Above the Chimney
 

Still Life and a Song

Amid embroidered napkins, iron frogs
my mother placed inside a crystal vase
still keep the Ikebana flowers straight,
displayed as usual on the mantelpiece.
I’m in my daughter’s house. My grandson plays
my father’s baby grand and sings, like him!
Full voice and passion! Quite a treat to see
the future making space for well-worn things:
the leather couch, a tarnished silver jug,
Peruvian paintings on the walls, an egg!
My ostrich egg! An abstract marble nude,
a copper fish, a fist of fossil mud,
and on the étagère, old photographs
of ageless angel faces with no names.

Line 8: making space for . . (Thanks, Carl)
and change of title
~
Lines 6 and 7
Em dash gone, guitar back in its shrine
Still not sure about title, except for Still Life.


Still Life and Strings

Amid embroidered napkins, iron frogs
my mother placed inside a crystal vase
still keep the Ikebana flowers straight,
displayed as usual on the mantelpiece.
I’m in my daughter’s house. My grandson plays
my father’s baby grand and old guitar—
he sings like him—with soul!—a treat to see
the future make new space for well-worn things:
the leather couch, a tarnished silver jug,
Peruvian paintings on the walls, an egg!
My ostrich egg! An abstract marble nude,
a copper fish, a fist of fossil mud,
and on the étagère, old photographs
of ageless angel faces with no names.

(Lines 6 and 7)


Revision 2
Beyond the Chimney (?)

Amid embroidered napkins, iron frogs
my mother placed inside a crystal vase
still keep the Ikebana flowers straight,
displayed as usual on the mantelpiece.
I’m in my daughter’s house. My grandson plays
my father’s baby grand and old guitar,
he sings, he carries on! A treat to see
the future make new space for well-worn things:
the leather couch, a tarnished silver jug,
Peruvian paintings on the walls, an egg!
My ostrich egg! An abstract marble nude,
a copper fish, a fist of fossil mud,
and on the étagère, old photographs
of ageless angel faces with no names.

*(Lines 6 and 7 to drop ‘grandpa’ and clarify)


Revision 1 - change of title

Yesterday Takes a Seat

Amid embroidered napkins, iron frogs
my mother placed inside a crystal vase
still keep the Ikebana flowers straight,
displayed as usual on the mantelpiece.
I’m in my daughter’s house. My grandson plays
my father’s baby grand and sings like him:
guitar and passion—quite a treat to see
the future make new space for well-worn things:
the leather couch, a tarnished silver jug,
Peruvian paintings on the walls, an egg!
My ostrich egg! An abstract marble nude,
a copper fish, a fist of fossil mud,
and on the étagère, old photographs
of ageless angel faces with no names.


Above the Chimney

Amid embroidered napkins, iron frogs
my mother placed inside a crystal vase
still keep the Ikebana flowers straight,
displayed as usual on the mantelpiece.
I’m in my daughter’s house. My grandson plays
my father’s baby grand and sings as grandpa did:
guitar and passion—quite a treat to see
the future make new space for well-worn things:
the leather couch, a tarnished silver jug,
Peruvian paintings on the walls, an egg!
My ostrich egg! An abstract marble nude,
a copper fish, a fist of mud that’s petrified,
and on the étagère, old photographs
of ageless angel faces with no names.


~mignon

Do you mean "chimney"? I think of chimneys as being on top of the house, but you're describing the mantelpiece, aren't you?

L6 and L12 both have an extra beat.

I like this overall. Reminds me a bit of a Borges sonnet, "Las Cosas," which you can look up if curious.

At least on first reading, I was a bit slowed down by trying to figure out all the relations, since you specify quite a few (my mother, my daughter, my grandson, my father, grandpa) and I tried to follow along since I thought they would figure in the poem a bit more than they ended up doing. On second reading, though, I took them simply as grounding for the fact that the speaker is in a house that is full of family/familiar objects, and the exact relationships were not important.

A delicate still-life: nothing moves except your grandson at the baby grand. A list, with only two departures from literality: the future making space and “ageless angel faces.” That might be enough for me already, but you also give us a peak into your family history and meditate on the continuity of generations and their passage into anonymity. The guitar seemed out of place at first, since I thought it was your father and your grandson’s grandpa (same guy) who played the piano and sang. On second thought, I decided it was your grandfather who played the guitar and sang. In any event, I enjoyed this very much, Mignon.

