I won't punch a ticket to decide - Writers Forum

Mirror · 06-16-2008, 08:27 PM

Little thistle with your crown of purple hair,
on whose guard were you deflowered?
I saw you labor under the burden of many.

I saw your sons yesterday,
lined up and looking fine,
I saw that indigo skin glow
and those hands, not idle,
looking strong; I saw them
lean on liquor store walls,
waiting to pass out
before the last call,
and they were beautiful.

I saw your daughters
and they seemed so young,
treble-tongued
with wide hip-plant.
I saw the gleam of sweat
on secret brow
and heard them supply
a constant dialogue of polite service
and 100% Customer Satisfaction guaranteed.
I can't say they were fierce, not like you-
just dew-claws and those foggy eyes.

Are you waiting to be a martyr,
to lay down your feeble burden
at last, to go out quiet
and become only a rebuke,
an emblem of pride and dignity?
Are you waiting
for the sound of your own blood,
rich with horns and bursts of jazz,
thick like smoke from Chicago bars?

I remember the confessions of a sinner,
before he was nailed to a tree,
said Baby, it wasn't me.
I didn't do anything.
Said God help the man under this skin
put on his peaceful face.
I saw his eyes close to the sound of key-jangle.

And there was Lola from Mexico,
riding a semi to Indiana,
said she left her father,
came to build windshields
out of polychrome.
Last dance words are music,
Spanish glissades,
and I don't have to understand the words
to hear the pain behind.

I won't punch a ticket to decide

I heard your madrigal saints, saw them
coming and going from martyrdom.
Coarse silk,
iron ore grit,
West Virginia strikers
and the few urban heroes,
legends of black skin
and myrrh on the breath.
The only way to get something done is to die.
Beware death, little mother,
she carries a harsh finality
beneath her tongue, and I am the sort
that must run, run, run from her solemn blow.

And there were magpies
up and down your walls,
watching your sleep,
peering beneath each sweaty liaison.
How do you stand their sharp eyes,
jutting out and catching everything,
reporting back in tangled shrill?
I could not be so silent and abused,
watch my ghosts stalk the halls.
How will you carry on, silent one?

I won't punch a ticket to decide

MisterJack · 06-17-2008, 10:02 AM

A truely beautiful piece of work here. It's drifting down the board so will return after a few more reads

Jack

J.R. MacLean · 06-17-2008, 10:08 AM

love it on first read mirror. will return

Mirror · 06-17-2008, 02:31 PM

Jack, J.R.-

Thank you for reading. I'm pleased you enjoyed it. I will await any additional remarks you may have. Much appreciated.

Best,
Mirror

J.R. MacLean · 06-18-2008, 04:17 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Mirror

Little thistle with your crown of purple hair,
on whose guard were you deflowered?
I saw you labor under the burden of many.

I saw your sons yesterday,
lined up and looking fine,
I saw that indigo skin glow
and those hands, not idle,
looking strong; I saw them
lean on liquor store walls,
waiting to pass out
before the last call,
and they were beautiful.

I saw your daughters
and they seemed so young,
treble-tongued
with wide hip-plant.
I saw the gleam of sweat
on secret brow
and heard them supply
a constant dialogue of polite service
and 100% Customer Satisfaction guaranteed.
I can't say they were fierce, not like you-
just dew-claws and those foggy eyes.

Are you waiting to be a martyr,
lay down your feeble burden to lay down
at last, go out quiet to go quietly, or do you want that resonance?
and become only a rebuke,
an emphasis on pride and dignity? an emblem of
Are you waiting
for the sound of your own blood,
rich with horns and bursts of jazz,
thick like smoke from Chicago bars?

I remember hearing confessions of a sinner, 'the' instead of 'hearing' to go with 'said'
before he was nailed to a tree,
said Baby, it wasn't me.
I didn't do anything.
Said God help the man under this skin
put on his peaceful face.
I saw his eyes close to the sound of key-jangle.

And there was Lola from Mexico,
riding a semi to Indiana,
said she left her father,
came to build windshields
out of polychrome.
Last dance words are music,
Spanish glissades,
and I don't have to understand the words
to hear the pain behind.

I won't punch a ticket to decide

I heard your madrigal saints, saw them
coming and going from martyrdom.
Coarse silk,
iron ore grit,
West Virginia strikers
and the few urban heroes,
legends of black skin
and myrrh on the breath.
The only way to get something done is to die.
Beware death, little mother,
she carries a harsh finality
beneath her tongue, and I am the sort
that must run, run, run from her solemn blow.

