[Glenn Wright]

Sarah

In the shallow cleft of the delicate chin
and around the corners of the eyes,
the proof she belonged to his sorry kin
was there to see as she ate her fries
one by one, licking off the salt,
one hand curved on her tattered pack.
Did she know that none of this was her fault?
Her mother’s death had summoned back
her uncle, a memory long gone.
From pipes and needles, Sarah, his niece,
nine years old, like a wary fawn
in hiding, was rescued by the police.
He hadn’t seen her for three long years.
He hadn’t been there to dry her tears.

He hadn’t been there to dry the tears
of a little girl swept into the welter
of crime and drugs, of nighttime fears,
of dangerous grownups and unsafe shelter.
She had her mother’s fragility,
yet somehow seemed to keep herself whole.
She hid her vulnerability
with surly silence and steely control.
Meeting her gaze, he felt the shame
for his sins of omission. In truth, his life
and his sister’s had been much the same.
He had lost his way and his loving wife.
In sobriety he’d begun to progress,
and the last year had brought him some success.

The last year had brought him some success,
but he carried the wreckage of his sin.
He knew his weakness in facing stress
and how unreliable he had been.
But here was a child in misery.
The social worker had left them alone,
guessing correctly that he would be
conflicted. Her voice had a weary tone.
She watched them through the mirror’s glass,
unseen, but weighing, judging, knowing.
Sarah let no emotion pass
across her face, the pressure growing
until he reached out and took her hand,
saw a smile, and felt his heart expand.

Her smile had made his heart expand.
His lawyer handled the documents.
His life took a turn he had not planned
in defiance of logical arguments.
For the next few, happy, precious years
He was blessed to serve as her protector,
Helping her overcome her fears,
not letting the ghosts of her past affect her.
Of course, she secretly fell in love
with a boy whose life had been complicated
by problems her uncle could not approve,
but, hoping to fix him, she tolerated.
Her instincts were to try to save
the wretched, making them strong and brave.

Her uncle had never been strong or brave,
but he wanted to be a better man.
Now nineteen, Sarah managed to save
the money she needed to follow her plan.
She had a job and three months’ rent,
and she’d found a place where she could stay.
Letting her go was a painful event,
but he knew she needed to make her way.
The first few months there was joy in seeing
her find her footing and spread her wings.
By winter he saw that her life was being
darkened by shadows of frightening things.
The boyfriend moved in, whom he never had met,
and her phone calls carried the sound of regret.

In a phone call she told him with halting regret
that her boyfriend had struck her. He knew the type.
They controlled their women with fist and threat,
but with men they showed a cowardly stripe.
Her uncle feared for her jeopardy,
but she’d thrown him out that very day.
He knew how deadly such men could be,
yet he let her convince him he’d stay away.
Her mother had boyfriends prone to abuse.
He wondered how Sarah had suffered, seeing
her mother degraded by those who reduce
a woman’s rights as a human being.
He felt himself growing more alarmed,
so he went to be with her to keep her unharmed.

