Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
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Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
v2:
Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
At their wedding reception
they hung a cage of warbling wrens.
When the female would pause
in her singing
the male would pick up
her song...
There remain a dozen cages
but empty now.
The songbirds are gone that once
talked loudly over each other,
like happy customers
at a popular restaurant.
When I was a small boy
a chickadee sometimes
would take to my head of curls
as if it were a nest,
and I would walk around,
the bird chirping,
my grandparents encouraging me
to join in its singing.
They were as good as starlings
at imitating others’ songs,
delighting in all they heard,
the mastery of a new trill,
a new squee-squee,
a new chrrrrr, a new
burr-rip burr-rip.
Now the rooms are warmed
by sunlight passing
through dusty panes.
They have become photos
in a family album,
their songsters perched forever
on their shoulders,
all looking as if at any second
they will burst
into song
v1:
Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
At their wedding reception
in their small house
they hung a cage of warbling wrens
from the ceiling.
When the female would pause
in her singing
the male would pick up
her song...
There remain a dozen cages
in their bamboo floor house
once filled with songbirds--
but empty now--
where birds of paradise talked
loudly over each other
like happy customers
at a popular restaurant.
The couple
were as good as starlings
at imitating others’ songs,
delighting in each other’s
mastery of a new trill,
a new squee-squee,
a new chrrrrr, a new
burr-rip burr-rip.
Now the rooms are warmed
by sunlight passing
through dusty panes.
They have become photos
in a family album,
their songsters perched forever
on their shoulders,
all looking as if at any second
they will burst
into song
Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
At their wedding reception
they hung a cage of warbling wrens.
When the female would pause
in her singing
the male would pick up
her song...
There remain a dozen cages
but empty now.
The songbirds are gone that once
talked loudly over each other,
like happy customers
at a popular restaurant.
When I was a small boy
a chickadee sometimes
would take to my head of curls
as if it were a nest,
and I would walk around,
the bird chirping,
my grandparents encouraging me
to join in its singing.
They were as good as starlings
at imitating others’ songs,
delighting in all they heard,
the mastery of a new trill,
a new squee-squee,
a new chrrrrr, a new
burr-rip burr-rip.
Now the rooms are warmed
by sunlight passing
through dusty panes.
They have become photos
in a family album,
their songsters perched forever
on their shoulders,
all looking as if at any second
they will burst
into song
v1:
Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
At their wedding reception
in their small house
they hung a cage of warbling wrens
from the ceiling.
When the female would pause
in her singing
the male would pick up
her song...
There remain a dozen cages
in their bamboo floor house
once filled with songbirds--
but empty now--
where birds of paradise talked
loudly over each other
like happy customers
at a popular restaurant.
The couple
were as good as starlings
at imitating others’ songs,
delighting in each other’s
mastery of a new trill,
a new squee-squee,
a new chrrrrr, a new
burr-rip burr-rip.
Now the rooms are warmed
by sunlight passing
through dusty panes.
They have become photos
in a family album,
their songsters perched forever
on their shoulders,
all looking as if at any second
they will burst
into song
Re: Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
Bob---
great concept, development and climax. a poetry seminar.
bernie
Seidel:
...an unabashedly romantic interlude in Paris with Von Furstenberg:
“At her old apartment at 12, Rue de Seine/We lived like hummingbirds on nectar and oxygen.”
great concept, development and climax. a poetry seminar.
bernie
Seidel:
...an unabashedly romantic interlude in Paris with Von Furstenberg:
“At her old apartment at 12, Rue de Seine/We lived like hummingbirds on nectar and oxygen.”
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- Posts: 1619
- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
Bob I did a bit of trimming for logical conclusion but left couplets intactBobBradshaw wrote:Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
At their wedding reception
in their small house
hung a cage of warbling wrens
from the ceiling.
When the female would pause
the male would pick up her song.
There remain a dozen cages
in the bamboo floor house
once filled with songbirds--
but empty now--
where birds of paradise talked
loudly over each other
like happy customers
at a popular restaurant.
The couple
were as good as starlings
at imitating others’ songs,
delighting in each other’s
mastery of a new trill,
a new squee-squee,
a new chrrrrr, a new
burr-rip burr-rip.
Now the rooms are warmed
by sunlight passing
through dusty panes.
They have become photos
in a family album,
their songsters perched forever
on their shoulders,
all looking as if at any second
they will burst
into song
The conclusion is the poem, the imagery combined with the memories, as if to burst into song.
My thinking is itvdrags a bit, and there is a poverty of "power lines", the ones that make the reader sit up.
Not saying it isn't good,just wondering if you've really saud all you wanted
I might suggest you mention by name a,few of these exotic creatures, their vibrant colors in contrast to the sameness of an empty house.
Then finish with a line Bernie used to call palm d'or.
These are your memories. I'm left as a mute observer. I want to be a participant but have no ease into the poem . I think it's a great setting and a memorial to your grandparents
Re: Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
Ken---
OK, let's examine Bob's challenge...for a palme d'or...more exceptionalism.
but only i see minor edits right now.
At their wedding reception
in their small house
would like to avoid the quick repeat of their.
At their wedding reception
they hung a cage of warbling wrens.
is it necessary to add this ...from the ceiling?
from the ceiling.
At their wedding reception
they hung a cage of warbling wrens.
When the female would pause
in her singing
the male would pick up
her song...