Hello mignon,

For me poetry is a simple games of lines, of finding enough emotionally resonant lines, and you certainly do find the lines. The metrical inaccuracies have already been pointed out. It hits the familiar emotional points of 20th century metrical writing: [1] The epigrammatic wisdom saying: "the future make new space for well-worn things"; the exotic specificity: "still keep the Ikebana flowers straight"; the emotional interjection: "My ostrich egg!"; the final lyrical lift: "of ageless angel faces with no names".

Just all round solid metrical poetry technique, well modulated emotionally!

.Quick suggestion/edit for metrical regularity (you might just have to go rework the movement of the poem):

Amid embroidered napkins, iron frogs
my mother placed inside a crystal vase
still keep the Ikebana flowers straight,
displayed as usual on the mantelpiece.
I’m in my daughter’s house. My grandson plays
my father’s baby grand and sings like me:
guitar and passion—quite a treat to see
the future make new space for well-worn things:
the leather couch, a tarnished silver jug,
Peruvian paintings on the walls, an egg!
My ostrich egg! An abstract marble nude,
a copper fish, a fist of dried out mud,
and on the étagère, old photographs
of ageless angel faces with no names.

Yeah!

Hi, mignon—

Lovely sonnet in the tradition of what the Germans call the Dinggedicht or “thing poem.” You present a collection of objects in a way that reveals an important clue to the soul of each object’s owner and to the speaker. For example, you show the speaker’s mother to be refined and artistic by the objects showing her interest in table settings and flower arranging. You show the speaker’s son and grandson to share musical talent and passionate characters. Could you think about presenting fewer objects and showing how each object is a key to understanding its owner and the relationships among the family members?

I like the slant rhymes: vase/plays, jug/egg, nude/mud, and I especially like the last line. I imagine the photos of the family members arranged in ascending generations like ranks of angels—thrones, powers, cherubim, seraphim. Many of the women might be wearing white wedding dresses or first communion dresses with veils like wings. They add a heart-warming feeling of protectiveness and order.

You might consider a different title. As Roger pointed out, a chimney is a structure on a roof. It seems that you are advertising a poem about objects on a mantel, but you include a piano, couch, and étagère. Maybe use the name of the room as the title? Or choose something that ties in with your great angel image?

In line 8, do you mean that the speaker sees the future “make new space” for the objects, or “make new owners” for them (or “make new uses” for them)? If it makes new space, that implies that some of them are disappearing.

Very fine work!
Glenn

I like it Mignon. I enjoy the extended family references, which suits the idea of things (and talents/traits) getting handed down, and the list of things that makes up the sestet, and in particular the exclamation, "My ostrich egg!".

Other have flagged the metrical issues. I don't have much to add really. I wonder a little about "amid", which seems to be one of those words that gets used in metrical poems because it's an iamb. But it doesn't really bother me that much.

Also I wasn't entirely sure whose grandpa is referenced in L6. The N's grandfather or the grandson's grandfather (who is the N). I guess whichever it is played the guitar, unlike the N's father who played the piano. Anyway, grandpa seems like it's being used a proper noun here, in which case, it should take a capital letter.

I second Bob's point on above the chimney also being above the house. I guess the title could be something like "above the fireplace"? A fireplace seems appropriate as a focal point for family life.

best,

Matt

I thought I was one of a beleaguered few on the Sphere who give a hoot about metrical regularity, so I’m surprised by the concern about the two long lines. Commenters are right, of course, to flag them, and Mignon may want to trim them, but they didn’t bother me in the least, and I’d never have noticed if I weren’t intent on finding things to critique. Do they really stick out like sore thumbs for some of you?

Carl,

Of course, the hexameter lines stick out! It is an effect of the lines becoming suddenly ponderous, a slowing down and slackening of the rhythm! Even reading "silently", I can still process the rhythmic effect.

Are you desensitising yourself?

Alas, I’ve never been that sensitive, but one of the main lessons I’ve learned on the Sphere is to tolerate and even appreciate all sorts of metrical variation. Surely someone will tell us how expressive the hexameter is of the length of the song and the time it takes mud to petrify!

I resist indoctrination to group social norms! I have written a sonnet where I was consciously bending the pentameter, but the rhythmic effects were woven into the poem, so it is not like I have a limited palate, but the two hexameters in a sonnet that is so consistently straightforwardly iambic pentameter sticks out for me in the context of this poem.

Thank you for the super responses!

I posted a revision and will start posting individual responses.

