No one can talk to a horse, of course. That is, of course...

[Bubble Pops Awesome-bomb]

unless the horse is the famous Mr. Ed!

Helpful constructive criticism on everything, except the first one. It's ugly and I hate it, but it's already been looked at so I'm choosing to leave it up in small font.
--
It's been far too long since I've written anything. A critique or two would be appreciated, or even suggestions.


Edits: 1

Psychotherapy

I don’t remember your name
(there have been too many like you),

do we have to discuss this now? isn’t there
another subject to talk about, something

apart from why I am living hours months
& days unpunctuated, without pause? just

say my words are pretty. when letters splinter,
when the meaning dries up like a winter skin,

my voice will re-build sentences for you
& confess:

I am only a little less happier than you
& mourn missed chances to die young

when hope had not inflicted itself—the grief
of its body weighing down on my body.

I want to hear the trample of its hooves
echo further into distance,

& I am not sorry that I love
everything more than hope’s useless hands.

I wish to live unpopulated,
& no: I cannot declare why

I choose to live alone—oh my
God, please. I asked you to leave.


Psychotherapy

I don’t remember your name
(there have been too many like you),

do we have to discuss this now? isn’t there
another subject to talk about, something

apart from why I am living hours months
& days unpunctuated, without pause? just

say my words are pretty. when letters splinter,
when the meaning dries up like a winter skin,

my voice will re-build sentences for you
& confess:

I am only a little less happier than you
& mourn missed chances to die young

when hope had not inflicted itself—the grief
of its body weighing down on my body.

I wish to live unpopulated, I want to hear
the trample of its hooves echo further

into distance
& I am not sorry that I love

everything more than its useless hands.
& no: I cannot declare why

I choose to live alone—oh my
God, please. I asked you to leave.

[Incalculably]

It's a little hard to follow. But besides that, it's wonderful. I liked it, at least :3

[Bubble Pops Awesome-bomb]

How is it difficult to follow?

[Aurauris]

Bubble Pops Awesome-bomb

How is it difficult to follow?

I think perhaps that iis3xyii means it's hard to follow how quickly you shift between focuses within your poem. There are a very many pronouns, and it was difficult for me as well to tell to just which noun each pronoun referred. Examples, confuzzling pronouns bolded:

"when letters splinter, / when the meaning dries up like a winter skin, / my voice will re-build them for you" - referring to "letters", or "meaning", or both?

"I want to hear / the trample of its hooves echo further / into distance" - if you're referring to "hope" here from the previous stanza, I feel that the phrase "I want to live unpopulated" got in the way, as my natural inclination when searching for the matching noun to "its" is to find the nearest subject, in this case the "I" of said phrase.

"& I am not sorry that I love / everything more than its useless hands." - again, I can't tell if you're referring to "hope", or "everything", or perhaps another noun presented earlier in your poem.

Despite my confuzzledness, I very much liked your exploration of hope as an infection that lengthens the days in an unbearable way, and found your dia(mono?)logue wonderfully thought-provoking. Keep up the fabulous work, madame! ^_^

[Bubble Pops Awesome-bomb]

Aurauris

Bubble Pops Awesome-bomb

How is it difficult to follow?

I think perhaps that iis3xyii means it's hard to follow how quickly you shift between focuses within your poem. There are a very many pronouns, and it was difficult for me as well to tell to just which noun each pronoun referred. Examples, confuzzling pronouns bolded:

"when letters splinter, / when the meaning dries up like a winter skin, / my voice will re-build them for you" - referring to "letters", or "meaning", or both?

"I want to hear / the trample of its hooves echo further / into distance" - if you're referring to "hope" here from the previous stanza, I feel that the phrase "I want to live unpopulated" got in the way, as my natural inclination when searching for the matching noun to "its" is to find the nearest subject, in this case the "I" of said phrase.

"& I am not sorry that I love / everything more than its useless hands." - again, I can't tell if you're referring to "hope", or "everything", or perhaps another noun presented earlier in your poem.

