An American Poet (Edited)

[Mark A Becker]

Hello Grady-
I've seen your work on another site and regard you as a good poet.

The main issue I have here is you seem to pack in more than is needed, and some of the metaphors get tangled. More clarity might work better, me thinks. With in-line comments below you'll notice that I struck-through some phrases.

The American Poet This title may be too constraining. Perhaps something like 'coyotes and trains' may open it up. Or simply "An American Poet'.

By the stuttered sinew of this land’s breath,
I sing—
or maybe cough,
spitting clay syllables,
spackled with moonshine and diesel. Interesting stanza

Poet? Me?
Does the coyote call himself prophet,
or just howl because
there’s too much sky? The metaphor of coyote/poet works. The bolded part I find way cool.

Down dirt roads,
words come knotted,
pulled from earth
like sweet potatoes too stubborn to let go. I'm unsure of this stanza. ??

What am I? The metaphor confusion begins for me here.
Hymns in train whistles, Perhaps I hear hymns in train whistles
tractors groaning blues beneath a corn moon,
see neon diners with coffee thick as oil, very cool imagery
waitresses named June,
or something like it.

Vowels sag Make it personal- my vowels sag
like porch swings in August,
consonants chew the cud of contradiction:
I ain’t. I will. I already have. Interesting stanza

See it yet?
The American poet I don'twrite;
they plow. I plow
They sing with hands in dirt, I sing
words like land and hunger too big for the mouth,
but they try anyway— I try
swallowing gravel,
spitting sparks. I would recommend keeping this stanza personal to the N

One breath:
Chicago’s jazzy shuffle,
horns laughing at the sky.
Next:
swampwater rising,
gators blinking like gods
who forgot their names but not their hunger. Line breaks need work in this stanza.

America runs,
spilling its own language—
a freight train screaming,
dreams busted like whiskey bottles,
glass scattered on iron rails.

Call that poetry?
I call it half a sentence,
swept up in a twister—
words flung like seeds,
rooting where they fall. Perhaps try to combine these two stanzas.

So I’ll ask:
What’s an American poet,
if not Whitman’s ghost—
singing democracy, harboring its shadow?
He spoke of leaves of grass,
but some blades cut deep,
their edges sharp with exclusion.
Whitman, who sang for all,
but walked rooted in divides
he could not name. I'd keep it personal to the N and leave Whitman out of it.

Isn’t that America?
A fast train screaming toward ideals—
freedom, equality, justice—
never pausing to board its passengers.
It runs empty,
carrying dreams too big for its frame.

The poet chases that train, Perhaps I chase that train
feet pounding iron rails still hot.
Oh, if it would only linger,
just long enough for us to shout: 'me' to shout
“All aboard!”

Instead, it steams ahead—
destined, but deserted.

And yet, the poet is no different: I'm no different
words reaching for stars,
stumbling in dirt.
We call for unity, I call
but our voice splinters my voice
like echoes in a canyon.

Whitman’s ghost haunts the platform, what ghost
his words shimmering like heat mirages.
The train beckons;
the poet leaps— I leap
Again, missing.

Perhaps toward the end try to work in a combo of iambs -/ and anapests --/ to create the feel of that train pulling away. Especially anapests as it gets going. That idea would require another stanza, and the stanza that begins "isn't that America? could be swapped closer to the end.

Thanks for posting this one, and I sure hope you continue to root in this pigpen. I think you'll find the 'crit' part on this site can be more interesting than the poem writing part, and it sure helps with the over all process by attempting to help each other.

ps... when you reply try not to include an entire response to your poem- it makes for a very long thread. Just sayin...

See ya Grady,
Mark