[John Riley]

I guess this may stretch what some here consider to be poetry. I wrote it as a standard poem first and then its form changed but I still think of it as a poem. Maybe a spoken-word poem? I would very much like to know what you think.



Sketches: Night/Dying Man/Wife


One

Sorry
Sorry?—You’re alive—
Existing
Fortunate—
I feel you next to me—at times—still—now
Waiting for the night to pass
You were not afraid when the snake appeared—sat quietly on your heels—
You were—frightened
Not frightened—there was no time for fear
Excited—
I loved the way you tended the flowers—
Where the snake appeared— I had known so many snakes before—
Yes—you found dark soil to tap over the roots
Continuity is the secret—tending plants
I brought the little rich soil I had to you—
You held me tight—
To the flowers


Two

We passed through the white house—I led the way
My two soft hands for you to hold
I chose one—we thought the house would never end
We can still be there—
Walking beneath threshold after threshold—
My soft hand is still in yours—
I no longer feel it
(Silence)


Three

Lavender fields full of birds—
You are awake
We left behind—I awoke—I thought of the lavender fields—
Sleep leaves us alive everywhere—
—that they would be here—birds with no color
What is your name—now—
It rained—puddles everywhere—
Now you are back—
The plants were still damp—
Your head so full of rain—


Four

What is that noise
A cry—
Do you hear it
What did it sound—
Outside the window—do you hear
Is it coming inside the house so—
Hush—
Is it inside now—
It’s gone
That is—
I hear nothing
Quiet—is a blessing


Five

Sleep now
My next sleep—
It’s well past midnight
The last—yes—
You need rest
Take my hand
Again
A last time
Before sleep
Yes. Before sleep

[Jim Moonan]

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A blizzard of thoughts occurred to me as I read through this. We are only thoughts in our heads. "Before sleep" is an astonishing thought coming in at the very end. I can hardly wait to come back to this but I have an early morning thing to do.
Great stuff John.

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[Nick McRae]

John, I don't have much to add in the way of critique, but this one is coming from the place that poetry is supposed to come from. So it's hard to complain about much.

Enjoyed.

[John Riley]

Thanks guys. I’m happy you connected.

[Jim Moonan]

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I'm just coming back to this — I almost lost it in the flurry of new threads... Things sink quickly lately.

This is a real departure from your already impressive array of forms I've seen you work within. So often it feels like you are inventing forms. It's hard for me to spend time with each of these sketches, so I'll focus on the ones that grabbed me.

ONE is compelling. It's an unusual confluence of script/dialog and verse. I personally think that dialog done well is the rawest form of poetry. I find it to be alive and dramatic and many other things that can't put my finger on at the moment. This one starts out as a relatively straight forward exchange but soon mushrooms into metaphorical language that I love. My imagination is ignited when I don't exactly understand something word-for-word but get a transcendence from it anyway. This one does that for me. I think you have a hybrid form of imagist writing that many times toggles back and forth between being narrative and surreal. (I think, at least. It's not like I actually know anything : )

One thing your poetry always demands is that the reader work hard to get the full effect. My mind is essentially a wild stallion and it's hard for me to stay still long enough to absorb all of what your poems often contain. My loss. Some of it is a matter of discipline, but some of it is ingrained in my DNA and I must live with it. I've always loved poetry for its synthesis of thought and striking imagery. I struggle with longer poems.

The images that float into view in ONE are a gravesite, a garden, a bed, Eden, and the tangible electric current of love.

TWO is much more surreal, never truly touching reality and remaining in a imaginary world that feels real. Mid-way through the short poem the N announces that "we can still be there", offering hope in the eternal. But ends with a sense of isolation and loneliness with the line, "I no longer feel it." The the final parenthetical reminds me of stage/script direction, which in turn gives me a sense of "sketch" that the title indicates.

I might come back again to respond to the rest. I've got some things to do. But I did want also express my surprise that this has not gotten more of a response. It may be that it is too long to crit in its entirety without spending a good chunk of time on it. But in my view it is fine work and yet another incarnation of your poetic voice.

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[Cally Conan-Davies]

John, it is a poem. It's a performance. I think the best poems are performances. They should not lose anything when spoken aloud.

I read this as a miniature play in five acts. It has two voices. I hear them clearly. It's so spare, and beautiful, and the words do nothing to disturb the profound silence out of which they grow.

I love this kind of writing. A play for voices (like Dylan Thomas).

Tenderness, calm before the . . . unknowable.

Cally

[John Riley]

Jim, it's taken me a while to respond. I haven't been able to engage much these last days. I didn't expect many people to respond. It is long and probably tough to say anything about. It started as a more conventional poem and then this developed. I saw two people speaking it toward the end. Your response is very thoughtful and I am grateful for you're engagement with this work. I think this one can be read simply. It's a man and wife speaking toward the end of one of their lives.

Thanks, Cally. It always means a lot to me when you like my work.