolds here, with restraint and slowly revealed details that help feel that i'm right there.

great job.


mojave

Ieuan,

A most generous sharing of your feelings and concerns, and I am glad that my longish incursions into your writing are not found too intrusive.

It has made impact to realize your preoccupation about the use or not use of iambic rhythm for your work. I dare to urge you not to feel aprehensive about that, either way. Some if not most English speakers are naturally inclined to express with such rhythm, and, it is a tool available for use in poetry--it is not a crime, nor will it ever be out of place in poetic expression, while it can help gauge rhythm if one's natural ear is in doubt or one reaches a problem that appears difficult to solve purely by intuition.

If you look at the past several months of winners at IBPC, you will notice iambs are no strangers in the present craft. To use or not to use metrics is a different story. I noticed your last poem has an approximation, and, to me, that is a good thing. Sometimes a line totally disparate in length in comparison to the rest of the poem, if nothing else, has an uncomfortable visual effect. In this era, we cannot entirely discard the visual, either.

What I am really trying to say is that you should feel comfortable to write as you wish, not forcing either the use or lack of use of tools that will never go away and are perfectly acceptable. I'd say, if you scan the poems posted in this very site, you will, likely, run into your friendly iambs more often than not. I know only one poet friend whose natural expression is anapest.

Thank you for showing is your kind disposition, and also for allowing my expression in regards to your work. I admire your attitude of pushing forward and working hard to get back into your writing, and beyond.

pen

Thanks again to all. Thanks to the forum, writing this poem has enabled me to think through that time and reflect.

Ieuan

Ieuan---

the revision is marvelous.

i cannot stop reading and branching through the poem, sifting the snow---tasting the rain as you mention about Blackthorn. to experience, then emerge from a trauma, especially early trauma. you put me into the dorm rooms, the first shy stirrings for an annonymous girl---her name collected from a toothbrush, especially the matron silhouetted at the window during rainstorms.

the snow. slow and fast. the billowing snow, almost like the collective memory itself.

Snow Falling On Cedars mentions internment in america, but i thought of the book because Guterson, the author, so vividly recreates the straits north of Puget Sound, in Washington state. the reader tramps through the weather, is suspended in the snow as i was suspended in your poem.


wonderful poem you have here, i'm going to re-read in the days ahead with pleasure.


mojave

Ieuan,

Beautiful, evoking poem, and a great revision. There is much to celebrate along your travels, and, letting you in on a secret here--do you realize how telling that toothbrush is? Attention to detail, sensitivity, intimacy in the way you expressed this almost on the tip of the toes awakening to anticipation. Your poem shares many moments that are treasures to be read again.

Thank you for letting us in.

pen

Thanks to you mojave, I appreciate the shove into the deep end. I have enjoyed this poem.

Iean,

What a beautiful response! Your descriptions are poems in themselves, especially that of the enchanting little girl--I am smitten! Have you written more about her? I would love to read them if you have! So special and so tender I could smell the soap you decribed, too!

I smile. Thank you for this gift.

pen

With all you've said, this is the poem you learned how to write for. Poetry of this calibre, of such a white-hot personal nature does not come often nor easy. When it comes however, it writes itself, if that makes any sense.

I do hope you plan to submit somewhere.

Thanks Kenneth, I never really though of publishing, I only really write for myself. I suppose if my work continues to develop... I will have to think about it.

To Pen
There's no sequal to this little girl, there was a begining but no middle and no end, not unless she is still alive and reads the poem. Life' s like that lot's of dead end poems that go no where. Certain people and events shape our lives, I think sometimes there is no one single life but an infinite series of events all with different casts in plays that we move through willy nilly. And years later we look back on that play, that play that ended and we miss the folks, many times we are glad we moved on and on that rare occasion with a very speical person we remember with fondness. Sorry Pen, that's the way it is.

Ieuan

Ieuan---

your comments have provided rich additional details about this poem.

they are deeply appreciated by others i am sure, certainly by myself.

i believe anyone can recommend a poem for IBPC consderation and i recommend this poem.



mojave

I second your nomination mojave

I think it's a long way off, still work to do, some thing else needs saying.