03-01-2011, 06:51 AM
He is tall,
thin, as if left unfed (Is "as left unfed" needed?")
and suited in pin-stripes, no less.
It doesn't take away from his daddy-long-legs ideal. (You're taking a little too long to say he's tall)
I rest my head on the seat,
twist my knees out to the window (Solid image)
and watch (A little telly)
the white length of metal cut through our shared, charlatan sky. (I have the same problem as Billy does with this line)
Over the edge of golden-brimmed glasses and a particularly formal newspaper,
he watches me.
He is tall also,
muscular,
when he walks down the isle
every woman, every man and every child (The reiteration of "every" doesn't work for me)
is drooling, like a seventy two year old man getting his fix of perky, youthful breasts, their momentary Jesus. ( I like this up to a point, but the line seems too long. Makes me run out of breath when I read it)
His eyes are the green pools Bambi could run through, (I love "green pools", but I can't regard most references to Bambi seriously)
his lips, the cherries, ripe for picking (EW! Normally you're quite original, but this is just overboard cliche.)
and the slightly see-through t-shirt only aids my curiousity, unsure of anyone else's. (I love everything prior to the comma)
He sits in front of me twisting his words neath an irish accent (beneath?)
and bending the chair with his weight like a French Vogue-beauty over the four-poster in Amsterdam. (I know you have a lot to say, but you should practice condensing your lines a bit more. The image is clear enough, but it isn't difficult to go overboard).
I crack my neck. (Expression of the stagnant boredom we encounter on airplanes. I like it)
The hit slams the back of my seat. (Maybe you'd like to reverse the next line with this one? It's all a matter of taste, so my suggestion doesn't carry my weight.)
Two children howling and hollering and lashing out, one mother sweating. (Is "hollering" needed?)
Her eyes plead "Don't leave me." when mine make contact
but I'm not their mother and I don't have to help. (I'm ambivalent toward these two lines. I like the imagery, but "I don't have to help" diminishes the quality of the second, I feel.)
I turn back to face the window. (Okay)
Flight attendants drill for money with speakers and chocolate and alcohol and their souls and a normal sleeping pattern. (You really love conjunctions, don't you? In prose this might work better, but I feel like I'm walking up a hill.)
The children squeal like greedy rats for chocolate whilst I am just happy (I like it)
with the Jack Dan's, swishing in my glass. I begrudge the ice. ("Jack Dan's" is a little corny. I begrudge the ice is good.)
Seat belts on,
in flight turbulence across the darkening sky. I yawn. (Good close.)
Some closing notes: You need a bit more sparsity in your poems. I would suggest avoiding longer lines for now; they are difficult to tame, and I almost never use them myself. Not to get sententious, but poetry strives to push language to the edge of its borders. If TOO much is told, it only chains itself down, and this prevents a genuine transcendence. Rather than asking yourself what you should say, try asking what you SHOULDN'T say. I'm sure you're cognizant of the other issues; in time they will resolve themselves (with practice, of course).
I'm just a concerned beginner, is all. The poem isn't bad, and with some revisions, it could shine.
thin, as if left unfed (Is "as left unfed" needed?")
and suited in pin-stripes, no less.
It doesn't take away from his daddy-long-legs ideal. (You're taking a little too long to say he's tall)
I rest my head on the seat,
twist my knees out to the window (Solid image)
and watch (A little telly)
the white length of metal cut through our shared, charlatan sky. (I have the same problem as Billy does with this line)
Over the edge of golden-brimmed glasses and a particularly formal newspaper,
he watches me.
He is tall also,
muscular,
when he walks down the isle
every woman, every man and every child (The reiteration of "every" doesn't work for me)
is drooling, like a seventy two year old man getting his fix of perky, youthful breasts, their momentary Jesus. ( I like this up to a point, but the line seems too long. Makes me run out of breath when I read it)
His eyes are the green pools Bambi could run through, (I love "green pools", but I can't regard most references to Bambi seriously)
his lips, the cherries, ripe for picking (EW! Normally you're quite original, but this is just overboard cliche.)
and the slightly see-through t-shirt only aids my curiousity, unsure of anyone else's. (I love everything prior to the comma)
He sits in front of me twisting his words neath an irish accent (beneath?)
and bending the chair with his weight like a French Vogue-beauty over the four-poster in Amsterdam. (I know you have a lot to say, but you should practice condensing your lines a bit more. The image is clear enough, but it isn't difficult to go overboard).
I crack my neck. (Expression of the stagnant boredom we encounter on airplanes. I like it)
The hit slams the back of my seat. (Maybe you'd like to reverse the next line with this one? It's all a matter of taste, so my suggestion doesn't carry my weight.)
Two children howling and hollering and lashing out, one mother sweating. (Is "hollering" needed?)
Her eyes plead "Don't leave me." when mine make contact
but I'm not their mother and I don't have to help. (I'm ambivalent toward these two lines. I like the imagery, but "I don't have to help" diminishes the quality of the second, I feel.)
I turn back to face the window. (Okay)
Flight attendants drill for money with speakers and chocolate and alcohol and their souls and a normal sleeping pattern. (You really love conjunctions, don't you? In prose this might work better, but I feel like I'm walking up a hill.)
The children squeal like greedy rats for chocolate whilst I am just happy (I like it)
with the Jack Dan's, swishing in my glass. I begrudge the ice. ("Jack Dan's" is a little corny. I begrudge the ice is good.)
Seat belts on,
in flight turbulence across the darkening sky. I yawn. (Good close.)
Some closing notes: You need a bit more sparsity in your poems. I would suggest avoiding longer lines for now; they are difficult to tame, and I almost never use them myself. Not to get sententious, but poetry strives to push language to the edge of its borders. If TOO much is told, it only chains itself down, and this prevents a genuine transcendence. Rather than asking yourself what you should say, try asking what you SHOULDN'T say. I'm sure you're cognizant of the other issues; in time they will resolve themselves (with practice, of course).
I'm just a concerned beginner, is all. The poem isn't bad, and with some revisions, it could shine.