~mignon

To Roger
 

Roger:
Do you mean "chimney"? I think of chimneys as being on top of the house, but you're describing the mantelpiece, aren't you?

I laughed out loud. All my life, it’s been Chimenea, and the translation to English, ‘chimney.’ There’s only one word for it in Spanish. My family is going to love this! No doubt the poem started with the memory of my mother placing her flower arrangement ‘above the chimney’, and it stays that way so I may be able to find it. Lost to its separate universe on the day of its inception: year 2021. I’m actually loving this.)

Chimenea: chimney. There is no hearth in my vocabulary; I’ll have to resort to fireplace, even though I love chimney. And thanks for the surreal painting in my mind. I smile.

And yes, I see about the extra beats and the ‘grandpa’. Will fix. And it’s an honor, even if only remotely, if anything I write brings Borges to mind.

Thank you for sharing your keen perceptivity.
~m

To Carl
 

Carl:

A delicate still-life: nothing moves except your grandson at the baby grand.

Quite lovely, Carl, may I steal it? The house feels like that when only he and I are home. I stop, to listen fully.

the continuity of generations and their passage into anonymity.

Sometimes, thresholds are bittersweet.

My dad had two guitars—a ‘new’ one (because he didn’t use it), and an old one, the only one he played, which he had since before I was born.

Thanks for your delicate thoughts,
~m

To Yves
 

Yves:
Hello mignon,

For me poetry is a simple games of lines, of finding enough emotionally resonant lines, and you certainly do find the lines. The metrical inaccuracies have already been pointed out. It hits the familiar emotional points of 20th century metrical writing: [1] The epigrammatic wisdom saying: "the future make new space for well-worn things"; the exotic specificity: "still keep the Ikebana flowers straight"; the emotional interjection: "My ostrich egg!"; the final lyrical lift: "of ageless angel faces with no names".

Just all round solid metrical poetry technique, well modulated emotionally!

.Quick suggestion/edit for metrical regularity (you might just have to go rework the movement of the poem):

Yeah!

Yves!

I quote your illuminating response because I can’t bring myself to dissect it. But I clipped away the poem, to keep it from a second page that would show up in Google search.

I am touched by your words, and I blush because I only measure syllables and follow sounds—had I paused for revision, I might not have posted it. Lost amid files since July 9th of 2021 at 4:03 AM, it popped up on my screen only days ago. For me, a simple sonnet lulls and is naturally calming, if I let it.

Your fix to lines 6 and 12 are most helpful. I smile at the sneaky “sings like me” but my dad is my grandson’s muse and I sing like a cat in agony. I have tweaked the poem to eliminate the “metrical inaccuracies.” I will gladly keep at it until it meets with your approval. I don’t remember what else changed—how did you know there would be some shuffling?

Thank you for being a kind and generous wizard.

~mignon

Hi Mignon,

Just to say that none of the pages in poetry workshop threads show up in Google. First page, last page, they're all protected. It's just Fiction where there's currently a problem with the protection.

Matt

Lovely revision, Mignon. The long lines didn’t bother me, but you’ve trimmed them to good advantage: it’s now clear that father and grandpa were the same person, and “fossil mud” is neater and prettier. You’ve told me about the guitar, but it still strikes me as odd to have the experience of your grandson singing and playing the piano summed up as “guitar and passion.” It doesn’t seem to have bothered anyone else, though, so never mind me.

Now Carl has mentioned it, let us have a look at the two lines again:

"my father’s baby grand and sings like him:
guitar and passion—quite a treat to see".


It is a compressed analogy: my grandson while playing the piano sings with the passion my father sang while playing the guitar. The disjunction occurs because the normative path is to compare both singing while playing the same instrument, especially since the father owned the piano. It makes me think the father never sang or with passion while playing the piano, and expressed himself most fully with the guitar.

If "guitar and passion" is to consider modifying "sings" as separate from playing the piano, then I don't think the issue is that large, but you might experiment with another line to see if you could find something better, just for fun.

.
This poem was stealth on my board until this morning. That sometimes happens here. Suddenly I notice a poem that has been posted for days but that I hadn't seen. Poltergeists at play!

The opening line is so simply, sonically good, so authentic in its depiction, that I ease into the poem effortlessly, like a Rilke swan.

I love "above the chimney" as an image independent from but somehow connected to the still life within the room. There's something about the connectedness of it all: the hearth... the mantel... the flu... the chimney...) I get an out-of-body experience from the image, as if something is hovering above the chimney outside the house — namely, love. It is one of those lost in translation things.

