# A Century Deep



## Space Cadet (Jun 25, 2017)

I drank a whole bottle of wine.
I listened to Tchaikovsky all night.  
Ransacked boxes of loose papers—
receipts, tax forms, sketches,
penciled dimensions of the cabin—
searching for a yellow piece
with a horizontal crease
disguised with a fold.  


I couldn’t quite place what it said, but if I heard it,
I could pin-point the words.  
If I saw them, I’d remember my apology.  


I struggled for someone struggling,
I thought — this is what I wrote to her!
And I’ve gone and lost it.


I am simple, slipped into my chair.
I am a virus, dare I’ve already forgot.
O, I swear.
I’d write a line here.
Or two, 
but lost them—
coming up stairs.


Now, memory is all that’s in those capsules.
I never open a certain, cardboard bankers box.  
I stay clear; it leaves me alone if I don’t bother it.  
If I don’t bother it, the less I begin to care.




Generations have caught up with me,
evidently, a few years delayed; 
but, I’ll open it eventually,
as I grow less paranoid.


I’ll need a century to recall it all,
explain why I took each chance.
Can I go back on words?
I have an alibi for a Saturday night nine years ago when I was able to dance.  
Here’s the ticket stub and a poem to prove it:


_     Jigsaw Widow!_
_     Come have my cardboard baby!_
_     Feel the dull blotto mornings_
_     of our newlywed-itch behind us yet?_


_     Leave?— _
_     No, this is nothing short of sleep, Dear._
_     Stay and play, listen to Duke,_
_     you and me; _
_     listen to his gospel._
_     Hear him preach?_
_     Stay in touch._




Chess pieces and paperclips, Christmas greetings, wedding pictures;
mid-layers plastered with birthdays in envelopes
saved from a basement flood, 
under a molded rug, 
tossed atop thumb tacks 
and batteries rusted from their own acid rusted ends.  


A merit badge, a pocket knife, a mess-kit, 
all gummed to a dust jacket of Orwell’s
_Down and Out in Paris and London._


Childhood can be so cruel.  


A pair of busted glasses, blood on the frames. 
Check.
Old stopwatch next to three stale Figurados.  
Check.           
One gungy-wick Zippo, broken lever, no flint.
Check.  
All in one place.  
Check.
No yellow piece of paper.  
Moving on.  


And at the bottom, under malachite pennies, 
clumped together in busted cyan ink, 
acerbic pens and cheap-healing oils,
chromosomes of kitsch in glass vials,
a busted calligraphy pen stained my fingers.
A hint of lavender inside a resin den of scraped skulls 
coughed from a glass bubbler—
And I found myself a century late,
slightly more edited.


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## RHPeat (Jun 26, 2017)

Spacey is right

It rants on too much. But it contains some striking images in distant places. If they were siting next to each other they'd scare the birds at sunset like a hawk. But they get lost in the muddle about the muddle. It's really enough to just show the muddle without dragging a reader through it as well. Being a little person in big people world sucks especially when you're their football. Or 15 years later: Yeah she left you, and you went nuts. So have a few million other young men when they were in their twenties or thirties felt like turkey shit floating the swimming pool. The childhood seeping into every relationship you have. Hey it hurts when the lessons smack you in the face. You have to claim you were part of them. We get that, that part is easy when kids are treated like reusable matches. Now cut-out the distinguishing stuff and nail it to a cross in its baggy under ware with three nails and call it a self portrait, and you'll begin to feel the resurrection. That's it take a deep breath and begin again; this time print it out and use a pair of scissors and a glue stick instead of your computer. On the first rewrite cut it in half. Get real crazy with it; along with some residue left over from the pent up anger snipping at the pages. Ge funky with it the way Charlie Parker would do it on a heroin crash in a riptide of sound. Just don't get too addicted to the confessional scene, the way this sounds. They like gas stoves too much.
:ChainGunSmiley:

a poet friend
RH Peat


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## Darren White (Jun 26, 2017)

I still love that last stanza so very much, even though it is now "slightly more edited"


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## Sebald (Jun 26, 2017)

Gorgeous, Wesley. Sumptuous. 

A real lesson in finding the right phrase, for a non-poet like me. And your sheer love of words.

The only suggestion I could add to RH''s great critique is to keep an eye on the way you're handling time. There are lots of tricks prose-writers use to make large passages of time comfortable for the reader. I felt a bit lost when I reached the phrase 'generations have caught up with me'.

I know you love music. There's a song from the sixties or seventies, by Paul Simon. It's called 'Still Crazy After all These Years' and has a similar tone to your poem. Probably not your taste as a song, but it handles time really confidently.

