Posts: 7
Threads: 1
Joined: Aug 2016
I AM (K)OROT
I am Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot,
or rather his son--
the son he’s ashamed of;
the son he keeps hidden in his attic,
along with all of his failed discarded paintings.
I sleep on knotted wooden floors.
Once his studio, almost every inch been christened with encrusted paint.
Sometimes I wonder through the dense forest of covered, dusty furniture
and squares of lush, half-realized woodland I can never enter.
Other times I just sit and stare.
Since my abandonment, I too have taken up the brush.
It fills my days and nights,
and gives me dreams of vengeance even lusher than his most overgrown Arcadia.
Will he find them,
after I am long gone
and my atoms have dispersed between the floorboards
and onto the dinner table below,
sprinkling their heads during their after-church Sunday feast?
Sitting there so pious,
it will beckon him upstairs.
When he pushes aside the forest he left for me:
his shimming paintings;
the swirling floral patterned armchair…
stained;
and finally the golden mirror, sculpted with gazing cherubs…
catching a quick glance of his reflection
and the jarring repulsion of his pockmarked face,
he will stumble INTO them.
He did not want them,
so I painted over them.
I “completed” them,
as he sought to complete nature—
for he did not want to complete me.
His once swaying trees
halted
CRYSTALIZED.
The very air that they breathed, so full
and so healing,
Now an atmosphere of thick gel.
Of Venus.
Some parts so thin,
like the moon.
The yellow-oranges and orange-yellows
pushed to sick heavy yellows and blasphemous reds.
His grays were gray.
The cooling blues... gone too,
and so were the nymphs and satyrs who drank from them.
Now boys
The kind he sought to escape
and lied to himself for
that he did not need them…
didn’t need their rules,
(broken as they were)
and their sticks
sharp and blinding
ripping each other apart
into a colorful, drunken, obscene, decayed, sweaty, incandescent orgy--
calling to mind that day when the demons finally broke through the rocky ceiling of the Underworld
and pissed in all the rivers,
burning the Elysian fields to ashes,
and raping every zombie in the fields of Asphodel,
and filling Tartarus to the brim with shit.
Blank his stare
Anger forcing his fists together, clinching… strangling…
something...
knelling down,
his bony knees on knotted wood,
he will breathe deeply all of my decayed, scattered atoms--
the ones left in the floorboards,
only to arise
and calmly readjust his evening jacket
only to stepped lightly back down the stairs
and resumed his dinner.
Will I change him? Could I?
Yes. Extra gravy on his mashed potatoes,
before returning that night.
You've managed to give your poem a flowing narrative and the chaotic construction of each individual part does well to paint a portait of insanity.The words atoms and zombies seem a bit unfitting to the rest of the work though - a bit too modern in the midst of such classical constructions.
I AM (K)OROT
"I am Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot,
or rather his son--
the son he’s ashamed of;
the son he keeps hidden in his attic,
along with all of his failed discarded paintings."
Your frustration towards his willingness to leave works of art incomplete or simply tossed aside and abandoned was conveyed very well here. Although I do feel the first line was more of an identity mark for the readers, and could have been revealed in a slightly less upfront way.
"I sleep on knotted wooden floors.
Once his studio, almost every inch been christened with encrusted paint.
Sometimes I wonder through the dense forest of covered, dusty furniture
and squares of lush, half-realized woodland I can never enter.
Other times I just sit and stare."
coming from the point of view of a failed, unwanted painting
(almost bastardized in a way) Your use of personification was applied well here,
showing the sometimes ruthless relationship between painter and works of art.
I did, However, find myself tripping over the word 'been' in line two. it seemed like a error in grammar and unintended.
Also, Christened followed up with encrusted didn't flow right with me. christened, in my mind, gives the impression of purity, things that are pristine and clean in a way. I understand the SOUND of both words go well together, but the words themselves are a contradiction to me. That may have been your intentions, but it did nothing for me. Actually, I would scrap that entire line, or rework it.
"Since my abandonment, I too have taken up the brush.
It fills my days and nights,
and gives me dreams of vengeance even lusher than his most overgrown Arcadia.
Will he find them,
after I am long gone
and my atoms have dispersed between the floorboards
and onto the dinner table below,
sprinkling their heads during their after-church Sunday feast?
