An American Poet (Edited)

[Grady VanWright]

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

Poet? Me?
Does the coyote call himself prophet,
or just howl because
there’s too much sky?

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.

My vowels sag
like porch swings in August,
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.

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.

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.

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 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.

What ghost haunts the platform?
His words shimmering like heat mirages.
The train beckons;
I leap—
Again, missing.

[brynmawr1]

By the stuttered sinew of this land’s breath,  I don't love this mixing of metaphors, especially in an opening line
I sing—
or maybe cough,
spitting clay syllables,
spackled with moonshine and diesel.  amalgam of, maybe?

Poet? Me?
Does the coyote call himself prophet,
or just howl because
there’s too much sky?

Down dirt roads,
words come knotted,
pulled from earth
like sweet potatoes too stubborn to let go.

What am I?
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.

Vowels sag
like porch swings in August,
consonants chew the cud of contradiction:
I ain’t. I will. I already have.

See it yet?
This country’s a coyote too,
yipping at its shadow—
what you call a border,
it calls a broken fence.

The American poet doesn’t write;
they plow.
They sing with hands in dirt,
words like land and hunger too big for the mouth,  mouth too dry for words/ like land and hunger, maybe?
but they try anyway—
swallowing gravel,
spitting sparks.

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.

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.

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.  the sharp edge of exclusion. maybe?
Whitman, who sang for all,
but walked rooted in divides
he could not name.

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,
feet pounding iron rails still hot.
Oh, if it would only linger,
just long enough for us to shout:
“All aboard!”
Instead, it steams ahead—
destined, but deserted.

And yet, the poet is no different:
words reaching for stars,
stumbling in dirt.    phrasing here a little awkward.  needs something stumbling or other modifier to provide more symmetry between two lines. IMO
We call for unity,
but our voices splinter
like echoes in a canyon.

Whitman’s ghost haunts the platform,
his words shimmering like heat mirages.
The train beckons;
the poet leaps—
missing, again, by a breath.  again, missing....  I think inverting give a little delayed enjambment and help emphasize 'again'.  Nice ending though.

Hi Grady,
I find this piece to be very compelling with many examples of very good imagery and unique similes.  I like the use of the coyote and train, but one weakness in the piece is the use of the coyote image in several different contexts.  First, associated with the narrator, the poet.  Then linked to 'the country', but then the country is a speeding train.  The loose continuity gives it a little bit of a forced feel to me.  I think with some tweaking the flow of these ideas could be improved.  Another issue is that though each stanza is strong, it is not immediately clear how all of them advance the narrative of the poem.  I think with some cold hearted revision, some of it could be cut, particularly in the first half.  Focusing the first half would improve the impact of the second part.  This is complicated as there are several interwoven themes throughout the poem raising the question of whether the author is trying to cram in too much.  this isn't necessarily bad, IMO, as one could argue that such a poem should be experienced the way one might recall a dream in separate fragments that coalesce into a feeling/image that makes sense in totality but can seem disjointed on analysis.  Now, these issues bothered me more on a deeper reading than on my initial impression so I point them out only as something to be aware of on edit.  Overall, though, very strong in my opinion.  I have made some additional inline comments above.
Thanks for posting,
Bryn

[Grady VanWright]

By the stuttered sinew of this land’s breath,  I don't love this mixing of metaphors, especially in an opening line
I sing—
or maybe cough,
spitting clay syllables,
spackled with moonshine and diesel.  amalgam of, maybe?

Poet? Me?
Does the coyote call himself prophet,
or just howl because
there’s too much sky?

Down dirt roads,
words come knotted,
pulled from earth
like sweet potatoes too stubborn to let go.

What am I?
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.

Vowels sag
like porch swings in August,
consonants chew the cud of contradiction:
I ain’t. I will. I already have.

See it yet?
This country’s a coyote too,
yipping at its shadow—
what you call a border,
it calls a broken fence.

The American poet doesn’t write;
they plow.
They sing with hands in dirt,
words like land and hunger too big for the mouth,  mouth too dry for words/ like land and hunger, maybe?
but they try anyway—
swallowing gravel,
spitting sparks.

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.

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.

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.  the sharp edge of exclusion. maybe?
Whitman, who sang for all,
but walked rooted in divides
he could not name.

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,
feet pounding iron rails still hot.
Oh, if it would only linger,
just long enough for us to shout:
“All aboard!”
Instead, it steams ahead—
destined, but deserted.

And yet, the poet is no different:
words reaching for stars,
stumbling in dirt.    phrasing here a little awkward.  needs something stumbling or other modifier to provide more symmetry between two lines. IMO
We call for unity,
but our voices splinter
like echoes in a canyon.

Whitman’s ghost haunts the platform,
his words shimmering like heat mirages.
The train beckons;
the poet leaps—
missing, again, by a breath.  again, missing....  I think inverting give a little delayed enjambment and help emphasize 'again'.  Nice ending though.

Hi Grady,
I find this piece to be very compelling with many examples of very good imagery and unique similes.  I like the use of the coyote and train, but one weakness in the piece is the use of the coyote image in several different contexts.  First, associated with the narrator, the poet.  Then linked to 'the country', but then the country is a speeding train.  The loose continuity gives it a little bit of a forced feel to me.  I think with some tweaking the flow of these ideas could be improved.  Another issue is that though each stanza is strong, it is not immediately clear how all of them advance the narrative of the poem.  I think with some cold hearted revision, some of it could be cut, particularly in the first half.  Focusing the first half would improve the impact of the second part.  This is complicated as there are several interwoven themes throughout the poem raising the question of whether the author is trying to cram in too much.  this isn't necessarily bad, IMO, as one could argue that such a poem should be experienced the way one might recall a dream in separate fragments that coalesce into a feeling/image that makes sense in totality but can seem disjointed on analysis.  Now, these issues bothered me more on a deeper reading than on my initial impression so I point them out only as something to be aware of on edit.  Overall, though, very strong in my opinion.  I have made some additional inline comments above.
Thanks for posting,
Bryn

Thank you so much, Bryn, for your invaluable feedback. I truly appreciate the time and care you took to thoroughly read my work and provide such thoughtful and detailed suggestions. Your insights make perfect sense, and I’m eager to get started on implementing some of these changes right away. Thank you again for your generosity and effort in helping me improve. 
Grady

[Grady VanWright]

Updated version uploaded.

[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

[Grady VanWright]

Mark,

I can't thank you enough for your insightful and thorough critique of my poem. Every observation you made resonated deeply, and your feedback has given me a clear direction for improving the piece. I’m truly excited to share more works on this site. If your thoughtful insights are any indication of the quality of feedback available here, I am confident my poetry will improve exponentially.

Warm regards,
Grady