I like the new title well enough, though it seems disassociated from the pent emotion in the poem. "Still Life with Piano Music" is what I see/hear, but it would connote a painting... which is what, in fact, you've accomplished with your words: brushstrokes of images. It's an unpretentiously beautiful, peaceful poem.

YVES: For me poetry is a simple games of lines, of finding enough emotionally resonant lines, and you certainly do find the lines. The metrical inaccuracies have already been pointed out. It hits the familiar emotional points of 20th century metrical writing: [1] The epigrammatic wisdom saying: "the future make new space for well-worn things"; the exotic specificity: "still keep the Ikebana flowers straight"; the emotional interjection: "My ostrich egg!"; the final lyrical lift: "of ageless angel faces with no names".

I hear what Yves is saying, and in a workshop setting it is altogether appropriate to dissect a poem in this way, but I don't know that pushing all the buttons makes for a good poem. For me, my important measure is in the emotional authenticity that is translated into words, phrases, imagery, that compensate for wordless things of beauty. There is absolutely nothing in this poem that feels calculated. Nothing. The moment the N realizes the ostrich egg to be his/hers is a true moment of discovery. It's my favorite image in the poem.

How well this reveals the treasures hiding in pain sight within most of our homes! (You could have very well been describing my home — but I've seemed to have misplaced my piano. We did have one growing up. I wonder where it went.) The boy at the piano supplies the only movement and sound, and that represents the future making room for well-worn things. There's an intergenerational spirit to the whole poem.

Everyone seems to be busy trying to reconcile beats, but I just go with the flow of it. Still, I know it is important to the form to get it right. I just hold my breath and hope the spirit of the poem is not bruised by the tweaking of the meter.

And then I have this idle afterthought: is there a fire burning in the fireplace? No matter. There is a fire burning in the poem itself : )


.
.

Jim,

I don't think you get what I am saying at all, at all.

The thing is, poetry is made out of repeatable, recognisable elements, which means, if a person likes conventional metrical poetry, then one should be able to repeatedly write something that person would recognize as poetry. Sure most folk cannot consciously recognize what those repeatable elements are (there are many patterns I never speak of, because if a lot of folk think they are so good, then they can work them out themselves). Poetry is not magic. Nobody is saying that a poem has to push whatever buttons, more that most poems are constructed of a set of familiar building blocks arranged in familiar ways, and metrical poetry even more so, and sonnets even more so on top of that. Is a song calculated because the chorus occurs at a certain ratio along the song's duration? Is a poem calculated because it has a strong close? Is a sonnet calculated because it modulates emotionally along along the quatrains and octet? As I said before somewhere else, folk think unconscious thought processing is something good because they are not conscious of their own thoughts, which means most folk have no conscious idea of what they are doing while writing poetry, which makes everything a hit and miss affair while folk try to conform to poetry board opinions which are also mostly formed unconsciously/subconsciously.

Most of a person's subconscious thought processing of poetry is based on the things they have read and liked, call it subconscious pattern matching.

It is sort of like someone is being super-authentic and pouring their hearts out while remembering their late mother, and they end up writing a 3 minute pop song, with AABA form. Is that a coincidence? Is it calculated? Is it something else?

.

You’ve pulled a Prufrock on me : )

Aye, there's the rub. (That’s me pulling a Hamlet on you :)). We can never know the true intent of what someone might say. What one person says is easily subject to be understood by another to be something different. What I had wanted to say was I don’t care much about the scaffolding of a poem. Perhaps that’s my achilles heel as a poet. I still have not acquired the skills involved in the craft of writing poetry. I am a wild child in that regard. A Peter Pan with Tinkerbell qualities. A Rilke wannabe (Though I know Rilke was an exacting, disciplined poet who labored over his poems.) In the Tower of Poetry, I play in the basement dreaming of what’s above).

So now we both have misunderstood each other. You’re right to push back on my minor rant against the formulaic aspect of metrical poetry. I apologize if I seemed to be pointing a finger at your critique. I actually saw everything you were saying. I just felt the poem was being picked apart (though all agree it is a good poem) and that it was being given what felt like a post mortem. It is my insecurity showing, I think. I am not a formal metrical poet. I’m ragtag. Whenever I venture through the door and into this metrical board, I do so on cat's feet.

Carry on. I’m learning.
.