Despite my confuzzledness, I very much liked your exploration of hope as an infection that lengthens the days in an unbearable way, and found your dia(mono?)logue wonderfully thought-provoking. Keep up the fabulous work, madame! ^_^

"Them" refers to the words and the letters they're composed of, and to any meaning they possess. In its place, I added "sentences," so I hope this will clear any confusion during a read. I tampered with my poem in hopes to make it clearer as to what the two "its" are referring to, but I'm empty on quick fixes. I'll think about rewording it some more.

Thank you for your feedback. heart

[Bubble Pops Awesome-bomb]

Edits: 1

When we cry as children

i.
winter was a season for not touching
your hopeless hands. you unlearned
movement that year,

& your tongue birthed empty speech.
I put my ear to your chest, cotton between us,
heard the bray of your breathing

being dragged into lungs;
they did not want your breath, either.
I baptized my heart in the still quiet

& layered prayer atop your skin:
may your cells learn something of cancer
& grow to forget what death is.

earth distended its wide mouth
& accepted your body whole.

ii.
morning expands its bright opal
& wind shakes the talons of trees,

as if to claw at the sky & clouds,
but heaven shifts south.

iii.
you see, God & I disagree on the way
the world works. He thinks rivers are still

& that I am made of man,

iv.
yet we all cry as children cry
when mothers abandon their sight.


i.
winter was a season for not touching
your hopeless hands. you unlearned
movement that year,

& your tongue birthed empty speech.
I put my ear to your chest, cotton between us,
heard the bray of your breathing

being dragged into the lungs, but the lungs
did not want your breathing, either.
so I baptized my heart in the still quiet

& layered a sheet of prayer atop your skin:
may your cells learn something of cancer
& grow to forget what death is, but then

earth distended its wide mouth
& accepted your body whole.

ii.
morning expands its bright opal
& wind shakes the talons of trees,

as if to claw at the sky & clouds,
but heaven shifts south.

iii.
you see, God & I disagree on the way
the world works. He thinks rivers are still

& that I am made of man

iv.
yet we all cry as children cry
when mothers abandon their sight.

[Sex_Addiction470]

Personally i think ur an amazing writer! there a few parts where i get lost but ur an amazing poet. keep it up(:

[Bubble Pops Awesome-bomb]

Sex_Addiction470

Personally i think ur an amazing writer! there a few parts where i get lost but ur an amazing poet. keep it up(:

Which parts confuse you?

[Aurauris]

Bubble Pops Awesome-bomb

"Them" refers to the words and the letters they're composed of, and to any meaning they possess. In its place, I added "sentences," so I hope this will clear any confusion during a read. I tampered with my poem in hopes to make it clearer as to what the two "its" are referring to, but I'm empty on quick fixes. I'll think about rewording it some more.

Thank you for your feedback. heart

You're very welcome, madame. ^_^

I very much like the umph that adding "sentences" to your poem gave; if you find a way later on (I entirely understand a dryness of the mind-well and no quick fixes) to revise likewise your other unclear pronouns, I think it will only strengthen your overall work.

As for When we cry as children, you, my good lady, have taken me back many a year to when the earth swallowed one of my own as well. Never have I remembered so fiercely that indifferent sky and the dirt door sealing away my grandmother.

Please continue to share your writing.

[Sex_Addiction470]

the part where u said grief's hands but i think i was tired or something when i read it lol cuz it makes more sense to me now then at like 11 at nite. (:

Bubble Pops Awesome-bomb

Sex_Addiction470

Personally i think ur an amazing writer! there a few parts where i get lost but ur an amazing poet. keep it up(:

Which parts confuse you?

[Bubble Pops Awesome-bomb]

Aurauris

I very much like the umph that adding "sentences" to your poem gave; if you find a way later on (I entirely understand a dryness of the mind-well and no quick fixes) to revise likewise your other unclear pronouns, I think it will only strengthen your overall work.

I did move the unpopulated line down into the following stanza, so I am hoping the pronoun is more clearly related to stanza seven. I also replaced the second "its" with "hope's useless hands," if only to make it certain and clear. Confusion surrounding the pronouns has been resolved, or at least lessened, I suspect?

