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All Too Well

...a poem about scope shrinking relative to life lived.

In the thicket of a hall as sticky as Alabama walls,
at the end and descending
through the teeth of the banister was- almost unseen-
the last flicker of the top of a man
with a 20’s-brimmed hat
donning a feather that was green.
When I reached the top stair to look back
he wasn’t there and had corroded through the door
into the choking smoke of basement air, where bustle
seethed and receded like contractions down in there.
I retreated to my room of a tree-house of a room
in all its disconnected glory
from above-my-head stories
that made uncles boom and burst,
and mysterious ladies cackle
I’d see from the corner of my ears
where in those years, remains of great stained men
that were then just men, or perhaps, just men,
rallied my ambition
to be something more than understood,
underground, or in the woods, and glow.
The front blew through. The one that vomits blue
and clears the lairs of the fog-encased elders.
If on one’s back in a crystal streambed
an inch beneath the surface, eyes open to above,
were to see and hear those bankdwellers
taller and beloved, interwoven as the trees behind,
then there I find a reference
for the nipple of my heart,
and the hole caused by depart
of not so much the blanket
of the sanguine static hands,
but rather the illusion of the lands.
Birth births birth at an exponential rate
if in terms of only one man all alone.
If in terms of reinvention from the smile to the bone
and if in terms when terminology won’t do.
When all that’s left behind
the easterly expansion of the blue
is a sun to char the living ‘til the twilight of the day,
when it flashlights across the entirety of the dome
to light one final homage of our home.
When and if and to what we awaken
I pray we're awoken unwise.
And in childhood bedrooms we’ll rise.
Out our doors unnoticed we’ll slip undetected
and stalk out a grand 9 p.m.
A peek ‘round the corner to a very long stem
that anchors a cone of champagne,
or something from cabinets all locked in the day
that we ponder when trapped by the rain.
Then through the banister as if on cue,
the man in the green-feathered hat,
en route to the mystery below,
will pause in his tracks
and look straight through our souls
and finally grant us his face,
which will be only blank canvass space,
and we’ll paint unrestrainedly guesses we’d dreamt
of what happens beyond that great door;
what vibrant concoctions of life spill all over
the walls of that pulsing brigade
for him to then wear as suggestions
if by some unthinkable chance they did less.
And in time we each peeled off to bed
but in there- each last, through the night-
they did stay.
I lapsed off in sleep to a final decay,
not praying that man taught them anything,
but praying they’d known anyway.

24 Apr 07

Rated 9.8 (9.8) by 6 users.
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OMG...JUST OMG...your writing is one of the most graceful, silky styles I've ever seen, anywhere. There's a million crappy goth writers on here, and a million indie smartasses. There's only a handful of p-o-e-t-s. You my friend, are a p-o-e-t. You can't teach fitting words together this smoothly. "When and if and to what we awaken I pray we're awoken unwise." Amen. Brilliant. I'm afraid to suggest any revisions here. This poem is a sculpture. Here's my revision advice. Whatever anyone reccomends, ignore them and keep writing by instinct. And KEEP POSTING! Only 2 poems so far and this is one of them? What a statement.
 — unknown

Dude, that's a freiken ridiculously crafted poem. Startling. Cryptic, but attainable in meaning with a strong reader's effort. You're a writer's writer. Pure art.
 — animalman

"when it flashlights across the entirety of the dome/ to light one final homage of our

Why wasn't I born able to think of lines like that? You're the most talented newbie on here. Such a dignity and class in your style. So refreshing. Line 4-10 seemed sort of random at first and I was going to question it, but when he comes back in line 53, i totally got it! So strategic! You're 3 steps down the board as they say!
 — GoldenGirl

Oh my. This poem makes my heart sing! Amazing rhythm, really; flawlessly done. L34 - L42 sound a bit jumbled, and the use of 'terms' became almost too much. Other than that I can't find anything I don't like about this. Thank you for this, thank you very much.

 — bbucsis

Your style has what Simon Cowell refers to as "the It" factor. I won't lie. My brain hurts after reading that. This poem is invoking something so vivid yet so hard to explain. It's like I understand it, but I can't explain it. How did you do that?!?!? :)

As far as bbucsis deducting 1 point for the 5th stanza feeling "jumbled", I respectfully disagree. I think Maycraft meant for it to feel jumbled because it's describing how condensed time and space is in our lives. Look at the other 8 stanzas. They're as smooth as WD40! The change is so obvious that it's clear he meant to knock us off our horse. I'm with GoldenGirl, you're 3 steps down the board. As polished and plotting as any writer on this board.

p.s.- bbucsis is right about one thing. You're rhythm couldn't be more effortless.
 — ArsenalEdict

Different.  It reminds me of Dr. Suess for adults, if I may make such a comparison.  Yet, unlike Dr. Suess, it goes so much deeper.  It's like reading excerpts from the perfect dream; you know...little pieces of it that you wanna put down on paper at 2am, but you're too lazy and too caught up between sleep and dream and reality and the need to take a piss to go find a notebook and do it.  Amazing shit and the flow...THE FLOW is just crazy!  I love it!  Congrats on the new #1 Recent Best spot.  
 — starr

p.s. Kinda reminds me of coming up on Emerald City and wondering what's behind that big green door too.  
 — starr