Matt,

Sorry for the misunderstanding and thanks for being on top of things,
~m

I posted revision 2

interruptions :(

~m

mignon,

To answer your question, I knew that the passage would have to be reworked because the nature of metrical poetry is that is interlocking, so a change in one place necessitates a change in another.

I have seen your latest revision. You have clarified the passage about the guitar and piano. I don't know what I feel (subconsciouos + conscious conclusions) about this this new revision yet.

I think I see
 

. . . and I agree; it lost heart and is rubbish-filled. I'll keep at it.
Many thanks!
~m

For Glenn
 

Glenn,

‘Dinggedicht’ has a sound that my dad would have found a way to match with a little wordplay. He spoke more German than he thought he knew—in his sleep!

My mom started embroidering in high school. There is plenty to say about her, including her love of limericks she would recite for hours, given the stage.

I’m glad this little poem is liked. Maybe because it’s homey? And glad it makes room for some discussion.

Could you think about presenting fewer objects and showing how each object is a key to understanding its owner and the relationships among the family members?

I think that’s a different story. Maybe I’ll do that, too. But changing this one may ruin the fun you had figuring it out, and the fun I’m having as you share a new and bigger story nudged by this little poem. Your imagery is alive—do you paint?

You might consider a different title.

Revision 2 has a new title: Yesterday Takes a Seat—maybe it’ll do.

Or choose something that ties in with your great angel image?

I do actually have a “great angel image” in a poem I wrote in the year 2000. Are you psychic? I smile..

I hope the new title answers your last question(s). It’s a complex set of seemingly related questions—and my next question is: are you a philosopher?

Many thanks for your thoughtfulness, the fun, and the encouragement to explore and push the limits.

“Fine work” sounds better than a splendid coconut geode.

Danke, and Muchas Gracias!
~mignon

To Matt
 

Matt,

I’m glad you like and enjoy this ‘little’ sonnet. Specially my ostrich egg, of course.

Theres a 2nd revision coming, but I didn’t know ‘amid’ was a bit of a no-no, since I use it quite often and only sporadically make a sonnet, which I hardly ever share. I find them very relaxing to write. I’ll try to find another word for amid—I’m curious now.

I think I fixed the grandpa issue—a 2nd revision is ready to go, but I’m having keyboard trouble and also trying to catch up with the wonderful posts.

Your suggestion is a good one, ‘Above the Fireplace’ -- as it should have been, but it, too, is problematic. The last revision has yet another title (?) I think it's kidding..

Thank you for your thoughts and suggestions,
~m

But the sonnet concludes with the étagère, which has nothing to do with the fireplace, the hearth, or the chimney. I don't really understand why any of these locations need to be mentioned in the title. Why not a title like "Still Life"?

To Carl 2
 

Carl,

Grandpa is out, but I must go on trying to fix other parts.

Thank you for sharing your thoughts!

~mignon

Roger,

Sometimes, an incongruent title works. But the poem is dainty and short, and it’s not a funny poem. Mischief is out, though I still love the image you painted. ’Still Life’ is good; I’m keeping it in mind.

Thank you for coming back and for your accurate feedback.
~mignon

I agree that is very nice, mignon. Beautifully chosen and displayed memories. Would it be unreasonable of me to ask for a full-blooded rhyming couplet to round things off? Probably.

I like it anyway.

Cheers

David

mignon,

I think the second revision is it!

But I just had a thought. I think you want to write a poem which is accurate to reality, but if you wanted to keep the connection between grandson and great-grand father, than you could just focus on the guitar. Mostly because without the direct comparison between grandson and great-grand father, the line "the future make new space for well-worn things" is a little bit less emotionally resonant for me.

Experimental/rough-cut edit to illustrate a point:

Amid embroidered napkins, iron frogs
my mother placed inside a crystal vase
still keep the Ikebana flowers straight,
displayed as usual on the mantelpiece.
I’m in my daughter’s house. My grandson plays
my father's old guitar, he sits like him,
and sings like him, he carries on! A treat to see
the future make new space for well-worn things:
the leather couch, a tarnished silver jug,
Peruvian paintings on the walls, an egg!
My ostrich egg! An abstract marble nude,
a copper fish, a fist of fossil mud,
and on the étagère, old photographs
of ageless angel faces with no names.

Yves,

This is very thoughtful, but you are right. This poem is for my family and the piano is my grandson's muse, not my dad, as I had stated earlier. My dad's presence is always with my grandson when he plays it.

I've been at it mightily and a third revision is coming up -- let's see how it goes.

