08-31-2025, 01:41 AM
>> I’m new here so still learning the ropes but hope the following is helpful. I’ve tried to give it the kind of care and attention I’d want applied to anything of mine. All that said, this is already an exceptionally strong poem, and these are merely suggestions.
By the stuttered sinew of this land’s breath,
>> Feels like an overwritten opening line (and I’ve written a few of them in my time), as if revised so often it’s become clotted with mixed metaphors. Swap out “sinew” for “syllables” and it works.
I sing—
>> Epic opening. Hail muse, etc. I like it.
or maybe cough,
>> Epic becomes mock epic. I like it even more.
spitting clay syllables,
spackled with moonshine and diesel.
>> Ah, you have used “syllables”. You could just put “words” here and it would also work and might even improve the line. “words” would fit “clay” better for being short, compact, humble.
Poet? Me?
Does the coyote call himself prophet,
or just howl because
there’s too much sky?
>> Solid.
Down dirt roads,
words come knotted,
pulled from earth
like sweet potatoes too stubborn to let go.
I hear hymns in train whistles,
tractors groaning blues beneath a corn moon,
neon diners with coffee thick as oil,
waitresses named June,
or something like it.
>> All strong. I wonder if you could make the details a little denser. Something like “thick as engine oil” gives more texture of the engineering. It’s already very good but “as oil” feels like a missed opportunity.
My vowels sag
like porch swings in August,
>> Very good. I don’t know if porch swings can sag but making them embodying autumn heat is really effective.
consonants chew the cud of contradiction:
I ain’t. I will. I already have.
I don’t write;
I plow.
I sing with hands in dirt,
words, like land and hunger, too big for the mouth,
but I try anyway—
swallowing gravel,
spitting sparks.
>> Maybe trim the comma after “dirt” so you have the double of saying you have hands in dirt but then the enjambement modifies it to create “dirt words” which is a stronger poetic image.
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.
>> The “Next:” alone introduces a needless pause. Join it with the adjacent line and you get more of that buzz of the world. Conversely, break the line after “names” so “but not their hunger” becomes like a secondary thought, sly undercutting the first just fractionally after you’ve established it.
America runs,
spilling its own language—
a freight train screaming,
dreams busted like whiskey bottles,
glass scattered on iron rails.
swept up in a twister—
words flung like seeds,
rooting where they fall.
>> Best bit so far. I wouldn’t touch 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.
>> I’ve sat here thinking a long time about this bit. The train metaphor is good but it’s moving towards “ideals” but also carrying “dreams” that are too big to fit inside it. Might it be doing too much intellectual work? I’d consider tweaking it. Perhaps make it less juxtapositional and more grammatical...
A fast train screaming toward ideals of
Freedom, Equality, Justice— <<<< I’d capitalize these big concepts
never pausing to board its passengers.
whose luggage dreams
are too big for the rack.
>> That said, your fractured approach is working. This is the only part of the poem where I felt it tried to something important too compactly.
I chase that train,
feet pounding iron rails still hot.
Oh, if it would only linger,
just long enough for me to shout:
“All aboard!”
Instead, it steams ahead—
destined, but deserted.
And yet, I’m no different:
words reaching for stars,
stumbling in dirt.
I call for big things,
but my voice splinters
like an echo in a canyon.
>> Just a slight thing about the phrasing. “words” feels like they’re doing the “stumbling”. You could just make it “my words reaching”
What ghost haunts the platform?
His words shimmering like heat mirages.
The train beckons;
I leap—
Again, missing.
>> I wonder if you need this last stanza. Are you the ghost? Are you the “his”? If so, why do “I leap” and not “he leaps”? It also seems to be repeating the sense of the previous “echo in a canyon” being all about the unbodied presence. You could have ended it there.
This really is a fine poem and I really enjoyed reading it. Hope my comments come over as generous as they are intended. The danger of asking for critiques of poems (or any work) is that people then find something to say even if it isn’t justified, but I’ve tried to explain all my suggestions.
By the stuttered sinew of this land’s breath,
>> Feels like an overwritten opening line (and I’ve written a few of them in my time), as if revised so often it’s become clotted with mixed metaphors. Swap out “sinew” for “syllables” and it works.
I sing—
>> Epic opening. Hail muse, etc. I like it.
or maybe cough,
>> Epic becomes mock epic. I like it even more.
spitting clay syllables,
spackled with moonshine and diesel.
>> Ah, you have used “syllables”. You could just put “words” here and it would also work and might even improve the line. “words” would fit “clay” better for being short, compact, humble.
Poet? Me?
Does the coyote call himself prophet,
or just howl because
there’s too much sky?
>> Solid.
Down dirt roads,
words come knotted,
pulled from earth
like sweet potatoes too stubborn to let go.
I hear hymns in train whistles,
tractors groaning blues beneath a corn moon,
neon diners with coffee thick as oil,
waitresses named June,
or something like it.
>> All strong. I wonder if you could make the details a little denser. Something like “thick as engine oil” gives more texture of the engineering. It’s already very good but “as oil” feels like a missed opportunity.
My vowels sag
like porch swings in August,
>> Very good. I don’t know if porch swings can sag but making them embodying autumn heat is really effective.
consonants chew the cud of contradiction:
I ain’t. I will. I already have.
I don’t write;
I plow.
I sing with hands in dirt,
words, like land and hunger, too big for the mouth,
but I try anyway—
swallowing gravel,
spitting sparks.
>> Maybe trim the comma after “dirt” so you have the double of saying you have hands in dirt but then the enjambement modifies it to create “dirt words” which is a stronger poetic image.
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.
>> The “Next:” alone introduces a needless pause. Join it with the adjacent line and you get more of that buzz of the world. Conversely, break the line after “names” so “but not their hunger” becomes like a secondary thought, sly undercutting the first just fractionally after you’ve established it.
America runs,
spilling its own language—
a freight train screaming,
dreams busted like whiskey bottles,
glass scattered on iron rails.
swept up in a twister—
words flung like seeds,
rooting where they fall.
>> Best bit so far. I wouldn’t touch 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.
>> I’ve sat here thinking a long time about this bit. The train metaphor is good but it’s moving towards “ideals” but also carrying “dreams” that are too big to fit inside it. Might it be doing too much intellectual work? I’d consider tweaking it. Perhaps make it less juxtapositional and more grammatical...
A fast train screaming toward ideals of
Freedom, Equality, Justice— <<<< I’d capitalize these big concepts
never pausing to board its passengers.
whose luggage dreams
are too big for the rack.
>> That said, your fractured approach is working. This is the only part of the poem where I felt it tried to something important too compactly.
I chase that train,
feet pounding iron rails still hot.
Oh, if it would only linger,
just long enough for me to shout:
“All aboard!”
Instead, it steams ahead—
destined, but deserted.
And yet, I’m no different:
words reaching for stars,
stumbling in dirt.
I call for big things,
but my voice splinters
like an echo in a canyon.
>> Just a slight thing about the phrasing. “words” feels like they’re doing the “stumbling”. You could just make it “my words reaching”
What ghost haunts the platform?
His words shimmering like heat mirages.
The train beckons;
I leap—
Again, missing.
>> I wonder if you need this last stanza. Are you the ghost? Are you the “his”? If so, why do “I leap” and not “he leaps”? It also seems to be repeating the sense of the previous “echo in a canyon” being all about the unbodied presence. You could have ended it there.
This really is a fine poem and I really enjoyed reading it. Hope my comments come over as generous as they are intended. The danger of asking for critiques of poems (or any work) is that people then find something to say even if it isn’t justified, but I’ve tried to explain all my suggestions.