When I was fifteen, she began
a withering smile curling across her face,
the world started and stopped with a look.
A look at the two hills stationed
in a land where flypaper horses stung,
propelling steers to trample
through an asphalt river.
through an asphalt river.
It's in that land that the plastic air
continues, as ever, to slither through the irises
and saran wrap the lungs in dust.
While ravens grapple on hay barrels
in a pasture beyond the main house,
the stale smell of manure
on a frayed leather bridle
traces its incense to an annual week
of expected resignation.
When I was fifteen, she laughed idylically,
I wanted to careen
through the bottled tourmaline
and, like the phone line, snap.
I could not be the frozen image
of perfection they wanted to think I was going to be.
I was not her.
I was not you.
I was not you.
Or them.
With their genteel faces painted,
With their genteel faces painted,
organized by height and expense.
I cried before exposing them,
those artificial convicts of my inheritance,
to the excuses of a maid-in-waiting.
Refusing to share their room,
I chose the bed,
a twin without its other half,
in the corner of a home office.
Better to stare blankly
at the dotted piercings of a faded map
than to be reported a phony
by 358 pairs of porcelain marbles
from the courts of Madame Alexander, Franklin Mint,
and Ashton Drake.
*This is the very first draft of this poem. I'll take any and all the help I can get with it. I'm not sure where I'm going with it. ~ Laura
WOW, what an expansive draft and there is so much that I could say about it, but forgive me I just couldn't help taking home for a while. It is the way I learn best how to fix my poems, when someone takes it home. Sadly Dr. Davidson is about the only one willing to do that. I guess I have a lot of ego, but here I go. It is so easy when you have language like this to work something out. You of course could go in a completely different direction but let me know if you like your words this way:
ReplyDeleteWhen I was fifteen, a withering curled across my face, As the men in the world started to, or stopped with a look.
A look at the two hills stationed in a land where dried flypaper or asphalt once repelled staring and trampling.
It's in that land of plastic air that this continues, this ______, through their iris, which saran wraps my lungs and holds my _____.
Ravens grapple with hay barrels in their pastures. What should I do with mine in mine?
Beyond the main house, the stale smell of manure
on frayed leather bridles traces its incense to an annual week of expected rejection, and again too long careening on the phone line, my father yells.
When I was fifteen, I wanted to pass
through the bottled tourmaline
and, like the clothes line, snap.
Yet, I could not be the frozen image of perfection they wanted to think I was going
to be I was not Bridgette or _________.
I was not you. With your_________ painted
_________________, All of us, organized by height and weight and depth______ symmetry
I cried before exposing them, those artificial convicts of my inheritance to the excuses of a camp mate, refusing to share her room, I chose the other bed, a twin without its half, in the corner of___________.
Better to have them all stare blankly at dotted piercings than to be reported a phony with 358 porcelain marbles, purchased from the courts of Madame Alexander, Franklin Mint, or Ashton Drake.
Laura,
ReplyDeleteVery interesting imagery and language here. I really enjoyed the fact that you set the reader in a very specific time (fifteen years old) and provided a sense of place (the rural environment).
In my readings of this draft I was constantly reminded of pastoral techniques. When experimenting with this draft, what happens if you were to flesh out those pastoral images?
Or, conversely, could this end up as a satire on pastoral poetry? Instead of creating an idealized version of rural life, your draft could play on those conventions and comment on the misconceptions within those hyperbolic ideals. In its current state, this draft seems to have a lot of possibility to end up as a poem which shows rural life as not being some kind of simplistic way of life, but rather very very complicated for your fifteen year old speaker...
Laura,
ReplyDeleteThis draft includes some compelling imagery, wrapped in lovely and unlikely language. I lingered over "flypaper horses stung" and wondered how you might revise the draft by using the repetitive or recursive method we practiced during one of our class calisthenic sessions, using "In the land of stung horses" to begin several sections or movements, if you will.
You might also think about introducing references to the dolls earlier in the poem, and perhaps the phrase repetition could facilitate that. Could the dolls could be antagonists to the stung-horses protagonists? In this way, you could show, instead of tell, the readers the following excerpt:
I could not be the frozen image
of perfection they wanted to think I was going to be.
I was not her.
I was not you.
Or them."
Instead of straight-out saying this, you could let these pastoral images show it, which is, I think, this draft's raison d'être at this point. It looks like the speaker here identifies with the stung horses, and definitely NOT with the porcelain dollies.
I agree with Jonette on the compelling imagery, particularly with the reference to the dolls at the end of the draft. Maybe the draft could facilitate more fully to the reference of the dolls and how they relate to the speaker. Use concrete imagery to associate the speaker with the dolls perhaps and then make the connection with the "she" of the piece? You could also create a dialog between the speaker, the "she" and the dolls to bring about a kind of juggling act between all three perspectives, creating perhaps a strong complexity to the draft that I think could strongly enhance it as well.
ReplyDeleteArchitecturally, it might help to break the poem up a bit. However, you see fit,of course. It's already fairly easy to follow, but stanzas might help in organizing the next steps you want to take with it.
ReplyDeleteI really admire the way you brought the dolls to life. It's as if they are the speaker's social network. You could even take this further by specifically addressing what is artificial about them and why the speaker is choosing not to interact with them.
The pastoral details seem like a different poem altogether. If you want to use them, you might consider drawing the outside and inside worlds into focus and examining why the speaker feels so alienated, or a part of, both.