Huge thanks to you!
~mignon

For i
 

My Goodness, Jim!

. . Then came COVID and my hair turned white. That’s no poltergeist! There are groups faster than the rapids—the pages roll over, up, up, and out of sight—you have to chase your own post, and good luck finding it.

. . . the connectedness of it all: the hearth… the mantel… the flu… the chimney…

I enjoy your acceptance and the style of it’s expression, but, tell me, what’s this insertion: “flu”?

. . . brushstrokes of images. It's an unpretentiously beautiful, peaceful poem.

What a beautiful thing to say. I may try to paint something from it, like Roger’s description of the title and your out-of-body trip. Hello, Chagall.

It looks like the dear ostrich egg wins the Oscar. Smile.

A piano is not difficult to lose when you are moving far away enough. Maybe you will find it in your dreams.

You speak of imagery as an integral part of poetry. Somewhere, I read of drastic changes to come, including abandoning reliance on imagery. The reason, poorly paraphrased : ‘too many poems pushing images has caused a glut responsible for an overabundance of sameness and of poems that no longer have a distinct voice.’

I just hold my breath and hope the spirit of the poem is not bruised by the tweaking of the meter.

On The Art Of Poetry
From 'Epistle to the Pisos' by Horace

If art is lacking, the avoidance of a petty fault may lead to a serious imperfection.

From a source I don’t recall, I try to paraphrase, ’When there is beautiful art/poetry, it can stand a few imperfections.’ Followed by: ‘Fixing those imperfections could end up ruining the beautiful poem/art.’

Only now, at this very moment, after fifteen years, I understand a professional painter’s response when I asked if I should fix the crooked nose in one of my paintings: Déjala así - Leave it as it is. And I did, not knowing why. An imperfection adds character. A pretty nose is not memorable.

However, I think I have found a way to tweak it without upsetting it.

I hope you don’t mind my quoting you from another comment of yours:

it is a good poem) and that it was being given what felt like a post mortem. It is my insecurity showing, I think. I am not a formal metrical poet. I’m ragtag.

You need a trunk like mine, full of hats, each one for a different use or need: plumbing, carpentry, audacity. .

I am glad insecurity does not impede your generous and beautiful expressions.
Thank you,
~mignon

For David
 

Thank you, David, for stopping by.
I'm glad you like it and i'll think about your suggestion.
~mignon

For Carl
 

Carl,

I'm glad you didn't mind, but if you catch it, do tap my back, k?
I, too, favor fossil mud.
Guitar and passion may do a flip.

Thank you!
~mignon

Hello, most helpful poets,

I posted Revision 3 with a new title.

Let me know what you think.

Thank you!

~mignon

You’ve polished this to a perfect shine, Mignon. Oh, one thing I didn’t mention earlier: “the future making space” would seem neater to me (made space must be new), but that’s very minor and may just be me. Also, “Still Life with Strings” would sound a little more like the title of a still life. Really fine, Mignon!

Beautiful, mignon.

My two nits, take them or leave them:

Usually a still life is a single moment in time (although Cézanne apparently painted his so damn slowly that the onions sprouted before he finished). "I'm in my daughter's house" encourages the reader (or at least this reader) to inhabit a particular moment with the narrator.

So when I get to "My grandson plays / my father’s baby grand and old guitar", I think, "At the same time? Huh?" Switching from a snapshot of a single moment to a more continuous sense of the grandson's habitual activities is less effective for me. Personally, I'd rather gaze around the room while listening to the grandson actually playing one or the other of these instruments. Not both, in theory, but one, literally.

I also don't see any advantage to making the following a single sentence. Why not start a new sentence at "A treat to see"?

Big GRACIAS, Juli_

I concur. VVill do.

Luv your points and pointing.

Problms this instant,

I'll b-back,
~mignon

For Yves
 

Yves,

I come back to this post of yours and quote because you not only told me about what works and what not, but you also took special time moving those lines around until you found a solution.

You are right about keeping only one instrument. Your example made me want to do this:

. . . . . . . . My grandson plays
my father's baby grand and sings. He sings
like him!. . .

But I couldn't get away with because the poem is not supposed to rhyme and there's "things" at the end of another line. I've done something with punctuation that, maybe, gets close. I didn't keep 'carries on' because it is more telling and it is implied in ". . .the future makes new space . . ."

I'm going to spend some time on another post of yours--you leave a trail of gifts from which I learn..

Many thanks!
~mignon

**I posted a 4th revision. I don't know if this post will show up.