(After removing "its," the line previously read "grief's useless hands"--an error on my part, as the noun I am referring to is hope.)

[Bubble Pops Awesome-bomb]

Edits: 1

A lament for my young mother

i.
at dawn, it is winter when you leave:
the harrowing split between body & soul—

something wild released, something ugly:
a piranha gnawing its exit

from the belly of a bear, the pit-pat throb
of your body extracted.

your last breath is a birth cry returning
to ocean waters where it drops as stone.

ii.
I've dug a hole through the earth.
see soil caught here between skin & nail?

I am running away to germany, mother.
there I will find a man whose torn english

will ask, do you love? but do you
(love me enough)? my tongue will forget

what speech is, or how to use it. (nein.
ich weiß nicht. ich vermisse dich. I will learn

to communicate otherwise.
schreiben sie es auf, he'll say:

write it down.)

iii.
limbs with no proper home, a wish
etched into sand & wind-fractured,

my words were hungry for a language
only found in a soldier's strewn grave:

an evening dime or lifetime spent on gunfire
with your father. the sky scurried red,

I missed, & he struck his palm
twice to my back.

iv.
you & I yelled in voices of angry war men
at each other, & to you, the jew, I shouted

until the nazi in me rose into the führer.

v.
sometimes there is an ache in march
that swells for me to tell you:

mother, I am sorry;
you are no longer beautiful.

instead I write, forgive me, please,
oh, please, forgive me.

vi.
your own mother still weeps for herself,

talking to the cat, talking
aloud to a sad sky wishing her life back.

(she thinks god exists, she thinks
there is an ear stationed in heaven.

I do not tell her that is what stars are for
or that I am the only who listens.)

vii.
away, away, I run blood-shot to soil & beg
in praise: god, rise up, rise up—come back,

now, shiver & be still (you: stone in water).

i.
I’ve dug a hole through the earth.
see soil caught here between skin & nail?

I am running away to germany.
there I will find a man whose split english

will ask, you love me? but do you
love me enough? my tongue will forget

what speech is, or how to use it. (nein.
ich weiß nicht. ich vermisse dich. I will learn

to communicate otherwise.
schreiben sie es auf, he’ll say.

write it down.)

ii.
it should be winter when you leave:
the harrowing split between body & soul—

something wild released, something ugly:
a piranha gnawing its exit

from the belly of a bear, the pit-pat throb
of your body extracted.

your last breath is a birth cry returning
to ocean waters where it drops as stone.

iii.
you & I, in voices of angry war men, yelled
at each other. to you, the jew, I shouted

until the nazi in me grew into the führer.

iv.
limbs with no proper home, much like
a wish etched in sand but wind-fractured,

my words were hungry for a language
only found in a strewn soldier:

an evening dime or lifetime spent on gunfire
with your father. the sky scurried red,

though I missed & missed. he struck his palm
twice to my back & then you.

v.
there is an ache in march that swells
for me to tell you

mother: I am sorry;
you are no longer beautiful.

instead I write, verzeih mir, bitte.
forgive me, please, please, forgive me.

vi.
even your own mother weeps for herself,
talking to the cat, talking
aloud to a sad sky wishing her life back.

(she thinks god exists, she thinks
there is an ear stationed in heaven.

I do not tell her that is what stars are for
or that I am the only who listens.)

vii.
I run blood-shot to soil & beg for you
in praise: god, rise up, rise up—come back,

now, shiver & be still (you: stone in water).

[Bubble Pops Awesome-bomb]

Edits: 1

Obvious charms & good looks

john remembers me. no. probably not. no, not all. & if he does, then
he is somewhere, perhaps in a library or university hall in oregon, making use

of his tongue & chatting up a young girl called emily. they discuss politics & war
& arsenic in water, & their eyes catch on to a romantic language. later on

around seven, when daylight shipwrecks its crusade on foreign lands & stains us
in brief moonlight, they weave fingers together like old couples do

in markets—the ones who still love each other (& god forbid if I ever end up
in relationship like that). later on, maybe three years later—in april & in maine—

john & emily marry, trot around ideas of having three children & not noticing
each other's bodies age as skin leisurely wrinkles, as hair grows out of its color.

