The Living (from Suicide Month)

[RiverNotch]

The Living


Well, I've always believed in an old dragon axiom: that which does not kill me makes me stranger.

Jesus Christ! These times are just mad – well, I suppose all times are mad, to those with eyes who live in them. Or maybe I'm the mad one – everyone around me seems to be happy. Or at least content. Or at least complacent.

Jesus Christ! Should I tell, should I tell? or should I make like Sylvia Plath again, encase my troubles in poetry? More importantly, how long has it been, since I last encased my troubles in poetry?

Or maybe I should just encase my head in carbon monoxide. Ha! no, too indulgent.

Slit my wrists in a Roman bath? Too grandiose.

Burn myself alive? But what would I protest, and who would listen?

Jump off a building? A simple death, and if the building's tall enough, for a second I'd feel like flying. Before the terror kicks in, the gasp for breath – 

Drowning? Again, that gasp for breath – 

A pistol to the head? Maybe set up like in "The Deer Hunter", or in that Lermontov book. Whichever way, it's definitely the simplest death, though somehow it still feels too grandiose.

Though now I wonder: would God hate me if I killed myself? That's what everyone says about hell. "God still loves you as you hang, but his anger will fry you to a crisp for all eternity." That's the very definition of hate, stupid.

– oh, don't worry, dear reader, I don't actually want to kill myself. I desire a more symbolic death, like that time I broke all contact with the lot of you. Or that other time I broke all contact with the lot of you. Or the time I went to Russia, and for a moment contemplated just staying, just hiding out in one of the monasteries, living off the kvass, the leftover hosts – at last, witnessing winter.

But not a social death. I find that rather redundant, now – again, these times. Not a spiritual death, either, otherwise I wouldn't even consider killing myself. Something quieter, more honest –

Here, I'll tell. I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. Yes, it sounds cliche, but you mustn't take things so figuratively – not everything I say is poetry.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. She was beautiful, with red hair, green eyes, and a body made of marble. Now that last one, that was figurative.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her mind was beautiful, too. She always knew what to say – rather, how to say it.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her heart. She was the first (and last) person I ever truly talked to – and the only voice I actually loved hearing. (Don't you see? When I'm loud like this, I'm not saying anything – I'm just coaxing you to speak louder. Not that you ever notice, you Narcissus)

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. Maybe a memory, although that's a question I don't want to consider anymore, it's caused me such heartache.

It's causing me heartache now. It's always like this, you know: every year, like spring cleaning, I pass my fingers over my naked body, remember all the old wounds, examine all the new ones. Then this – the perpetual scab. Like an eight-day old operation, changing through error from Jew to Lucy. Yes, God hates fags.

He also hates incestuous couples, whatever you call them. Returning to the wound: I pick it, as I pick all my scabs. But unlike with the others, which I eventually let grow into scars, it receives special treatment. After picking, I scratch – after scratching, I poke – after poking, I plunge. And lastly, like a vampire, I lap. My blood tastes sweet.

(I believe you've tasted it before? in my words, my poetry – in fact, even in my acts, for everything I do, I do for love of you)

Of You – of her. Yes, that's the heartache: she rejected me. Rejected me by not existing, that shadow, that damn dream. That Daddy. But the wound is different – I know how not to conflate. The wound is this: that I conflate her with God. No, that I love her above God.

Here's the thing about suicide: once you witness an exit, you desire it more than the field outside. You desire it more than happiness. You desire it more than passing your hand over Witchgrass, than watching your Geraniums grow white with snow. Such that in the end, you truly can't ever be happy.

I'm just glad I don't care about happiness. I don't think I'll be happy in the cold, however much I say I love it. I don't think I'll be happy in the church, however much I know it's right. And I don't think I'll be happy with her – but still, I'll be with her.

When I kill myself, it won't be for my sake, but for hers.

[Lizzie]

River, it's a bit sprawling. If you pare it down to half the size, I'll give it some proper thoughts.