He went to her place and found her unharmed.
Her boyfriend had run off after their fight.
He feared he’d come back, revengeful and armed
and discovered he’d threatened her life that night.
They made themselves dinner and talked about trifles.
The boy rushed up to the door, bursting in
with one of his father’s hunting rifles.
He aimed it at her with a psychopath’s grin.
The uncle lunged to capture the gun,
but the blast discharged before he could stop him.
The madman turned and started to run.
The uncle fired the rifle to drop him.
Sarah was lifeless with blood on her skin
and the shallow cleft of her delicate chin.
————————
Edits:
S1L3: my > his
S1L8: Her mother, my sister, had died in a shack; > Her mother’s death had summoned back
S1L9: The men she lived with, all long gone. > her uncle, a memory long gone.
S1L10: my > his
S1L13: I > He
S1L14: I should have . . . > He had not . . .
S2L1: I should have done more than dry the tears > He hadn’t been there to dry the tears
S2L9: when I met her gaze, I . . . > Meeting her gaze, he
S2L10: my . . .my > his . . .his
S2L11: my > his
S2L12: I . . . my . . . a > He . . . his . . . his
S2L13: I’d > he’d
S2L14: me > him
S3L1: me > him
S3L2: I . . .my > he . . .his
S3L3: I . . .my > He . . .his
S3L4: I > he
S3L5: . . .who needed me. > . . .in misery.
S3L6: us > them
S3L7: I guessed she knew that I. . . > guessing correctly that he. . .
S3L9: ,I’m sure, > them
S3L13: until I reached . . . > until he reached out
S3L14: my > his
S4L1: my > his
S4L2: My > His
S4L3: My . . .I > His . . .he
S4L6: I > he
S4L11: she knew I : her uncle
S4L13: I hope she knew how much she gave > Her instincts were to try to save
S4L14: to me by growing strong and brave. > the wretched, making them strong and brave.
S5L1: I never had. . . > Her uncle had never. . .
S5L2: I > he
S5L6: . . .in which to . . .> . . .where she could . . .
S5L8: I > he
S5L11: I > he
S5L13: I > he
S6L1: me > him
S6L2: I knew his type. > He knew the type.
S6L5: I urged her to come home to me. > Her uncle feared for her jeopardy,
S6L7: I > He
S6L8: I . . .me > he. . .him
S6L10: I > he
S6L13: I . . .myself > He . . .himself
S6L14: I > he
S7L1: I > He
S7L3: I > He
S7L4: I > and
S7L5: We . . .ourselves > They. . . themselves
S7L6: I heard him rush up to the door and burst in > The boy rushed up to the door, bursting in
S7L8: hideous > psychopath’s
S7L9: I lunged to draw the barrel toward me, > The uncle lunged to capture the gun,
S7L10: but the gun discharged before I could stop him. > but the blast discharged before he could stop him.
S7L11: He turned toward the door and started to flee. > The madman turned and started to run.
S7L12: I smashed his head through a window to drop him. > The uncle fired the rifle to drop him.

[Alex Pepple]

Hello, Glenn,

This is emotionally charged and a captivating read. Your storytelling voice is vivid and compelling, and the narrative draws the reader in with its sincerity and intensity. You’ve got something powerful here.

That said, I think two aspects could benefit from further refinement: the meter and the freshness of language.

On the language: abstractions like vulnerability, fragility, and similar terms could be more effective if grounded in concrete, fresh imagery. Likewise, lines such as “They controlled their women with fist and threat” could carry more weight if shown rather than told—something that gives us the sensory, immediate experience rather than just a conceptual summary.

On the meter: it’s currently quite uneven. While the poem leans toward iambic pentameter, the stress patterns vary significantly, which makes it difficult to find a consistent rhythmic footing. You might consider whether the poem could be restructured into iambic tetrameter, which might allow for tighter control and a more natural narrative cadence. Regardless of the metrical choice, a smoother rhythm would enhance the overall musicality and impact.

For example, here’s a metrically adjusted version of your opening lines in iambic pentameter to illustrate what I mean:

Within the shallow cleft of her smooth chin,
and round the corners of her quiet eyes,
the proof that she belonged to my sad kin
was easy to see while she ate her fries,
one after one, and licking off the salt,
one hand curled tight around her tattered pack…
. . . . . . . .

You've got a strong foundation here—a story that deserves to be told. With some tightening and metrical consistency, I think it could shine even more brightly.

Good luck as you refine this, Glenn—there’s something powerful waiting to emerge.

Cheers,
…Alex

[Jan Iwaszkiewicz]

There is so much emotional charge here Glenn it needs savagely reining in. The melodramatic feel works against it.

A case of less is more.

Jan

[Glenn Wright]

Hi, Alex—

Thanks for your comments, Alex. I agree that the poem would benefit from some attention to choosing more interesting diction and fresh imagery. I think there might be a misunderstanding, though, on the meter. This one was deliberately written in tetrameter.

