Gentle Hands

[Smiffy]

Hi Hobbit, I found this poem very interesting as I wrote one on the same subject some time ago but in a different style, I'll place it at the end mainly to show how two people approach the same subject which I hope you will find of interest. I think you could once again lose quite a bit of this and have a really fine poem , the focus of the poem should be the hands and for me some lines detract from that focus, at the end of the day your poem is your poem ,if it says what you want it to say then fair and good but I personally think this could be much shorter and would benefit from some serious cropping. I don't like to suggest in a critique alternative words that is for you to decide but I will highlight the bits I would lose which I realise would mean a serious re write.

I look down at these hands and see,
What has finally become of me.
These hands have been through everything,
Have felt much more than words can
sing.
These tiny hands held on so strong,
To those hands that made them belong. I find this a bit clumsy to read
Tiny hands so full of trust,
That in years to come turns to dust.

In teenage years these hands held pride,
Those hopes and dreams glowing inside.
These hands held laughter, friendship and joy,
Who'd have thought it could be destroyed.

These gentle hands which could not hurt,
Were left bleeding alone in the dirt.
They felt the entrance of the shame,
The hope and joy has turned to pain.

These hands await a better day,
Wanting hope, trust and dreams to stay. can hands want?
But aged become these callous hands,
With wrinkles like waves in the sand. That's a great image

Arthritic hands with no strength,
To hold another for any length.
Scarred hands which cannot trust no more,
Alone and dirty, forever sore. Can hands be alone?

My hands are dirty,
And cannot be cleaned.
My hands are empty,
Because of this fiend!
I feel that the lines highlighted have nothing to do with hands more the heart and mind, sorry to condemn what is one of your own favourites I just feel you have the basis of a great poem that could be so much better.
Here's mine on the same subject......


With These Hands

These hands have cradled a new born child
Stroked the wax mask of death
These hands that climbed the trees of my youth
Now climb the walls of age
These hands, a storybook of scars, each a tale to tell
These hands have let fortune slip , made friends of strangers
Have caught and dropped the ball in equal measure
In the palms of these hands has rested the touch of love
The deceit of friends
These hands have wiped away tears of joy,
Sadness , laughter and pain, balled in anger,
Grown wide with amazement wrung with despair
These hands have tickled, caressed, reached vainly for the stars
With these hands I have built castles in the sand, houses in trees
Cities on tables, written of dreams, love and hate
Waved goodbye and shook hello
These hands that now ache with age , these old hands





Invisible Shadows 2011


This is one of my favourite poems...whenever people ask "what's your favourite feature?" some people say "my hair", "my bum", "my legs"....my favourite feature are my hands...I have very small hands, no bigger than a childs, they are slender, and the fingers aren't too long, and they aren't stubby...considering they are used a lot, they are still quite soft...and so when I was really depressed, sat on my bedroom floor, just within my own head trying to escape the 'world', I was sat cross legged looking down at my hands...and that's how this poem came about....