These are minor quibbles. Fantastic.


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## clark (Jun 26, 2017)

I can't get to 'fantastic', but I recognize poetic talent when I feel it--and it's here.  But why do I have to work so hard to get at it?  When Ginsberg published HOWL a long time ago, some critics said the poem was a babbling 'sprawl'. Not true--every single word counted.  It was actually economical in execution.  Another example I'm fond of: Ben Jonson, Shakespeare's great contemporary, was asked by a friend to write an epitaph for the friend's 5-yr old daughter, who had just died.  The friend sat with \jonson for HOURS, extolling the virtues of this wonderful child.  Jonson finally wrote:

Underneath this stone doth lie
As much Beauty as can die.

That's the bottom line of Ron's critique:  get in there and search and destroy.  Slash the chaff and give us the wheat.  You love words.  They are our children, eh?  We hate to kill out own.  But kill you must, if you want the poem to emerge as a compelling poetic  rant  rather than a rant rant.  I feel it buried in there. . .


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## Firemajic (Jun 26, 2017)

Good advice already given, so I won't rehash...

This poem is just TOO much... overwhelming... like looking at a field of brilliant wildflowers, and not being able to pick out each flower, then later remembering just that vivid color..... something like that... you are unique, your poem was original, your imagery... strong... but your message could be soooo much more, with soooo much less... save those fabulous snippets that you edit... you will find another home for them, where they can bewitch and intrigue... I am excited to have the chance to read more of your work...


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## sas (Jun 26, 2017)

It does have so much promise. Somehow I felt, as the first line said, you drank "a whole bottle of wine" and it got away from you. Control, control.


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## Darren White (Jun 26, 2017)

Wesley,

You know I love the first stanza, and the last two stanzas best. Because they belong together and tell the entire story. I am not saying that then it won't need improvement anymore, maybe it does. But if you keep the three together, you have the heart of your poem, but please, as others have already said, don't throw the rest away, because you write little gems, can start new poems with those, and it would be such a waste if they disappear.....


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## Space Cadet (Jun 27, 2017)

clark said:


> I can't get to 'fantastic', but I recognize poetic talent when I feel it--and it's here.  But why do I have to work so hard to get at it?  When Ginsberg published HOWL a long time ago, some critics said the poem was a babbling 'sprawl'. Not true--every single word counted.  It was actually economical in execution.  Another example I'm fond of: Ben Jonson, Shakespeare's great contemporary, was asked by a friend to write an epitaph for the friend's 5-yr old daughter, who had just died.  The friend sat with \jonson for HOURS, extolling the virtues of this wonderful child.  Jonson finally wrote:
> 
> Underneath this stone doth lie
> As much Beauty as can die.
> ...





Clark.  Thank you, Sir, for your kind words.  I've got to be honest, since the majority of this is fiction and was having fun writing, I lost direction.  The only nonfictional aspect is the yellow piece of paper with words scribed on it (actually from my uncle).  The note came with a present he gave me on my first birthday -- a hunting knife.  Very Appalachian.  But I don't recall exactly what he wrote on that yellow note that stayed tucked in the sheath.  Still have the knife, lost the yellow paper.  That was in 1982.  

The frenzied rant is knowing I will never find those words as I rifle through all the sh*t words and papers, envelopes, notes, of what I supposedly saved for good reason.    

Thank you again for your comment and taking time to read.  Also, thanks for letting me free write / hash out the aforementioned 

albeit wordy    

Best, 

Wesley


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## Space Cadet (Jun 27, 2017)

Firemajic said:


> Good advice already given, so I won't rehash...
> 
> This poem is just TOO much... overwhelming... like looking at a field of brilliant wildflowers, and not being able to pick out each flower, then later remembering just that vivid color..... something like that... you are unique, your poem was original, your imagery... strong... but your message could be soooo much more, with soooo much less... save those fabulous snippets that you edit... you will find another home for them, where they can bewitch and intrigue... I am excited to have the chance to read more of your work...




Overwhelming.  Try reading it ten times fast!  No, don't do that.   The message isn't there, totally right.  It needs to go a bit deeper and needs tightened.   clark mentioned HOWL and each word being perfect.  I like the idea of making the journey of finding out what was written on the piece of paper -- what that piece of paper meant -- more prominent by describing more of what I'm rifling through.  What do you think?  Sound boring?  

Ultimately, I don't think the reader ever learns what's written on the paper.  

Thank you again for reading, continued advice, field of brilliant wildflowers simile.   -- Wesley C.