And there were magpies
up and down your walls,
watching your sleep,
peering beneath each sweaty liaison.
How do you stand their sharp eyes,
jutting out and catching everything,
reporting back in tangled shrill?
I could not be so silent and abused,
watch my ghosts stalk the halls.
How will you carry on, silent one?

I won't punch a ticket to decide

This has an intuitive eloquence that carries the day in fine style.

Just a few alts you may consider. Nice work, m.

Mirror · 06-18-2008, 05:58 PM

J.R.-

Thank you very much for your suggestions. I find them valid and have edited accordingly. Appreciated. Glad the piece works for you.

Best,
Mirror

Garden of Kadesh · 06-18-2008, 06:07 PM

Very intimate, I like it. Regrettably, the second half went largely over my head. This reminds me of the novel "The Color of Water" (unless I'm completely missing its meaning!)

Mirror · 06-19-2008, 07:31 AM

Garden of Kadesh-

Thank you for input. Hmm, I find The Color of Water an interesting choice; even though my poem does not concern a racial theme. It's the story of a young mother and her shredded legacy - the blood of her labor, superficially strong, yet inherently imperfect. I inserted the stanza about the confessions of a sinner to underline that, as well as to show the ministrations of a nonchalant providence, who won't punch a ticket to decide how the mother will carry on. The part about Lola draws a parallel between the two different unilateral families. She forms a contrast in that she is confined to a specific place and time, whereas the protagonist becomes an archetype of sorts, timeless and omnipresent.

Best,
Mirror

Garden of Kadesh · 06-19-2008, 08:29 AM

Ah, gotcha.

It reminded me of The Color of Water not because of the racial element (good thing I didn't misconstrue your poem that much!) , but rather the idea of a struggling mother and her legacy.

"for the sound of your own blood,
rich with horns and bursts of jazz,
thick like smoke from Chicago bars?"

Love this line, by the way.

MisterJack · 06-19-2008, 10:18 AM

I really took my time before coming back to this. I've read before and after the changes. They've tightened it up where, imo, it didn't necessarily need it but haven't harmed the piece either in any way.
I just found it a mesmerizing journey from start to finish. A great opening stanza and I loved S7 for it's underlying industrial feel.

Superb stuff, Mirror. Your writing has become so open and available to the reader now, so much more lucid. I was a fan of your more ambiguous work anyway, but these pieces have a new depth, a new experience when reading and for this, I thank you.
Good work, Mirror

Jack

CMM_Kaleido · 06-19-2008, 10:32 AM

Okay, I am the only one with this reaction, but I can't get it to go away.

on whose guard were you deflowered? "Deflowered" says she was a virgin, perhaps a child, one who was not cared for, protected as she should have been, maybe even the guard(s) inflicted the damage.

I saw you labor under the burden of many. Coupled with deflowered this says gang rape to me. I don't go to birth with "labor" right away (although, knowing your work I really should) and "under the burden of many" is so dark to me. After reading the rest, the context puts the opening stanza in a different place but by then the image has appeared. This probably says more about my brain than the actual combination of words, but the reaction continues to be strong enough for me to mention. I think it could be as simple as the use of "under." A preposition such as "through" might even have modified the whole meaning for me.

In any case, Mirror, a thank you in advance for your indulgence in reading this brain spill.

Mirror · 06-19-2008, 07:48 PM

Garden of Kadesh-

Thanks again.

Jack-

I always value your input and am immensely pleased that the piece (and my writing recently) has made such an impression on you. Thank you.

Kaleido-

Thank you very much for the review. Yes, 'deflowered' intimates the loss of virginity at a young age, on precarious grounds, under an unreliable guardianship.
Hmm, I did not intend gang rape, although I see how the word combination could hint at it. And, I understand that the image carries a prepotency of sorts in the rendition. 'Through' would certainly convey an exchange, a mutuality, a process (more along the lines of birth), as opposed to oppression and tutelage, associated with 'under' (in this context). I will consider a change. Thank you so much for giving me something to think about in regards to the piece. Your critique is priceless.

Best,
Mirror

littletimebomb · 06-19-2008, 07:53 PM

I loved this, I don't really have an suggestions for you.

"The only way to get something done is to die."
that said it all for me

nice stuff

Mirror · 06-20-2008, 07:23 AM

littletimebomb-

Thank you very much for reading and commenting. I'm pleased the piece worked for you.

Best,
Mirror