Originally Posted by Alex Pepple

On the meter: it’s currently quite uneven. While the poem leans toward iambic pentameter, the stress patterns vary significantly, which makes it difficult to find a consistent rhythmic footing. You might consider whether the poem could be restructured into iambic tetrameter, which might allow for tighter control and a more natural narrative cadence.
This is a crown of sonnets in iambic tetrameter, like Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 145.”
In the SHALlow CLEFT of the DELicate CHIN
and aROUND the CORners OF the EYES,
the PROOF she beLONGED to my SORry KIN
was THERE to SEE as she ATE her FRIES. . ..
I think the tetrameter is consistent throughout. If you see any lines that are not tetrameter, I would appreciate you letting me know.

I appreciate your encouragement and useful suggestions. I’ll give more thought to the figurative language.

Glenn

[Alex Pepple]

Thanks, Glenn, for clarifying the metrical framework. I can see it now—and with that lens, the tetrameter structure does come through more clearly. That said, I think what initially threw me off was the high frequency of metrical substitutions—particularly the use of anapests in place of iambs—which created a looser rhythm in places. But that may well be a stylistic choice, and I’ll be more flexible in my scanning going forward.

I’ll also keep an eye out and let you know if any lines still feel metrically strained, even with that allowance.

Cheers,
…Alex

[Glenn Wright]

Hi, Jan—

Thanks for weighing in.
I decided to have fun with this one, so I confess to pushing it right up to the edge emotionally. If you could point out the spots that crossed the line into bathos/melodrama for you, I would appreciate it. (I suspect the last stanza will make your list.)

I have a secret love of highly sentimental narrative poems. I used to enjoy teaching Noyes’s “The Highwayman” and poems by Longfellow and Robert Service. Every once in a while I like to fire up my inner Romantic and go a bit nuts.

Glenn

[Michael Cantor]

A crown of sonnets is not entered into frivolously. and I admire the skill and perseverance that went into this. I think you accomplished what you set out to to do, and in that sense the poem is successful. However, taking a broader view, I don't think it's a particularly good poem unless you are infatuated with sentimental, melodramatic poetry (which you indicate you are). There's just too much melodrama, too much tying the victim to the railroad tracks, too much sneering villain - it reads like it was written a hundred years ago, by a young man who rarely left the house.

And I believe that was your intent, and I understand it. And there's so much that's good in the poem that I think can be redirected into a shorter, much more contemporary sequence (hell, you can even publish them side-by side) of three or four sonnet-stanzas, that I hope you look at that as a future project.

[Glenn Wright]

Hi, Michael—

Thanks for your honest and considered comments. Although modern taste prefers the emotional intensity level tuned to low, I did hope that this poem would be more than just a pastiche. It is a simple story, and told without much decorative elaboration. It shows that to love another person is to accept the possibility of sacrifice and grief. It exemplifies the tendency of a history of abuse to repeat itself through generations. Beyond that, the constraints of form make complex character, theme, and plot development difficult.

If I were to make the effort to improve it, I might begin by trying to re-frame it in third person instead of first person. That would have the effect of diminishing some of the melodrama by putting the events at one remove. I’ll see what I can do with this.

Thanks for pointing me in a promising direction.

Glenn

[Chelsea McClellan]

Hi Glenn—

Respectfully, this poem reads to me as having been written to the Sonnet form and rhyme more than to the content, and so it is difficult for me to get through the excess phrases that don't add to the story. I do wonder if it might be better suited to another form—blank verse or a ballad or something of the like. Or perhaps just another go at the Sonnet crown with all the previous advice in mind.

I agree with others that there is an interesting story in here. I'd just think about what is vital, concrete, new or unusual, and what could be condensed. I've been told: if it's not adding something vital, it is detracting.

Take care,
Chelsea

[Glenn Wright]

Hi, Chelsea—

Thanks for sharing your response. It is helpful to get readers’ reactions. I think you put your finger on the main problem with this piece: the lack of depth and development of the characters. Some of their challenges are hinted at, but not really presented in a way that makes them compelling. The boyfriend, for example, is just a rifle. It may well be (and this has happened to me before) that I have written a poem that really wants to be a short story. The difficulty of presenting a detailed and nuanced narrative in the constraints of poetic form is a challenge I may need to work up to. Your idea of using ballad form, which is much more flexible and was really designed for narrative, is a good one. I may end up using this piece for spare parts.

I appreciate your input.

Glenn