Sitting there so pious,
it will beckon him upstairs."
'Lush' Is already used as a descriptor once in the poem already. You may want to use another word. Plus, 'Lusher' just doesn't quite feel right as I'm reading it.
Continuing on, this is the part of the poem that travels deeper into surrealism, And further suspension of disbelief is needed. But I found it hard in doing so at certain points. Trying to imagine an incomplete painting... Painting a painting of its own creation was a little much, At least for me anyway. I too easily veer off into what that might require, Instead of accepting it and moving along.
The same thing with the atoms. Conventionally, Atoms are too small for the human eye to see.
I do like your use of the word 'Arcadia' It ties back into some imagery of his landscape paintings.
"When he pushes aside the forest he left for me:
his shimming paintings;
the swirling floral patterned armchair…
stained;
and finally the golden mirror, sculpted with gazing cherubs…
catching a quick glance of his reflection
and the jarring repulsion of his pockmarked face,
he will stumble INTO them."
I particularly am fond of the first line, As if the surroundings themselves were to be in a painting of its own. And L5 as well. how his own image is reflected in a golden mirror, Sculpted with the imagery of cherubs, Something he liked to paint, yet was criticized for.
I don't like the all capitalised word 'INTO' because I don't find any justification for it to be much better than the rest of the words, I believe you are trying to show us the significance of it, But for me, It doesn't mean much. I would have got it, had it been all small caps. It just seems so solid, A block that gets in the way. Almost useless. If you're good at portraying ideas, you don't need it, If you aren't, all you can do is lean on it, Not much else.
"He did not want them,
so I painted over them.
I “completed” them,
as he sought to complete nature—
for he did not want to complete me."
Kind of tragic that the painting which completes incomplete paintings, Will forever be incomplete itself. Huh. You know, as I move along through this poem, That sad child in the attic is growing on me. I guess the longer we absorb ourselves in someone else's world and try to really understand and ponder art, We find ourselves with an opportunity to rethink a passing thought.
This lone painting that had unwittingly been given life and human emotion by the hand of its creator who thought there was no potential of life inside of it, cast aside as an inferior creation, becomes the savior of other unloved creations.
lmfao. If I'm even analyzing this properly. Sorry.
"His once swaying trees
halted
CRYSTALIZED.
The very air that they breathed, so full
and so healing,
Now an atmosphere of thick gel.
Of Venus.
Some parts so thin,
like the moon.
The yellow-oranges and orange-yellows
pushed to sick heavy yellows and blasphemous reds.
His grays were gray."
Very much enjoyed the bulk of this. CRYSTALIZED... Not at all. Sadly I still feel the same way about this, That I did the first all caps word.
"The cooling blues... gone too,
and so were the nymphs and satyrs who drank from them.
Now boys
The kind he sought to escape
and lied to himself for
that he did not need them…
didn’t need their rules,
(broken as they were)
and their sticks
sharp and blinding
ripping each other apart
into a colorful, drunken, obscene, decayed, sweaty, incandescent orgy--
calling to mind that day when the demons finally broke through the rocky ceiling of the Underworld
and pissed in all the rivers,
burning the Elysian fields to ashes,
and raping every zombie in the fields of Asphodel,
and filling Tartarus to the brim with shit."
Again. good representations of the somewhat corruption of his paintings by public opinion. How he allowed his individuality and imagination to be consumed by the mass collective and what they thought was the 'real art' of their time.
I don't know how I feel about such a drastic difference in tone almost coming out of nowhere. That might be the purpose though, But I still feel the transition could have been a little less abrupt. Sorta like a poorly thought out possession.
I do think you can split this up in two halves, To me, Its a bit daunting. Not sure if you were trying to convey something through structure, But it just reads sloppy to me. Or it could just be cleaned up some. Maybe take out some words in L12
I agree with one of the other critiques, 'Zombies' feel too modern in such a classic setting. Even if the fields of Asphodel is filled with grotesquely normal souls who probably got there because they indulged in the sin of complacency. Still feels very out of place.
"Blank his stare
Anger forcing his fists together, clinching… strangling…
something...
knelling down,
his bony knees on knotted wood,
he will breathe deeply all of my decayed, scattered atoms--
the ones left in the floorboards,
only to arise
and calmly readjust his evening jacket
only to stepped lightly back down the stairs
and resumed his dinner."
