deepundergroundpoetry.com
Tenente in Confidence
Now that my liver is open and bleeding,
I suppose I’ve been trying to speak my discontent.
That awful word I would not spit out,
Stuck in my teeth,
Telling itself in the moaning of my muscles,
The curvature of my back slumping downward as if begging for a bed or grave.
I’ve been numbing myself at the cafe and in the kitchen,
In the mornings and evenings to ease the transition between bouts of sleep,
Pores telling tales in the stink.
Every binge an unsayable frustration,
A dwindling summer spent bedridden
Catherine Barkley at bedside easing me through the day
Leaving the empties in a graveyard below.
She moves my broken shell
Love is the art of not wincing through it.
I will not show her the pain she causes,
Or that futile stone inside her,
Sweet nemesis.
Through my blistered hands, she will never know
My many lonely rain walks
Hidden bleeding.
She is the wheel that grinds,
I would not have it stop.
Nevermind the noise.
I suppose I’ve been trying to speak my discontent.
That awful word I would not spit out,
Stuck in my teeth,
Telling itself in the moaning of my muscles,
The curvature of my back slumping downward as if begging for a bed or grave.
I’ve been numbing myself at the cafe and in the kitchen,
In the mornings and evenings to ease the transition between bouts of sleep,
Pores telling tales in the stink.
Every binge an unsayable frustration,
A dwindling summer spent bedridden
Catherine Barkley at bedside easing me through the day
Leaving the empties in a graveyard below.
She moves my broken shell
Love is the art of not wincing through it.
I will not show her the pain she causes,
Or that futile stone inside her,
Sweet nemesis.
Through my blistered hands, she will never know
My many lonely rain walks
Hidden bleeding.
She is the wheel that grinds,
I would not have it stop.
Nevermind the noise.
Published 26th Aug 2019
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comments 5
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
19th Oct 2019 1:08am
21st Oct 2019 1:43am
I actually meant to come back to this with some suggestions - I thought it sounded familiar when you mentioned it ( don't take it personally, I can't eve remember my own poetry titles half the time ). Your metaphors are amazing, harry. You need absolutely no suggestions on grammar, imagery, phrasing, or vocabulary. The only thing I see which could be improved in your writing is punctuation and form.
For example, let's look at the first stanza - two things you will discover about myself: firstly, I love semicolons and am not afraid to use them. They're intimate bridges connecting two phrases while still giving the reader time to pause; and, secondly, dashes. Dashes are lawless, rogues, outlaws and have no rules, really. I love them because they're stronger than ellipses, which drags you on dot-by-dot, and yet gentle as a comma in allowing you to break with breath before catching up.
So, here, what I have done is split the lines by feeling the thoughts, the phrases, the fragments - connecting some with semi's and others with dashes - that jagged edge of hanging, knowing more is coming. Also, I lowercased everything except the beginning of sentences because the breaks caused some interesting enjambments, and lowercase ( except for beginning a sentence ) made it easier for me to read. Lastly, I created a space between thoughts so the reader could fully absorb the previous before entering the next.
Now that my liver is open and bleeding,
I suppose I’ve been trying to speak my discontent;
that awful word I would not spit out—
stuck in my teeth, telling itself in the moaning
of my muscles, the curvature of my back
slumping downward, as if begging
for a bed or grave.
I’ve been numbing myself
at the cafe and in the kitchen—
In the mornings and evenings
to ease the transition
between bouts of sleep—
pores telling tales in the stink.
Every binge an unsayable frustration,
a dwindling summer spent bedridden;
Catherine Barkley at bedside
easing me through the day—
Leaving the empties in a graveyard below.
Please feel free to tell me where to go for taking such liberties. I don't feel I need to explain to you the reasons, as I really changed nothing except for structure and form. The wording is all yours. On honest critique, I allow the poem to lead, taking into account those words which will end each line, and the power of them to hold until the next is reached.
For example, let's look at the first stanza - two things you will discover about myself: firstly, I love semicolons and am not afraid to use them. They're intimate bridges connecting two phrases while still giving the reader time to pause; and, secondly, dashes. Dashes are lawless, rogues, outlaws and have no rules, really. I love them because they're stronger than ellipses, which drags you on dot-by-dot, and yet gentle as a comma in allowing you to break with breath before catching up.
So, here, what I have done is split the lines by feeling the thoughts, the phrases, the fragments - connecting some with semi's and others with dashes - that jagged edge of hanging, knowing more is coming. Also, I lowercased everything except the beginning of sentences because the breaks caused some interesting enjambments, and lowercase ( except for beginning a sentence ) made it easier for me to read. Lastly, I created a space between thoughts so the reader could fully absorb the previous before entering the next.
Now that my liver is open and bleeding,
I suppose I’ve been trying to speak my discontent;
that awful word I would not spit out—
stuck in my teeth, telling itself in the moaning
of my muscles, the curvature of my back
slumping downward, as if begging
for a bed or grave.
I’ve been numbing myself
at the cafe and in the kitchen—
In the mornings and evenings
to ease the transition
between bouts of sleep—
pores telling tales in the stink.
Every binge an unsayable frustration,
a dwindling summer spent bedridden;
Catherine Barkley at bedside
easing me through the day—
Leaving the empties in a graveyard below.
Please feel free to tell me where to go for taking such liberties. I don't feel I need to explain to you the reasons, as I really changed nothing except for structure and form. The wording is all yours. On honest critique, I allow the poem to lead, taking into account those words which will end each line, and the power of them to hold until the next is reached.
21st Oct 2019 2:28am
Thanks for your advice! I truly appreciate your openness to improving what I’ve got. I would agree, I often kind of slam through my ideas and leave the punctuation in my poetry a little unthought of. I’m sure some of my poems, this one included, are less effective in others’ minds because of this. Let me run through this bad boy again, keeping this in mind.
Thanks again!
Thanks again!
21st Oct 2019 5:57pm
No problem. You're a great writer, harry. One of the best I've seen here at DU. When a great writer asks for honest critique, I'm going to honor that with what I see, hoping it's what they truly want. I've gotten my head bitten off before because it's not what they truly wanted. As I said, you have everything it takes; all I see are form, structure, and punctuation issues. Believe me, that's NOTHING compared to one who can't spell, isn't in tune with metaphors, or honed in grammar. Those critiques take upwards of an hour or more.
I think this one took 15 min tops.
I think this one took 15 min tops.
21st Oct 2019 8:54pm
Glad to hear! Know you can always offer your honest critique with me. I truly appreciate it.
