Writingpoetry

[ Join Free! ]
(No Spam mail)

dotsdots
nav
  • RolePlay
  • Join Us
  • Writings
  • Shoutbox
  • Community
  • Digg Mashup
  • Mp3 Search
  • Online Education
  • My Youtube
  • Ear Training
  • Funny Pics
  • nav



    nav
  • Role Play
  • Piano Music
  • Free Videos
  • Web 2.0
  • nav



    << | >>
    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Talent in Teacupsdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Speacenik
    ASL Info:    27/Female/IReland
    Elite Ratio:    7 - 437/381/116
    Words: 210
    Class/Type: Misc/Misc
    Total Views: 1505
    Average Vote:    4.0000
    Bytes: 1299



    Description:
       The collocation here is not perfect as I could not fit the lines on as I'd designed the poem


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsTalent in Teacupsdots
    -------------------------------------------


    My uncle can only thumb
    through picture books
    and pause at towns he knows.
    Remember their beaches' scent
    or chill of their blue-rimmed mountains.

    The taste of pub food eaten
    when my mum was a child,
    some fifty years ago.
    He remembers how the next door neighbour
    smiled when she asked for milk.

    The clink and splash of a Shilling
    his brother rolled, by accident,
    down a drainpipe.
    The exact yellow of a canary
    some sixty years dead.

    He never learnt to read
    beyond the suns slants and angles
    or count beyond
    the number of sugars
    to stir into his own cup of tea.

    But he knows how
    to fit jigsaws in the way
    a well-trained conductor
    leads an ochrestra,
    he doesn't need the pictures.

    He could do it blindfolded
    just the touch of his felt-tip
    smudged fingers alone.
    It is in this way too
    that he plays the piano.

    Eyes tight shut, swaying to that melody
    hidden in his head for half a century
    and never voiced, but always, like a CD
    housed in an old Jukebox
    ready to be picked and listened to.




    Submitted on 2007-05-05 08:14:36     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

    Rate This Submission

    1: >_<
    2: I dunno...
    3: meh!
    4: Pretty cool
    5: Wow!




    ||| Comments |||
      Firstly, and really the least important thing, is that is that the second and sixth stanzas are compiled of two sentences each while the other five are all one sentence each. The two I’ve rather nit-pickingly singled out have periods which seem to cause the thought to stumble or trip in the middle of the idea, which is a bit brilliant, and a bit akward. This, I believe, really suits the character of the poem, if this poem was not about such a person that it reflectively and dearly discuses, I would suggest semi-colons; but as it, it is perfect.

    Uneducated wisdom, un-orchestrated talent, habit is a form of genius really, and I think the title expresses that very nicely.
    A reflective person, who has an astounding memory but if an observer was not aware of these fond memories, the almost magical and oddly admirable talents, they might think him slow witted. One who remembers pleasantries, nice things, good things far past; a memory for childhood lovelies. And, never a mention of acquiring new fondnesses, new memories, I think the last stanza captures what I perceived most strongly from this piece:


    …Eyes tight shut, swaying to that melody
    hidden in his head for half a century
    and never voiced, but always, like a CD
    housed in an old Jukebox
    ready to be picked and listened to.”

    Eyes and mind closed to the now, the present, thoughts and memories from the past being lived in repetition, without adding or growing, but simply living in memories which clarify themselves and expand within their own recurrences. They can be canted and reiterated with astounding and awing precision and a nice definitiveness. Yet, the one with the memories cannot really share them, and those with them “shared” to can only believe the exact recollection of this old man’s seemingly quite gentle-mind. A mind and heart that looks to and precisely recalls those who were kind and dear, taste of things well-loved, smells from places held dear – perhaps only for their experiences, and the feeling that cannot be quite shared verbally. You can’t really describe music with words, you can try, but it is never like the music speaking for itself.

    My favorite bits of the poem all run together, in a nice little row:

    “…The clink and splash of a Shilling
    his brother rolled, by accident,
    down a drainpipe.
    The exact yellow of a canary
    some sixty years dead.

    He never learnt to read
    beyond the suns slants and angles
    or count beyond
    the number of sugars
    to stir into his own cup of tea.