[amaril]

This reads like a boring short story out of a college lit mag except it couldn't get published b/c it's too edgy. This is a dramatic monologue, so it's confined to the perspective of a single character. But it's not just a dramatic monologue--it's trying to be a poem. It doesn't subvert itself or break its own rules or allow for the impossible/remotely unexpected. What, then, makes it worth reading? The literary references? I guess they contribute to the character of the speaker--he/she is well read and is maybe trying to prove his intelligence to himself/ the mirror of himself he's created in the "reader?"

This poem successfully creates a voice, but it doesn't do anything with that voice. The voice itself is not poetry. At times, it is musical, and that is good--"living off the kvass, the leftover hosts – at last, witnessing winter" is a fine line, though the beginning of the sentence doesn't add much. It has recurrent 's' sounds and some real imagery. "Not that you ever notice, you Narcissus" is an example of a good literary reference, even though the language could be pared down a little. It has good consonance and a sense of direction--"you Narcissus" is name calling of the purest order. "Changing through error from Jew to Lucy" is another decent line, this time thanks to assonance and the cryptic "Lucy" (the devil? the drug? the Australopithecus?)

Unfortunately, these lines are outliers in this poem, which is for the most part drudgery to read. The speaker says the same thing over and over-- 'i want to die' 'woe is me' 'i have a beautiful muse who isn't real & is perfect in every way' 'did i mention i'm a poet & i want to die' 'plus i hate gay people & shit' 'here have a sylvia plath reference' etc. Most of the lines in this poem have minimal substance of their own and serve instead to emphasize the same few ideas by means of repetition. However, repetition alone does not give an idea intensity or depth. I guess that the repetition does contribute to the characterization of the speaker, who is clearly stuck circling the same desperate ideas. But still--is a self-consistent character monologue a poem? Is one unwavering idea as compelling as two conflicted ideas colliding such that one or both of them must bend?

Look, I think that detestable viewpoints are the fertile domain of poetry, and I think that reading something insightful from a loathsome perspective can broaden your human empathy. Plus it can be entertaining--see Plath's "Daddy" which this piece is plainly derivative of. But a poem has to accomplish something remarkable in order to be worthwhile. A calligram spelling out "woe is me" composed of "woe is me" repeated over and over would be self-consistent. The form and content would match perfectly and the core idea would be communicated as directly as possible. But it wouldn't be a good poem--you wouldn't spontaneously remember 'woe is me' and feel chills, accompanied by a sudden broadening of your understanding of the poem. Reading such a poem wouldn't change the way you write.

[RiverNotch]

trying to be a poem? do or do not, there is no try. it seems it isn't, by your read, but then you classify it as a dramatic monologue, necessarily i think a poetic form*, so that statement is sorta confusing. also, why must a piece subvert itself to work? i think voltas have the freedom to subvert more than the poems they are in ----

that said, i'd thought its play on the idea of a "more symbolic death", plus its particularly abrasive tone (i must note that the speaker never says that he himself hates fags -- he says "Yes, God hates fags", with the kicker being that, a few paragraphs before, he comments on the paradoxical nature of God both loving and hating sinners) and the fact that the muse was admitted to be purely conceptual was twist enough. may be the more symbolic death got somehow lost in the parade of actual suicides, or may be the abrasive tone does make it read too "edgy" (i hate the word), but i do wonder if any writings have been made regarding a speaker obsessing over a muse that is admitted to be purely conceptual, perhaps a speaker obsessing over the mere concept of a muse.

it could also be that the problem is the repetition, with that and the abrasive tone drowning out the core elements of the piece, elements you seem to have missed, particularly in the speaker's morals and in the speaker's references to Plath**. but then i find this abrasive, alienating rhythm to be part of the piece's identity, insomuch as the speaker "wants to kill himself", but neither in a literal, social, or even spiritual way, and thus kills himself by breaking the piece, by "killing" his credibility and such in the reader's mind. but that is my interpretation, and of course i am the author ---- perhaps i overdid it.

