No Shelter on the Front

[Stan]

The front was all harshness, grey and jagged sea;
Stone, stung ears, a lone bar of rock cast off in water.
We lived close to white villas,
Misplaced as though they were in Spain, keeping out the sun,
Only for gulls to pace by greasy cardboard
As lightbulbs swung, leaching colour.
 
A gull dove once;
Its lifeless eyes peered right at us.
I told my father it wanted my plaice,
Which looked golden, folded in crimped notes of batter.
They were crafty too: used their webbing to drum upon the Common,
like rain making things below the dirt come through.
But he smiled, and told me,
‘It can’t tell between the glass and us inside.’  
 
I remember the street ran leeward to a curb,
Where young ladies also gathered.
You never knew their names, but they were so beautiful
I wanted to give them the dark green bottle shards
Worn to coarse mottled emeralds by the beach. 
But more than the little girls, who dropped the glassy chinks aloud,
I couldn’t face the glancing smiles,
Which skipped and swivelled to the wash,
Or shone their glistening teeth aground,
And gently lost my gaze. 
 
I once saw through our window,
A poor man pace too,
Before he slipped the corner of my eye.
 
But I knew if, quickly, I reached the sill,
My sightline could catch him
From our vantage, close the gap,
Wind him in 
 
From the stricken rocks
and endless, curling water chops,
Past footfall by the Common’s grass,
Where features swirl the promenade,
Past smitten cheeks blushed with cold,
Their colour kept in mantle folds,
To facets vaunting, from our road,
My searching glimpse through our…
 
Still, it never winds back to me,
His soft vagrant stare,
At home, Out there,
Stolen far off to sea.

[matsunosuperfan]

The front was all harshness, grey and jagged sea;
Stone, stung ears, a lone bar of rock cast off in water.
We lived close to white villas,
Misplaced as though they were in Spain, keeping out the sun,
Only for gulls to pace by greasy cardboard
As lightbulbs swung, leaching colour.
 
A gull dove once;
Its lifeless eyes peered right at us.
I told my father it wanted my plaice,
Which looked golden, folded in crimped notes of batter.
They were crafty too: used their webbing to drum upon the Common,
like rain making things below the dirt come through.
But he smiled, and told me,
‘It can’t tell between the glass and us inside.’  
 
I remember the street ran leeward to a curb,
Where young ladies also gathered.
You never knew their names, but they were so beautiful
I wanted to give them the dark green bottle shards
Worn to coarse mottled emeralds by the beach. 
But more than the little girls, who dropped the glassy chinks aloud,
I couldn’t face the glancing smiles,
Which skipped and swivelled to the wash,
Or shone their glistening teeth aground,
And gently lost my gaze. 
 
I once saw through our window,
A poor man pace too,
Before he slipped the corner of my eye.
 
But I knew if, quickly, I reached the sill,
My sightline could catch him
From our vantage, close the gap,
Wind him in 
 
From the stricken rocks
and endless, curling water chops,
Past footfall by the Common’s grass,
Where features swirl the promenade,
Past smitten cheeks blushed with cold,
Their colour kept in mantle folds,
To facets vaunting, from our road,
My searching glimpse through our…
 
Still, it never winds back to me,
His soft vagrant stare,
At home, Out there,
Stolen far off to sea.

It's giving Frost and Heaney had a baby. Love the discursive voice and the productive digressions of image and sense. 
Need to give this one a few reads and Let That Sink In but I'm pretty positive on this draft off the bat. Very convincing voice.

[Stan]

It's giving Frost and Heaney had a baby. Love the discursive voice and the productive digressions of image and sense. 
Need to give this one a few reads and Let That Sink In but I'm pretty positive on this draft off the bat. Very convincing voice.

Thanks matsunosf! would be great to hear your thoughts

[matsunosuperfan]

The front was all harshness, grey and jagged sea;
Stone, stung ears, a lone bar of rock cast off in water.
We lived close to white villas,
Misplaced as though they were in Spain, keeping out the sun,
Only for gulls to pace by greasy cardboard
As lightbulbs swung, leaching colour.
 
[[A gull dove once;
Its lifeless eyes peered right at us.
I told my father it wanted my plaice,
Which looked golden, folded in crimped notes of batter.
They were crafty too: used their webbing to drum upon the Common,
like rain making things below the dirt come through.]] This whole run is really singing
But he smiled, and told me,
‘It can’t tell between the glass and us inside.’  finally something that doesn't work so well for me - have a hard time not reading this as kinda countrytime moralizing fable territory, I think in particular "But he smiled, and told me" gives me a bit of ick, hard to salvage the language/gesture from hackneyed territory
 
I remember the street ran leeward to a curb,
Where young ladies also gathered. a bit prosaic but I think that's fine, pacing is still good
You never knew their names, but they were so beautiful meh, think you can do better here, this is dangerously close to received phrasing/sentiment feels familiar in an uncomfy way. though maybe that's the point. though if so I think that could somehow be better signaled
I wanted to give them the dark green bottle shards
Worn to coarse mottled emeralds by the beach. lovely language and image here
But more than the little girls, who dropped the glassy chinks aloud, "aloud" is such a pleasantly surprising modifier 
[[I couldn’t face the glancing smiles,
Which skipped and swivelled to the wash,
Or shone their glistening teeth aground,
And gently lost my gaze.]] beginning to feel like I'm less happy whenever the speaker goes to editorialize the experience; think the voice kind of becomes less recognizably individual here and risks a whiff of archness
 
[[I once saw through our window,
A poor man pace too,
Before he slipped the corner of my eye.]] not sure I'm vibing with this digression; it feels more distracting than productively complicating as executed. the herky-jerky rhythm/syntax of these lines is interesting tho.
 
But I knew if, quickly, I reached the sill,
My sightline could catch him
From our vantage, close the gap,
Wind him in 
 
From the stricken rocks
and endless, curling water chops,
Past footfall by the Common’s grass,
Where features swirl the promenade,
Past smitten cheeks blushed with cold,
Their colour kept in mantle folds,
To facets vaunting, from our road,
My searching glimpse through our… (somehow in this section my interest and engagement begins to strain, idk, it's like I'm too abruptly disconnected from the thread of sensibility I thought I was following, and I lose my grip on what we're narrating, and why. also the language here to me is mostly less convincing and begins to feel a little purple/self-indulgent/"doing the poetic lyric thing" for its own sake vibes)
 
Still, it never winds back to me,
His soft vagrant stare,
At home, Out there,
Stolen far off to sea. (ending feels rote/place holder ish)

Basically think the first half is ripping hot and we cool off after what seems to be the intended turn, as I lose my grip on the relationship of all this imagery to a throughline of sense, and I worry that the speaker also begins to lose their grip on balancing lyric expressiveness with restraint and focus. I feel there's also more compelling language-making in the first half. I'm most engaged when things are tactile and specific, but not when the language gets stuffy.