[James Midgley]

Version 3 (newest):

Hallucinations of the Knife

A knife
in its way exact and unremarkable
and perfectly within-bounds
as one holly leaf
leapt from the hand one evening
out the kitchen window that quickened
a moment inside its mirror --

................twilight of thickets
................feline touch of nettle
................and murmurs of rosemary
................through these a trapdoor shaft
................through these a studious fish
................emerald brocade on one side
................horizon smelted on one side
................taut with night bird
................or pent water
................stalactite galactic
................heading back to its cavern
................tavern hall of flickering chatter
................sap of silverbirch
................scrambling among lichen
................downriver and over into ivies
................ivies of flame

and shrugged into soil
and either went on burrowing or the churning
magnet at the world's core called it

snickering through roots,
mole-forgotten vaults,
a washing-line lying in slack segments

until rust bloomed
on its seeing surface
and sheathed it into a breathed scabbard --

................dust of pollen
................dried riverbed of birdcall
................leaves with their hands lying up-curled

and then breath was song such as both
skirts of water off a bird-bothered fountain
and frisson of the edge urging down

so when it met the stone and stuttered,
stone and remembered moonlight were one and neither

in their shredding.
It lost its grip then.

Was the hand to blame -- the hand that loosed
and lost, or the hand that crafted?

I must only change direction,
the knife didn't think,
focus just a little harder, couldn't.





Version 2:

Hallucinations of the Knife

It leapt from the hand one evening over spuds
out the window into moonlight that quickened
its mirror of movement a moment --

................twilight a tendon thicket
................distant churchbells
................feline touch of nettle
................murmurs of rosemary
................through these one pleat of a skirt
................through these a trapdoor shaft
................through these a studious fish
................emerald brocade on one side
................horizon smelted on one side
................taut with night bird
................or pent water
................reservoir of reeds briefly
................stalactite galactic
................heading back to its cavern
................tavern hall of flickering chatter
................sap of silverbirch subliming
................carbon scrambling into lichen
................gust of piston steam
................downriver and over into ivies
................ivies of flame
................quenched metal sinking

-- and hunched its shoulders among shrubs
and went on sinking into soil, so it was unclear

whether the knife burrowed or the churning
magnet at the world's core called it,

whether the blade found all already severed
or only what it made in falling --

unmoled vaults and pulverised flowerheads,
a clothesline broken among blind worms

and the scalps flayed from nightshades --
as the knife snickered through aeons,

rust bloomed on its seeing surface, all that was
frictive and accounted for

until oxidation shut it
into a scabbard of breath

from some upper spring where song
could not be told from song

-- skirts of water off a bird-disturbed fountain --
-- frisson of the edge inching down --

so when it met the stone and stuttered
it failed to know either stone

or remembered moonlight shredding in its eye.
It lost its grip then.

Was the hand to blame -- the hand
that loosed or lost? The hand that crafted?

I must only change direction, it didn't think,
focus just a little harder, couldn't.







Version 1:

Hallucinations of the Knife

It leapt from the hand one evening over spuds
done with the work of revelation

out the window into moonlight that quickened
its mirror of movement a moment --

................the twilight a tendon thicket
................of roots of distant churchbells
................feline touch of nettle
................of rosemary murmuring
................through these one pleat of a skirt
................through these a trapdoor shaft
................through these a studious fish
................emerald brocade on one side
................horizon smelted on one side
................taut with night bird
................or pent water
................reservoir of reeds briefly
................stalactite galactic
................heading back to its cavern
................tavern hall of flickering chatter
................sap of silverbirch subliming
................lichenous scramble into carbon
................gust of piston steam
................downriver and over into ivies
................ivies of flame
................swaths of fire extinguisher
................hiss of smithed metal into bucket
................down down down

-- before it hunched its shoulders among shrubs
and went on sinking into soil so it was unclear

whether it strained down into a tunnel it made
or the churning magnet of the world called it
through wastages of rearrangement -- were they

dead where the blade pierced the heart
it found out, made? Were they dead before?
The moled vaults and pulverised flowerheads,

a clothesline broken among blind worms
and the skins flayed from so many nightshade scalps --
as the knife snickered through aeons it saw

rusting over its seeing surface, all that was
beautiful frictive and accounted
for on its trajectory so

when oxidation closed its eye at last for good
it was into a scabbard of the treacled

breathing of an upper spring
and there was singing impossible to tell apart

-- skirts of water off a bird-disturbed fountain --
-- frisson of the edge inching down --

so when it met the stone and stuttered
it failed to know either stone

or shredding of remembered moonlight in its eye.
I must only change direction, it didn't think,
focus just a little harder, couldn't.

[Alex Pepple]

Hello, James,

This is quite an ambitious, teeming with striking images and surreal movement. The shifting, almost dreamlike flow creates a fascinating but sometimes disorienting experience for the reader. The title "Hallucinations of the Knife" is fitting, as the poem itself mirrors the knife’s erratic, unpredictable journey.

That said, the piece may benefit from some strategic tightening or anchoring to give the reader a clearer sense of progression. Right now, it's easy to get lost in the whirlwind of imagery without a solid throughline. Some thoughts:

- The opening is strong, with the knife leaping from the hand, but from "the twilight a tendon thicket" onward, the poem takes a heavily associative, cascading turn. While these sections brim with beautiful phrasing, they could be pruned a bit for clarity.