    But he knows how
    to fit jigsaws in the way
    a well-trained conductor
    leads an ochrestra,
    he doesn't need the pictures…”

    Loss of dear things was never a good thing, but through the loss, beautiful and exact things were gained. I love the bit about his letters and his numbers, how lack of common things amplifies other common things, the latter often taken quite for granted, but now the genius behind them can be revealed in a quiet and pleasant way.

    Lives in memories, while so many others find sadness and hapless desires living in the future which disappoints, or might only just happen.

    I very much all of this, but I feel like it would be rude to say too much because I don’t know your uncle, and he seems very dear.

    - mandolin
    | Posted on 2007-07-13 00:00:00 | by Mandolin | [ Reply to This ]
      This is much, much better. Love it so much going to fav it.
    nessie
    | Posted on 2007-05-05 00:00:00 | by comradenessie | [ Reply to This ]
      My uncle can only thumb
    through picture books and pause at towns
    he knows. Remember their beaches' scent
    or chill of their blue-rimmed mountains.
    The taste of pub food
    eaten when my mum was a child,

    some fifty years ago.
    He remembers how the (next-door) neighbour
    smiled when she asked for milk.
    The clink and splash of a Shilling
    his brother rolled, by accident,
    down a drainpipe.

    The exact yellow of a canary
    some sixty years dead.
    He never learnt to read
    beyond the (sun's) slants and angles
    or count beyond
    the number of sugars to stir

    into his own cup of tea. But he knows
    how to fit jigsaws in the way
    a well-trained conductor leads an (orchestra),
    he doesn't need the (pictures).
    He could do it blindfolded just the touch
    of his felt-tipped smudged fingers alone.

    It is in this way too that he (plays) the piano.
    Eyes tight shut, swaying to that melody
    hidden in his head for half a century
    and never voiced, but always, like a CD
    housed in an old Jukebox
    ready to be picked and listened to.



    Well, I never thought you'd make it back. Good to read you again. Other than the few typos in parentheses above, I have two small nits to pick. The first is the same one our good comrade pointed out above concerning the last line of the first strophe and the first line of the second. The leap between the two seems too abrupt and they might be better served in the same strophe or split in a different manner. The other instance involves the 'felt-tipped, smudged fingers.' I'd suggest either felt-tipped or smudged, but not both. Somehow it throws off the lineation as it's read.

    Nice sentiment concerning the relative values of experience and education, by the way. You still have a lot to say, but are apparently pressed for time to post it.

    Nicely done
    Bill
    | Posted on 2007-05-05 00:00:00 | by rws | [ Reply to This ]
      Shame you can’t fit this in properly, same thing happened with one of my lines in ‘Season of Contrasts’. I’m guessing ‘towns he knows’ should continue on the same line.

    Well of course this is very personal for me too as I know who you’re writing about. I’m not convinced that I like the enjambment of

    ‘eaten when my mum was a child,

    some fifty years ago.’

    because it disrupts the thought too much. I’d prefer this in the same stanza if you’re going to give my age away. My favourite lines are

    The clink and splash of a Shilling
    his brother rolled, by accident,
    down a drainpipe.

    The exact yellow of a canary
    some sixty years dead.
    The imagery here is stunning and beautifully expressed.

    Nit picking details you could use a hyphen in ‘next-door’ and have typos on orchestra, pictures and piano

    this is worth tidying because it is very lovely.
    huge hug
    nessie
    | Posted on 2007-05-05 00:00:00 | by comradenessie | [ Reply to This ]


    Think Feedback more than Compliments :: [ Guidelines ]

    1. Be honest.
    2. Try not to give only compliments.
    3. How did it make you feel?
    4. Why did it make you feel that way?
    5. Which parts?
    6. What distracted from the piece?
    7. What was unclear?
    8. What does it remind you of?
    9. How could it be improved?
    10. What would you have done differently?
    11. What was your interpretation of it?
    12. Does it feel original?



    141943

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.


    Google
     


    poetry

    dotsLogindots

    User Name:

    Password:

    [ Quick Signup ]
    [ Lost Password ]


    January 10 07
    131,497 Poems
    Posted

    I have 14,000+ Subscribers on Youtube. See my Video Tutorials

    [ Angst Poetry ]
    [ Cutters ]
    [ Famous Poetry ]
    [ Poetry Scams ]



    FontSize:
    [ Smaller ] [ Bigger ]
     Poetry