There remain a dozen cages
but empty now.
The songbirds gone that once
talked loudly over each other.
like happy customers
at a popular restaurant.
The couple
were as good as starlings
at imitating others’ songs,
delighting in all they heard,
mastery of a new trill,
a new squee-squee
over breakfast before work,
burr-rip burr-rip at night.
Now the rooms are warmed
by sunlight passing
through dusty panes.
They have become photos
in a family album,
their songsters perched forever
on their shoulders,
all looking as if at any second
they will burst
into song
well, for me the ending is enough palme d'or.
here is an israeli nobel prize winning poet, a poem of loss....
In another poem, “The U.N. Headquarters in the High Commissioner’s House in Jerusalem,” Yehuda Amichai viewed bitterly the role of the international community in his country, which had become a playground of peace negotiators:
“And their secretaries are lipsticked and laughing, / and their sturdy chauffeurs wait below, like horses in a stable, / and the trees that shade them have their roots in no-man’s land / and the illusions are children who went out to find cyclamen in the field / and do not come back.”
bernie
OK, let's examine Bob's challenge...for a palme d'or...more exceptionalism.
but only i see minor edits right now.
At their wedding reception
in their small house
would like to avoid the quick repeat of their.
At their wedding reception
they hung a cage of warbling wrens.
is it necessary to add this ...from the ceiling?
from the ceiling.
At their wedding reception
they hung a cage of warbling wrens.
When the female would pause
in her singing
the male would pick up
her song...
There remain a dozen cages
but empty now.
The songbirds gone that once
talked loudly over each other.
like happy customers
at a popular restaurant.
The couple
were as good as starlings
at imitating others’ songs,
delighting in all they heard,
mastery of a new trill,
a new squee-squee
over breakfast before work,
burr-rip burr-rip at night.
Now the rooms are warmed
by sunlight passing
through dusty panes.
They have become photos
in a family album,
their songsters perched forever
on their shoulders,
all looking as if at any second
they will burst
into song
well, for me the ending is enough palme d'or.
here is an israeli nobel prize winning poet, a poem of loss....
In another poem, “The U.N. Headquarters in the High Commissioner’s House in Jerusalem,” Yehuda Amichai viewed bitterly the role of the international community in his country, which had become a playground of peace negotiators:
“And their secretaries are lipsticked and laughing, / and their sturdy chauffeurs wait below, like horses in a stable, / and the trees that shade them have their roots in no-man’s land / and the illusions are children who went out to find cyclamen in the field / and do not come back.”
bernie
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Re: Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
I found minor edits as well.I still stand by my comment. It's a good poem.
I think it could be a great poem
I think it could be a great poem
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Re: Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
I am indebted to both of you for your perspectives, and comments....I will expand and play with the poem to see what emerges. At any rate thanks so much for the edits.... Bob
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Re: Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
I have expanded the poem to see how opening it up more would help....let me know...best, Bob
Re: Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
Bob---
wondering...
less birds...a little more detail about the deceased couple featured by the pom....
maybe the development of another key image---like the birds.
I like what Seidel did with the bird image....:
“At her old apartment at 12, Rue de Seine/We lived like hummingbirds on nectar and oxygen.”
at any rate...something new...
her mantilla
lovely as a nun
and his books,
piled against the flood.
The radio soap opera,
the six o'clock news
Their care for a boy,
love without limits
and expressed
in two languages.
sententious and eloquent,
the broadcast English.
his books thumbed
nightly by me.
Her mantilla
now on a chair,
I wander the house,
but no radio broadcast,
no one
to praise and love me.
the books
resting on shelves
quiet as promises
offered in simple prayers.
well, you see my drift....
bernie
wondering...
less birds...a little more detail about the deceased couple featured by the pom....
maybe the development of another key image---like the birds.
I like what Seidel did with the bird image....:
“At her old apartment at 12, Rue de Seine/We lived like hummingbirds on nectar and oxygen.”
at any rate...something new...
her mantilla
lovely as a nun
and his books,
piled against the flood.
The radio soap opera,
the six o'clock news
Their care for a boy,
love without limits
and expressed
in two languages.
sententious and eloquent,
the broadcast English.
his books thumbed
nightly by me.
Her mantilla
now on a chair,
I wander the house,
but no radio broadcast,
no one
to praise and love me.
the books
resting on shelves
quiet as promises
offered in simple prayers.
well, you see my drift....
bernie
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- Posts: 1619
- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
Bob. These kinds of poems are hard because theyre personal I like your revisions but see Bernie point as well
If you could amplify some of the behavior of birds that would describe the old couple, without mentioning them, we would get it. Do birds mate for life? Do they take care of each other? I'm ignorant about birds, but you are an astute enough poet to make it happen
If you could amplify some of the behavior of birds that would describe the old couple, without mentioning them, we would get it. Do birds mate for life? Do they take care of each other? I'm ignorant about birds, but you are an astute enough poet to make it happen
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- Posts: 2688
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
Revised again....I truly appreciate how much you're helping...Bob
Re: Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
B0B
love the revision, especially the added sequence that allows the narrator to directly interact with the grandparents.
palme d'or.
bernie
love the revision, especially the added sequence that allows the narrator to directly interact with the grandparents.
palme d'or.
bernie
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Re: Epithalamion for my Dead Grandparents
Thanks, Bernie... I am grateful for your and Kenneth’s help
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