Thread: Eddie - some language

First poem posted here. Let's see what you think.

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I remember my old friend Eddie.
who,
in the twilight,
hid in his closet:
shotgun halfway down his throat
looking at the scratches
and bullet holes
on the wall
and thinking of the people
who were here before him
the workers;
the leaders;
the lonely;
the insane
and the broken-hearted.

There, the sickly black part of himself
that came out in the quiet of the night
wanted him to sleep forever.

I read the letter he left me:

“I feel like an animal
beaten down all its life
who doesn’t have the will
in the wilderness
to survive anymore.
An animal that only wants the freedom
that comes with nothingness:
to join the soil of the grass and trees;
the dying sunset and the chill breeze.

My animal-self has tried
to force the other predators:
the junkies and the sociopaths;
the hyenas and the ravens;
to kill.

But they don’t strike like that anymore.

They only pick away
within the rules of the societal kingdom
at any part of yourself that you ever liked,
showing your cage where you thought you were free
not letting you die with honour
but attaching you to a cancer-making machine
that ages and wears you out
until you can’t recognize your face anymore
even in the smashed mirrors
that have fallen onto your bedroom floor.

This infinite jest
wears you down
little by little
for everyone to see:
your final circus act for the world.
The crowd jeers and cheers for tricks
feeding their oversized bellies with your dignity
while the shotgun
speaks of the eternal blackness
urging you,
wanting you,
to blow your fucking brains all over the wall:
becoming one with the people who came
into this little corner of the universe
to die.

Don’t cry for me.
These walls have been calling me for a long time,
like waves from an ocean shore.
I’m finally ready to leave
for the cry of the open sea.”

Sometimes
I go out and sit on the smooth beach,
thinking about Eddie and me growing up:
chasing girls in his red Mustang,
spending long nights at the bars
and talking about philosophy
while looking at the stars.

I’ll never forget the last line
of the letter that he left me,
“We’ll meet again,” he wrote.

I really hope we will.

Wow! How wonderful! Very well written!

I really like this poem, it keeps a good handle of the darkness without being soul crushing, and explores the topic in a provoking way.

My only issue with it is this phrasing in the opening,

"shotgun halfway down his throat"

It feels like an odd way to say what I think you're saying. "Resting on his throat" sounds better to me. The way it is now sounds like he's franky trying to swallow a shotgun like a snake with its jaw unhinged.

Besides the fact that it appears Eddie wants to kill himself, there isn't much to say.

The switching between him (Eddie) and the first person makes it hard to nail down the protagonist of the poem.

There is a real wall as to what killing oneself pertains to. We kill ourselves and then...that's it. We're done. Hallas maffi as the Arabs say.

I wouldn't expect there to be more, simply because no reader would know more.

Beyond the fatalistic reminiscence, the entire peom is about suicide, with little regard to the reader.

Very enjoyable to read, but it tends to be lengthy and I am not convinced of the necessity of that. It is arguably redundant in places, especially in regards to the animals and wilderness I think. You might also watch punctuation towards the middle of the poem.



T

I'll be honest I really enjoyed this. It starts off really well and draws you in. Personally I agree with Tenebris and wouldn't shorten it as it is a bit lenghty and this takes something away from the piece.

You've made me sad, but that you were able to do so is a testament to your ability. I have to agree with Tenebris regarding the prosaic quality in places, and it's a bit lengthy, but I am not one to judge that, I do it myself. I felt this, and that's all I need. Looking forward to more.

Best,
Lisa

Thanks for the comments everybody.

I'm glad that some people here will actually give me a critique in the weaker spots of my work rather than emphasizing the good parts. It's the weak parts that I need to work on to become a better poet.

I was truly moved by this piece, so I came back. You can't eliminate much, most of what you've said is essential to the entire picture. Trim a little in the wilderness part, you are repeating just a little. Aside from that, again, I say, I felt this, and for that I thank you heaps, so rarely do I feel.