I still can't get with the atoms. I don't understand Corot's reaction. Why does he even care? It was too extreme. Then he suddenly becomes calm again? his range of emotion is that of a caricature. This is lacking, It seems unintentionally unfinished, and not done purposefully.
"Will I change him? Could I?
Yes. Extra gravy on his mashed potatoes,
before returning that night."
Then the ending, It doesn't do anything for me.
But I have learned that it might not even matter, to some extent. don't allow my present day opinion change what you find to be your creative voice to be stifled
by my pious projection of what poetry should be. I don't even know myself, I just know what I like. And that's how it should be seen.
I enjoyed learning about Corot in preparation to reading your poem. Thank you.
Posts: 11
Threads: 2
Joined: Aug 2016
(08-29-2016, 07:59 AM)SethFiction Wrote: I AM (K)OROT
I am Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot,
or rather his son--
the son he’s ashamed of;
the son he keeps hidden in his attic,
along with all of his failed discarded paintings.
I sleep on knotted wooden floors.
Once his studio, almost every inch been christened with encrusted paint.
Sometimes I wonder through the dense forest of covered, dusty furniture
and squares of lush, half-realized woodland I can never enter.
Other times I just sit and stare.
Since my abandonment, I too have taken up the brush.
It fills my days and nights,
and gives me dreams of vengeance even lusher than his most overgrown Arcadia.
Will he find them,
after I am long gone
and my atoms have dispersed between the floorboards
and onto the dinner table below,
sprinkling their heads during their after-church Sunday feast?
Sitting there so pious,
it will beckon him upstairs.
When he pushes aside the forest he left for me:
his shimming paintings;
the swirling floral patterned armchair…
stained;
and finally the golden mirror, sculpted with gazing cherubs…
catching a quick glance of his reflection
and the jarring repulsion of his pockmarked face,
he will stumble INTO them. (caps not necessary for emphasis.)
He did not want them,
so I painted over them.
I “completed” them, (I don't think the quotations are needed. The poem itself describes the completion of the paintings.)
as he sought to complete nature—
for he did not want to complete me.
His once swaying trees
halted
CRYSTALIZED. (I dont think the caps are needed for impact. I think just the one word line does the job.)
The very air that they breathed, so full
and so healing,
Now an atmosphere of thick gel.
Of Venus.
Some parts so thin,
like the moon. (like what surrounds the moon. OR some line describing the air on the moon because the moon itself is not thin.)
The yellow-oranges and orange-yellows
pushed to sick heavy yellows and blasphemous reds.
His grays were gray.
The cooling blues... gone too,
and so were the nymphs and satyrs who drank from them.
Now boys
The kind he sought to escape
and lied to himself for
that he did not need them…
didn’t need their rules,
(broken as they were)
and their sticks
sharp and blinding
ripping each other apart
into a colorful, drunken, obscene, decayed, sweaty, incandescent orgy--
calling to mind that day when the demons finally broke through the rocky ceiling of the Underworld
and pissed in all the rivers,
burning the Elysian fields to ashes,
and raping every zombie in the fields of Asphodel,
and filling Tartarus to the brim with shit.
I like this stanza in the way that it is so nasty because it describes in more detail the vengeful nature in which the character finished the paintings.
Blank his stare
Anger forcing his fists together, clinching… strangling…
something...
knelling down,
his bony knees on knotted wood, (You have used the word "knotted" to describe the floor already. Maybe use a different word?)
he will breathe deeply all of my decayed, scattered atoms--
the ones left in the floorboards,
only to arise
and calmly readjust his evening jacket
only to stepped lightly back down the stairs
and resumed his dinner.
Will I change him? Could I?
Yes. Extra gravy on his mashed potatoes,
before returning that night.
I think the deeper meaning in the poem is one that seems to be age old. The story about a man who cannot come to terms and accept parts of himself (his artistic nature, possibly his homosexuality?), so he hides them away and pretends they do not exist. The man has a son who mirrors those qualities back to him. The man does not know how to love his son because he does not love those parts of himself, so he also pretends that his son does not exist. In this story, the son attempts to bring to life those qualities by finishing his father's discarded artwork in a vengeful manner and, in a way, forcing his father to come face to face with his own demons that have prevented a loving father/son relationship. I do like this poem and find it to be a very creatively visual story. I also could be wrong about the homosexuality, but S7 had me wondering.
