Kiting (edited)

[QDeathstar]

Kiting

In Bonnie Brae a field is split by kills
and hedged by thickets on the southern side,
a vagrant patch of long untended graves
and then the woods, too thick to let light pass.

On a clear day with wind just true enough
to fill a sail or launch a skiff we gathered -

a score of us to test our skills at flying
kites as if we happened there by chance.
The dance began as I unfurled my partner  -
a hand-painted red komodo dragon
with double wires and a twenty-five foot tail.

I slowly let her up and gave her reign
then deftly pulled her aft to paint the sky
then took two hours teaching her to roll
and slowly build to form a somersault.

Then sometime after noon we traded places
and I was high above and breaching clouds -
a just-fledged falcon drunk on swoops and dives,
I spun and dipped held only by my line.

But fickle kites don’t have the nerve for kiting
as men don’t have the buoyancy to fly
so who’s to say whose fault, the bridle buckled,
the guy wire snapped, I keeled and then I tumbled
back home, my body broke against the ground.


[b]Overall, I attempted to derive meaning from this poem, and kept coming up with a love poem, or more aptly, a poem about dating, or going further out on a limb, a boy becoming a man and loosing his virginity.

Even if I'm way off here, I think the first stanza is a bit of a smack in the face when you consider the stanzas that follow. I suppose you could argue that you were trying to forshadow the final stanza... but you make one mention of kills and graves then never return to it.

Throughout the poem there is a lot of detail that seems to be there out of duty, instead of purpose. For example, I spend a few minutes trying to figure out why it is important that the breeze was light or which side of the field the hedges were on. I don't think the first stanza would be missed.

A short critique, I know... but I think I have given you some things to consider.


Previous version:

Kiting

In Bonniebrae a field is split by kills
and hedged by thickets on the southern side,
a vagrant patch of long untended graves
and then the darkest forest man has known.

On a Spring day with wind just strong enough
to bloom a sail and launch a skiff we gathered -

a score of us to test our skills at flying
kites like fauns might dance a mating dance.
I brought the finest kite you’ll ever see -
a hand-painted red komodo dragon
with double wires and a twenty-five foot tail.

I slowly let her up and gave her reign
then deftly pulled her aft to paint the sky.
I spent two hours teaching her to roll
and slowly build to form a somersault.

Then sometime after noon we traded places
and I was high above and breeching clouds -
a just-fledged falcon drunk on swoops and dives,
I spun and dipped held only by my line.

But fickle kites don’t have the nerve for kiting
as men don’t have the buoyancy to fly
so who’s to say whose fault, the bridle buckled,
the guy wire snapped, I keeled and then I tumbled
back home, my body broke against the ground.