07-10-2016, 04:03 AM
Hi Dale. I know I don't belong in this forum just yet. But I've read this thoroughly and wanted to give critiquing a go. I have a limited skill set obviously but the poem was very interesting and I could not pass it up without comment!
"I hold my breathe.
I twist my tongue inside my mouth, as -- These first two lines hooked me. I was interested from the get go. You have what I teach my grade two students, a super way to start. It made me want to keep reading.
I exert just the right amount of pressure on the syringe. So this is where the reader is let in to the story. I knew it was either about drugs or diabetes.. but drugs seemed more likely.
I push it down onto the cotton lying in the spoon. -- Your images her are clear. Although I think the word choice is kind of boring. Push and pull are plain verb choices. Alliteration is nice though.
I slowly pull back on the plunger.
My breath goes out as the fluid
slowly steals its way up the hollow plastic shaft, -- I wasn't sure about the word steal here. It again flowed because of the abundance of S sounds in the poem, but just how does the fluid steal it's way up the shaft? I would reconsider this word if it were me.
a release that is almost orgasmic: ---- My feelings on this part have already been expressed by another critique. It is very cliché. The orgasmic euphoria and anticipation of such may be totally accurate. But it's been said before. Perhaps you are already aware of this and chose to leave like this intentionally? Needle addiction in our world is starting to become a cliché in and of itself. It is a commonly travelled path of many unfortunate souls.
anticipation of what is to come.
I lay the needle carefully aside,
I don’t want to catch the point on anything and dull it.
I take out one of my several bandannas.
I quickly, but carefully, wrap it around my left arm.
I tie it in a slip knot that
I can release by pulling it with my teeth.
My breaths coming faster,
short and controlled,
in the top of my lungs.
I open and close my left fist.
I watch, fascinated, as the vein rises above the skin.
I rub my finger up and down the vein,
I caress it, as a lover would caress a nipple.
I pick up the paper square that encloses the alcohol swab.
I tear it open with my teeth. Removing the swab,
I run it up and down the vein. Ritualistically,
I prepare the vessel to receive the holy sacrament. There is nothing new about the spiritual element of drug use. Finding ecstasy, finding god, finding oneself, it has been done and wrote about throughout all of human history. If you were going for new, you didn't get it right.
I am a fastidious acolyte, not because
I am naturally so, but, at the moment,
I have the time, and at the moment,
--- I agree that things start to get interesting in these next stanzas. "fastidious acolyte" is a very unique phrasing. I liked it and had to google it. It also sounded cool in my opinion. I am curious about the repetition of the word "I" followed by a verb.. I am not critiquing this, just curious. Were you going for something by writing it in this style. Was it to create flow and rhythm? Energy? Was it to create a sense of alone that a drug addict may experience? Was it to express the egocentricity of the addict? I am very interested in knowing what you were thinking and your process so to speak.
I have the better vestments of my religion.
I have sterile saline to wet down the powder.
I have clean cotton through which to strain it and,
I have a sharp new syringe in which to put it.
In the past,
I have used the water out of toilets to wet it down .
I have used cotton out of the butt of a used cigarette.
I have used my own spit to wipe the dirt off my arm.
-- I really liked this section. Great images of a much uglier past.
I have sharpened a dull, much used needle, on a book of matches, to get it sharp enough, to pierce my skin:
a mini-crucifixion,
A stigmata from and for my god.
--In this section you made the religious metaphor work for you I think. This was fresh IMHO.
I need no Romans, nor a Pilot, nor a Judas.
I am a willing sacrifice,
I have sacrificed everything for my god.
I have been the lowly worshiper, begging for scraps, and
I have been the high priest. At those times, when
I have the powder…the other worshipers come to me.
They beg my blessing, willing to do whatever penance
I might set for them, so that they might receive
the holy sacrament.
Women give me their bodies in whatever way
I demand.
They would give me their first born, if
I required it. When
I have the powder,
I have the power of a god:
I can command anything, and my will, will be done.
The followers of my god are faithful, faithful unto death. No other religion demands, or receives, such devotion.
I watch as the sterile water snakes
its way up through the golden liquid
in the hard, hollow, plastic tube of the syringe.
I love to watch it rise slowly up through the yellowish oil: Yellow oil transmuted from white powder, a transfiguration of the mundane into the ecstatic. I really liked your word choices here.
I take the needle, and gently, slowly,
I slide it into the vein.
I pull back on the plunger.
I see the blood spurt up into the pale yellow oil.
I pull the bandanna with my teeth,
releasing the pent-up pressure from my heart.
I push the plunger down, discharging the yellowish liquid into the red pulsing blood of my vein.
For a brief and fleeting moment,
as ether-vapor hits the back of my throat,
as a surging wave rolls through my skull, --- I really loved this section. You captured the high in such a new way. Good stuff!
I come face to face with my god.
We are joined in an ecstatic melding. Then,
I fall into the depressive after-glow of the union,
I am already anticipating the next time.
---- You have some great word choices in here. Excellent imagery and the metaphor seems less cliché as the poem goes on and we really understand the mind of the speaker.
erthona "
So Dale, I hope that my critique was ok. I really liked reading this poem. It was a million times better than anything I can write. I think it was a helpful excersise for myself to go through it and critique it. I won't be offended if my ideas and critiques are shot down. lol I hope that this was more in line with what is expected in this poetry forum than my previous comments.1996
"I hold my breathe.