or perhaps i am justifying it after the fact ---- although that is less me being the author, more me being another critic. really, i actually agree with what you say about the poem, though in fact, i believe that good poetry has to be perfectly consistent with itself, with what is at its center and what thought or emotion it intends to deliver, with the contradictions within itself being transformed into the illuminating mysteries of revelation (or dialectic or whatever else that thing is called). and with that in mind, the real problem i think is whether my use of abrasive, repetitive, alienating rhythms actually says anything, or whether its only use is to reveal the somewhat drunken state i was in when i wrote this.

but that isn't to say that i won't edit. for the purposes of this inquiry (and for lizziep's feedback, which is welcome), i definitely will, although the edit itself might come after a while. i really didn't expect this to get any comments at this point (and it is in misc, so i really wouldn't have minded), so Massive, Massive, Massive thanks!

* - or at least when transplanted from the actual play. the difficulty of drama, at least from how i've understood the genre.

** - i don't think this is derivative of Plath at all -- it uses Plath, but it heads in different directions. this i think partly because the speaker's voice is too prosaic, nowhere near using the same vivid sounds and imagery Plath uses to emphasize her issues, and on the other hand because Plath's Ariel poems were for the most part far more positive, or at least they met a climax, while the speaker here is just wallowing, alienating even his audience

[Quixilated]

Hello River,

I really enjoyed this, I found it evocative and vivid.  I know that it is intentionally sort of a ramble, and that's one of the things I love about it, but even so it could probably use just a bit of pruning and tightening so the reader doesn't become lost along the way.  I'll point out a few of the places that I felt a bit lost or disconnected, and also the parts I like best.  In reference to your most recent notes, I do want to say that I liked the repetition and thought the abrasive tone suitable for the mental state of the narrator.

The Living


Well, I've always believed in an old dragon axiom: that which does not kill me makes me stranger.  

Jesus Christ! These times are just mad – well, I suppose all times are mad, to those with eyes who live in them. Or maybe I'm the mad one – everyone around me seems to be happy. Or at least content. Or at least complacent.  Yes to this. 

Jesus Christ! Should I tell, should I tell? or should I make like Sylvia Plath again, encase my troubles in poetry?  More importantly, how long has it been, since I last encased my troubles in poetry? 

Or maybe I should just encase my head in carbon monoxide. Ha! no, too indulgent.Honestly, this whole section on how and why not didn't do much for me.  I sort of get why it's in here, but it seems to be in a different tone of voice than most of the rest of the poem and it just felt off somehow, like drama for drama sake, maybe a compromise and just take some of them out?  Maybe just keep two, three at the most.

Slit my wrists in a Roman bath? Too grandiose. If you put one more back in, I was on the fence about this one.  But the gasping for breath and then again is what sold me on the jumping and drowning.  

Burn myself alive? But what would I protest, and who would listen?

Jump off a building? A simple death, and if the building's tall enough, for a second I'd feel like flying. Before the terror kicks in, the gasp for breath – 

Drowning? Again, that gasp for breath – 

A pistol to the head? Maybe set up like in "The Deer Hunter", or in that Lermontov book. Whichever way, it's definitely the simplest death, though somehow it still feels too grandiose.  

Though now I wonder: would God hate me if I killed myself? That's what everyone says about hell. "God still loves you as you hang, but his anger will fry you to a crisp for all eternity." That's the very definition of hate, stupid.

– oh, don't worry, dear reader, I don't actually want to kill myself. I desire a more symbolic death, like that time I broke all contact with the lot of you. Or that other time I broke all contact with the lot of you. Or the time I went to Russia, and for a moment contemplated just staying, just hiding out in one of the monasteries, living off the kvass, the leftover hosts – at last, witnessing winter.  And I love this part.  LOVE it.  And also how the bit about winter returns in the last line.  