Posts: 7
Threads: 1
Joined: Aug 2016
(09-01-2016, 01:58 AM)HopeVictoria56 Wrote: (08-29-2016, 07:59 AM)SethFiction Wrote: I AM (K)OROT
I am Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot,
or rather his son--
the son he’s ashamed of;
the son he keeps hidden in his attic,
along with all of his failed discarded paintings.
I sleep on knotted wooden floors.
Once his studio, almost every inch been christened with encrusted paint.
Sometimes I wonder through the dense forest of covered, dusty furniture
and squares of lush, half-realized woodland I can never enter.
Other times I just sit and stare.
Since my abandonment, I too have taken up the brush.
It fills my days and nights,
and gives me dreams of vengeance even lusher than his most overgrown Arcadia.
Will he find them,
after I am long gone
and my atoms have dispersed between the floorboards
and onto the dinner table below,
sprinkling their heads during their after-church Sunday feast?
Sitting there so pious,
it will beckon him upstairs.
When he pushes aside the forest he left for me:
his shimming paintings;
the swirling floral patterned armchair…
stained;
and finally the golden mirror, sculpted with gazing cherubs…
catching a quick glance of his reflection
and the jarring repulsion of his pockmarked face,
he will stumble INTO them. (caps not necessary for emphasis.)
He did not want them,
so I painted over them.
I “completed” them, (I don't think the quotations are needed. The poem itself describes the completion of the paintings.)
as he sought to complete nature—
for he did not want to complete me.
His once swaying trees
halted
CRYSTALIZED. (I dont think the caps are needed for impact. I think just the one word line does the job.)
The very air that they breathed, so full
and so healing,
Now an atmosphere of thick gel.
Of Venus.
Some parts so thin,
like the moon. (like what surrounds the moon. OR some line describing the air on the moon because the moon itself is not thin.)
The yellow-oranges and orange-yellows
pushed to sick heavy yellows and blasphemous reds.
His grays were gray.
The cooling blues... gone too,
and so were the nymphs and satyrs who drank from them.
Now boys
The kind he sought to escape
and lied to himself for
that he did not need them…
didn’t need their rules,
(broken as they were)
and their sticks
sharp and blinding
ripping each other apart
into a colorful, drunken, obscene, decayed, sweaty, incandescent orgy--
calling to mind that day when the demons finally broke through the rocky ceiling of the Underworld
and pissed in all the rivers,
burning the Elysian fields to ashes,
and raping every zombie in the fields of Asphodel,
and filling Tartarus to the brim with shit.
I like this stanza in the way that it is so nasty because it describes in more detail the vengeful nature in which the character finished the paintings.
Blank his stare
Anger forcing his fists together, clinching… strangling…
something...
knelling down,
his bony knees on knotted wood, (You have used the word "knotted" to describe the floor already. Maybe use a different word?)
he will breathe deeply all of my decayed, scattered atoms--
the ones left in the floorboards,
only to arise
and calmly readjust his evening jacket
only to stepped lightly back down the stairs
and resumed his dinner.
Will I change him? Could I?
Yes. Extra gravy on his mashed potatoes,
before returning that night.
I think the deeper meaning in the poem is one that seems to be age old. The story about a man who cannot come to terms and accept parts of himself (his artistic nature, possibly his homosexuality?), so he hides them away and pretends they do not exist. The man has a son who mirrors those qualities back to him. The man does not know how to love his son because he does not love those parts of himself, so he also pretends that his son does not exist. In this story, the son attempts to bring to life those qualities by finishing his father's discarded artwork in a vengeful manner and, in a way, forcing his father to come face to face with his own demons that have prevented a loving father/son relationship. I do like this poem and find it to be a very creatively visual story. I also could be wrong about the homosexuality, but S7 had me wondering.
Thank you so much for your review. Yes, you are very close to uncovering the meaning. It is, however, multidimensional in themes and characters, ultimately to be interpreted literally and more abstractly in terms of symbolism (for instance, the "attic" [upstairs] could be the mind or "father" could be an influence, society, or myself). Again, thank you for your kind review.
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