I twist my tongue inside my mouth, as -- These first two lines hooked me. I was interested from the get go. You have what I teach my grade two students, a super way to start. It made me want to keep reading.
I exert just the right amount of pressure on the syringe. So this is where the reader is let in to the story. I knew it was either about drugs or diabetes.. but drugs seemed more likely.
I push it down onto the cotton lying in the spoon. -- Your images her are clear. Although I think the word choice is kind of boring. Push and pull are plain verb choices. Alliteration is nice though.
I slowly pull back on the plunger.
My breath goes out as the fluid
slowly steals its way up the hollow plastic shaft, -- I wasn't sure about the word steal here. It again flowed because of the abundance of S sounds in the poem, but just how does the fluid steal it's way up the shaft? I would reconsider this word if it were me.
a release that is almost orgasmic: ---- My feelings on this part have already been expressed by another critique. It is very cliché. The orgasmic euphoria and anticipation of such may be totally accurate. But it's been said before. Perhaps you are already aware of this and chose to leave like this intentionally? Needle addiction in our world is starting to become a cliché in and of itself. It is a commonly travelled path of many unfortunate souls.
anticipation of what is to come.
I lay the needle carefully aside,
I don’t want to catch the point on anything and dull it.
I take out one of my several bandannas.
I quickly, but carefully, wrap it around my left arm.
I tie it in a slip knot that
I can release by pulling it with my teeth.
My breaths coming faster,
short and controlled,
in the top of my lungs.
I open and close my left fist.
I watch, fascinated, as the vein rises above the skin.
I rub my finger up and down the vein,
I caress it, as a lover would caress a nipple.
I pick up the paper square that encloses the alcohol swab.
I tear it open with my teeth. Removing the swab,
I run it up and down the vein. Ritualistically,
I prepare the vessel to receive the holy sacrament. There is nothing new about the spiritual element of drug use. Finding ecstasy, finding god, finding oneself, it has been done and wrote about throughout all of human history. If you were going for new, you didn't get it right.
I am a fastidious acolyte, not because
I am naturally so, but, at the moment,
I have the time, and at the moment,
--- I agree that things start to get interesting in these next stanzas. "fastidious acolyte" is a very unique phrasing. I liked it and had to google it. It also sounded cool in my opinion. I am curious about the repetition of the word "I" followed by a verb.. I am not critiquing this, just curious. Were you going for something by writing it in this style. Was it to create flow and rhythm? Energy? Was it to create a sense of alone that a drug addict may experience? Was it to express the egocentricity of the addict? I am very interested in knowing what you were thinking and your process so to speak.
I have the better vestments of my religion.
I have sterile saline to wet down the powder.
I have clean cotton through which to strain it and,
I have a sharp new syringe in which to put it.
In the past,
I have used the water out of toilets to wet it down .
I have used cotton out of the butt of a used cigarette.
I have used my own spit to wipe the dirt off my arm.
-- I really liked this section. Great images of a much uglier past.
I have sharpened a dull, much used needle, on a book of matches, to get it sharp enough, to pierce my skin:
a mini-crucifixion,
A stigmata from and for my god.
--In this section you made the religious metaphor work for you I think. This was fresh IMHO.
I need no Romans, nor a Pilot, nor a Judas.
I am a willing sacrifice,
I have sacrificed everything for my god.
I have been the lowly worshiper, begging for scraps, and
I have been the high priest. At those times, when
I have the powder…the other worshipers come to me.
They beg my blessing, willing to do whatever penance
I might set for them, so that they might receive
the holy sacrament.
Women give me their bodies in whatever way
I demand.
They would give me their first born, if
I required it. When
I have the powder,
I have the power of a god:
I can command anything, and my will, will be done.
The followers of my god are faithful, faithful unto death. No other religion demands, or receives, such devotion.
I watch as the sterile water snakes
its way up through the golden liquid
in the hard, hollow, plastic tube of the syringe.
I love to watch it rise slowly up through the yellowish oil: Yellow oil transmuted from white powder, a transfiguration of the mundane into the ecstatic. I really liked your word choices here.
I take the needle, and gently, slowly,
I slide it into the vein.
I pull back on the plunger.
I see the blood spurt up into the pale yellow oil.
I pull the bandanna with my teeth,
releasing the pent-up pressure from my heart.
I push the plunger down, discharging the yellowish liquid into the red pulsing blood of my vein.
For a brief and fleeting moment,
as ether-vapor hits the back of my throat,
as a surging wave rolls through my skull, --- I really loved this section. You captured the high in such a new way. Good stuff!
I come face to face with my god.
We are joined in an ecstatic melding. Then,
I fall into the depressive after-glow of the union,
I am already anticipating the next time.
---- You have some great word choices in here. Excellent imagery and the metaphor seems less cliché as the poem goes on and we really understand the mind of the speaker.
erthona "
So Dale, I hope that my critique was ok. I really liked reading this poem. It was a million times better than anything I can write. I think it was a helpful excersise for myself to go through it and critique it. I won't be offended if my ideas and critiques are shot down. lol I hope that this was more in line with what is expected in this poetry forum than my previous comments.1996