But not a social death. I find that rather redundant, now – again, these times. Not a spiritual death, either, otherwise I wouldn't even consider killing myself. Something quieter, more honest –  gotta be honest, I don't really know what you mean by a "social death," do you just mean something like ostracized?  Also don't really know for sure what you mean by "spiritual death" in this context.  But I like the "quieter more honest" line.  

Here, I'll tell. I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. Yes, it sounds cliche, but you mustn't take things so figuratively – not everything I say is poetry.  LOVE!

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. She was beautiful, with red hair, green eyes, and a body made of marble. Now that last one, that was figurative. And again love this and all the "shadow dream" repetition that ensues.  It makes this part feel like it is a bit in a dream.  

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her mind was beautiful, too. She always knew what to say – rather, how to say it.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her heart. She was the first (and last) person I ever truly talked to – and the only voice I actually loved hearing. (Don't you see? When I'm loud like this, I'm not saying anything – I'm just coaxing you to speak louder. Not that you ever notice, you Narcissus)  I like this line, but I have no idea who you are talking to in the parenthesis ... still the reader?  Or the girl for some reason?  I love the line, but just don't understand where it is being aimed. 

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. Maybe a memory, although that's a question I don't want to consider anymore, it's caused me such heartache.

It's causing me heartache now. It's always like this, you know: every year, like spring cleaning, I pass my fingers over my naked body, remember all the old wounds, examine all the new ones. Then this – the perpetual scab. Like an eight-day old operation, changing through error from Jew to Lucy. Yes, God hates fags.  Confused by the use of the word "like" here.  This is not an actual literal wound?  Or it is?  Is it a wound from a sex change operation? or is it some other real wound and in that case I don't understand the comparison.  But perhaps I am missing something here. ??? 

He also hates incestuous couples, whatever you call them.This incestuous comment just seems really random.  I don't understand it's purpose here or how it relates to what is said before or after.  Returning to the wound: I pick it, as I pick all my scabs. But unlike with the others, which I eventually let grow into scars, it receives special treatment. After picking, I scratch – after scratching, I poke – after poking, I plunge. And lastly, like a vampire, I lap. My blood tastes sweet.

(I believe you've tasted it before? in my words, my poetry – in fact, even in my acts, for everything I do, I do for love of you)  Again, who is the narrator talking to?  The girl I'm assuming because of the love bit, but as the narrator so clearly says "dear reader" earlier, it is confusing to be talking to both of us without clearer defining that this is going on and when.  I keep thinking that every time it says "you" I am meant to think me as the reader, but then what follows doesn't makes sense in that context.  If the narrator is talking to the girl, perhaps he should only talk to her and not also to the reader?  Or is she the reader?  But if so then that isn't clear to me.  

Of You – of her. Yes, that's the heartache: she rejected me. Rejected me by not existing, that shadow, that damn dream. That Daddy. But the wound is different – I know how not to conflate. The wound is this: that I conflate her with God. No, that I love her above God.  Don't understand "That Daddy" ??? And is she the wound?  Love of her the wound?  That's not clear earlier if that is what the wound is.  But otherwise, love this line.  

Here's the thing about suicide: once you witness an exit, you desire it more than the field outside. You desire it more than happiness. You desire it more than passing your hand over Witchgrass, than watching your Geraniums grow white with snow. Such that in the end, you truly can't ever be happy.

I'm just glad I don't care about happiness. I don't think I'll be happy in the cold, however much I say I love it. I don't think I'll be happy in the church, however much I know it's right. And I don't think I'll be happy with her – but still, I'll be with her.  I love that you brought it back around to snow and even the church (I'm assuming the one in Russia where the narrator was going to hide out and witness winter?) 

When I kill myself, it won't be for my sake, but for hers.  

Anyway, I know you said you weren't really planning to edit or at least not any time soon.  And honestly I love it as is but thought pitter-pattering through your poem would give me an excuse to say so.  

Sincerely,
Quix