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## Space Cadet (Jun 27, 2017)

RHPeat said:


> Spacey is right
> 
> It rants on too much. But it contains some striking images in distant places. If they were siting next to each other they'd scare the birds at sunset like a hawk. But they get lost in the muddle about the muddle. It's really enough to just show the muddle without dragging a reader through it as well. Being a little person in big people world sucks especially when you're their football. Or 15 years later: Yeah she left you, and you went nuts. So have a few million other young men when they were in their twenties or thirties felt like turkey shit floating the swimming pool. The childhood seeping into every relationship you have. Hey it hurts when the lessons smack you in the face. You have to claim you were part of them. We get that, that part is easy when kids are treated like reusable matches. Now cut-out the distinguishing stuff and nail it to a cross in its baggy under ware with three nails and call it a self portrait, and you'll begin to feel the resurrection. That's it take a deep breath and begin again; this time print it out and use a pair of scissors and a glue stick instead of your computer. On the first rewrite cut it in half. Get real crazy with it; along with some residue left over from the pent up anger snipping at the pages. Ge funky with it the way Charlie Parker would do it on a heroin crash in a riptide of sound. Just don't get too addicted to the confessional scene, the way this sounds. They like gas stoves too much.
> :ChainGunSmiley:
> ...



I always enjoy your critique and comments.  "Lost in the muddle about the muddle" I think sums the poem up.  Unfortunately, this poem went non-fiction when I added the Jigsaw widow! poem/part -- not sure how this came about to describe the character in the poem/facet in the poem (vaguely). 

I like the cut-ups suggestion re Burroughs and will give this some more attention, less muddle in the dragging message.     

In short, the poem is:  No one ever finds what's written on that yellow piece of paper -- our entire lives we schlep through it all, and we never know exactly.  But that's OK accepting and "dancing" with the Unknown whilst enjoying the schlep. 

Thank you again for your continued advice and reading the thread.  Always grateful for your feedback.  -- Wesley C.


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## sas (Jun 28, 2017)

My personal opinion, based on nothing, is that, as writers, poets uniquely really write for themselves. So I write. At least I know one person will read it. But, even I can't be counted upon to like it. Smiles. Sas


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## Space Cadet (Jun 29, 2017)

Darren White said:


> Wesley,
> 
> You know I love the first stanza, and the last two stanzas best. Because they belong together and tell the entire story. I am not saying that then it won't need improvement anymore, maybe it does. But if you keep the three together, you have the heart of your poem, but please, as others have already said, don't throw the rest away, because you write little gems, can start new poems with those, and it would be such a waste if they disappear.....




Thank you, Darren, for your kind words and suggestions.  Don't worry, I won't throw them away.  Perhaps the nut of the poem _is_ within the stanzas you mention.  I think I'm going to tap into getting crazy with it, per RH Poet.  Being fictional in many ways, I've got to find the non-fictionally cords to pull so my heart is more in it.  Maybe that will bring out the colors in it more.  Thank you, Darren.  I hope all is well.  -- Wesley.


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## Space Cadet (Jun 29, 2017)

sas said:


> My personal opinion, based on nothing, is that, as writers, poets uniquely really write for themselves. So I write. At least I know one person will read it. But, even I can't be counted upon to like it. Smiles. Sas



sas.  Thank you for your comment and reading my free write.  I do find that writers may often see (some) poetry as navel gazing creations.  I write for myself, but I have written for others, sometimes still do.  I enjoy writing _to_ others more than _for_ others.  Either way, I rarely find that a piece is completely finished until I move on to something else, typically not satisfied with the end result.  But as I've stated before, once it's written, it's no longer mine.  

Wesley


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## Space Cadet (Jun 29, 2017)

Sebald said:


> Gorgeous, Wesley. Sumptuous.
> 
> A real lesson in finding the right phrase, for a non-poet like me. And your sheer love of words.
> 
> ...




Thank you, Sebald, for your kind words and suggestion(s).  You're definitely correct in stating the timing is a bit wonky.  When you say lost, I assume you mean it veers into a new direction/subject?  Or does it see as if something doesn't belong or needs added?  This is a work in progress now, after you, Firemajic, clark, RH, et al, have commented.  I always welcome input and "minor quibbles". 

I love Paul Simon!  Wow, listening to the song now (smile on face)...Very thought-provoking that you feel this has a similar tone.  I'd ask to expound on how and why, but_ I sometimes _find it a difficult task to explain how and why something feels (especially relating to music).  

But the words are meant to read rather quick in places, much like a ramble, and clear and soft in places.  Still a work in progress.  Thank you again.  Wesley


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