Consider: Could some of these images be arranged in a way that enhances the sense of movement rather than dispersing it into separate, competing threads?

- The sequence of questions ("were they dead where the blade pierced the heart it found out, made? Were they dead before?") is a compelling moment, but it's somewhat obscured by the preceding shifts. If this is a central tension of the poem, it might benefit from being more emphasized in the structure.

- The closing is intriguing, especially the line: "I must only change direction, it didn't think, focus just a little harder, couldn't." This near-personification of the knife is thought-provoking, but it might land even more powerfully if the preceding stanza was slightly condensed.

Overall, I admire the boldness of this poem. It's atmospheric, lyrical, and full of striking language. My main suggestion would be to guide the reader a bit more deliberately through its arc, ensuring the surrealism doesn’t entirely untether it from a sense of internal momentum.

Good luck with this, James!

Cheers,
...Alex

[James Midgley]

Hi Alex,

Thanks very much for tackling this somewhat forbidding creature (and rescuing it from languishing).

The indented lines are of course meant to be a bit bewildering (always a double-edged, um, knife). I even have a mind to extend this section into a longer, page-long onslaught. But I've resisted for now and made some cuts, shifts and small clarifications.

Thanks for your comments on that and in general, which are most helpful. Like you, my feeling was that some phrasing needs to be tighter (or excised), while a little more hand-holding might be needed elsewhere. I've posted a revision which is hopefully a move in that direction.

Thank you again.

[Trevor Conway]

Hey James,

Very ambitious, indeed, as Alex said! It struck me as very intriguing but that you were trying too hard to write something eccentric. Definitely some exercising is necessary, I'd say, but not loads of tightening, as I think the language and tone are generally impressive and interesting.

I would actually get rid of the whole indented sequence, as I don't think it has anything to the poem. I'll put some suggested deletions in bold below, but I won't apply that to the whole indented section (i.e., I'll still comment/suggest in that section) in case you ultimately decide to keep some/most of it.

Anyway, I hope it helps in some way.

All the best,

Trev


Version 2 (newest):

Hallucinations of the Knife

It leapt from the hand one evening over spuds [feels out of place tonally, as well as an unnecessary detail]
out the window into moonlight that quickened
[that quickened] its mirror of movement a moment -- [m overkill]

................twilight a tendon thicket
................distant churchbells
................feline touch of nettle
................murmurs of rosemary
................through these one pleat of a skirt ["this" feels more natural than "these" to me]
................through these a trapdoor shaft
................through these a studious fish
................emerald brocade on one side
................horizon smelted on one side
................taut with night bird
................or pent water
................reservoir of reeds briefly
................stalactite galactic
................heading back to its cavern
................tavern hall of flickering chatter
................sap of silverbirch subliming
................carbon scrambling into lichen
................gust of piston steam
................downriver and over into ivies
................ivies of flame quenched[,] metal sinking
................quenched metal sinking

-- and hunched its shoulders among shrubs
and went on sinking into soil, so it was unclear

whether the knife burrowed or the churning
magnet at the world's core called it,

whether the blade found all already severed
or only what it made in falling --

unmoled vaults and pulverised flowerheads,
a clothesline broken among blind worms

and the scalps flayed from nightshades --
as the knife snickered through aeons,

rust bloomed [nice phrasing!] on its seeing surface[;] , all that was
[all that was] frictive and accounted for

until oxidation shut it
into a scabbard of breath [lovely lines]

from some upper spring where song
could not be told from song

-- skirts of water off a bird-disturbed fountain --
-- frisson of the edge inching down --

so when it met the stone and stuttered[,]
it failed to know either stone [confusing unless you write "stones" earlier]

or remembered moonlight shredding in its eye.
It lost its grip then. [Maybe "...stuttered, / it lost its grip...", deleting all between?]

Was the hand to blame[,] -- the hand
that loosed or lost? [t]he hand that crafted?

I must only change direction, it [thought] didn't think, [telling us what it didn't think just feels too arch, trying too hard to be eccentric, as I mentioned earlier.
[to] focus just a little harder, couldn't.

[I'm not sure the ending works. I think you need something else, or else maybe elaborate more on the idea of the hand being to blame, the hand versus the knife dynamic, setting up a slightly deeper exploration of agency/free will]

[Alex Pepple]

Hello, James,

Your revised "Hallucinations of the Knife" shows thoughtful progress. The streamlined indented section, clearer transitions, and tighter language create a more navigable journey while preserving the dreamlike quality that makes this poem distinctive.

Particularly effective are the "rust bloomed on its seeing surface" and "scabbard of breath" images, and the new questioning about blame adds philosophical depth. The revised ending creates an intriguing tension around agency.

I still wonder if the indented section might benefit from further pruning, though not elimination. Consider also whether the final lines' negations ("didn't think," "couldn't") might be clarified to strengthen your closing statement.

This revision successfully balances surrealism with accessibility - a challenging feat you've handled well.

Cheers,
…Alex

[James Midgley]

Thanks, both, for your comments on this piece. I'm going to post a revision above. All further thoughts most welcome.