(meanwhile, I terrorize a poor old man in a nursing home. the man is my father,
& he still lets me know he forgives me. I forgive you, he tells me again (& again),

for being your mother. I say it's okay: "I have shot you with five times more
than your usual morphine dose." I listen for his heart to lose its rhythm

into sleep & those lungs of his finally, I think, stop accepting the same air
I breathe, because I don't need forgiveness. I don't.) & I remember that time

when I was fifteen, & john followed me outside into the school courtyard:
october, heavy in grey weather, frost burning our cheeks dry, but john—

john managed a smile & joked about something I've lost to memory, though
I keep in mind what I said to him: words, the meaning of serpent, & words

that I meant or maybe I didn't. (I didn't.) & later on, I am still holding on
to that ramones cd john gave: here, he said. have it. I don't know why he gave it

or why I keep it on my shelf, but I don't need forgiveness. I don't. —no, I'm too busy
driving my car off a bridge & apologizing to the fish for the inconvenience.

maybe then he will think of me, remember me, & john will turn his head toward emily,
his beautiful emily, & a crooked smile will quake his pale face as he tells her:

"oh, jesus, that girl was a b***h." but john, I shed that skin, see—I fed my tongue
to the orcas the salmon & bottom feeders. am I forgiven now? the wind asks for it.


john remembers me. no. probably not. no—not all. if he does, then
he is somewhere, perhaps in a library or university hall in oregon, making use

of his tongue & chatting up a young girl called emily. they discuss politics & war
& arsenic in water, & their eyes catch on to a romantic language. later on

around seven, when daylight begins to shipwreck its crusade on foreign lands
& stains us in brief moonlight, they weave fingers together like old couples do

in markets—the ones who still love each other (& god forbid if I ever end up
in relationship like that). later on, maybe three years later—in april & in maine—

john & emily marry, trot around ideas of having three children & not noticing
each other's bodies age as skin leisurely wrinkles, as hair grows out of its color.

meanwhile, I terrorize a poor old man in a nursing home. the man is my father,
& he still lets me know he forgives me. I forgive you, he tells me again (& again)—

for being your mother. I say it's okay: "I have shot you with five times more
than your usual morphine dose." I listen for his heart to lose its rhythm slowly

into sleep & those lungs of his finally, I think, stop accepting the same air
I breathe, because I don't need forgiveness. I don't. & I'm remembering that time

when I was fifteen, & john followed me outside into the school courtyard:
october, heavy in grey weather, frost burning our cheeks dry, but john—

john managed a smile & joked about something I've lost to memory, though
I keep in mind what I said to him: mean words, & words that I meant or maybe

I didn't. no one likes you, you know. you do know that, right? I don't like you. (I didn't.)
& later on, I am still holding on to that ramones cd john gave: here, he said. have it.

I told him no, scrunched my nose, but took it anyway. I don't know why he gave it to me
or why I kept it on my shelf, but I don't need forgiveness. I don't. —no, I'm too busy

driving my car off a bridge & possibly apologizing to the fish for the inconvenience.
maybe then he will think of me, remember me, & john will turn his head toward emily,

his beautiful emily, & a crooked smile will quake his pale face as he tells her:
"oh, jesus, that girl was a b***h."

[Bubble Pops Awesome-bomb]

Concord

as earth cries: I have known heaven
& touched God:

the forward siege & drawback
of shoreline, the language

of waves—their violent throttle
& purging of a stifled milieu (no songs

survive; all seabirds assemble & grow
out of their bodies.

their voices storm into one being
called wind).

to know heaven & touch God,
the cripple of our human

suffering: I am not
willing myself into extinction—

either sand heaves ocean hands
(rhythmic grasps: quiet surges;

billows that break) or the belly
of the Pacific readies for settlement.

tonight,
stars become headstones

[Theory-Of-Xerosis]

I absolutely love your style of writing!!! It's great and completely original biggrin

Good job!
Syd.