[John Riley]

Revision

One Week At A Very Quiet Camp
September, 2010

We slept in lodges that once
had been part of a boy's camp.
Our warm rooms were cluttered
with watercolors of hunting dogs,
lacquered fish mounted on plaques,
intricate antique models of sailboats,
framed charts of lake soundings.
The lake, dull gray and black
like burned charcoal, stalked
patiently beneath a surface mist
the night we could not decide
to dive together into the lake.
I spent an evening reading Skylark,
a little book about a man and wife
with a hopelessly attached daughter
who shatter when they discover how much
more they love their lives when
the girl goes away for a week.
It's set in a fictional provincial town
in Hungary before the Great War. One
of the peripheral characters is a poet
who dreams of moving to Budapest,
but we know he will never leave home.
The paneling in the lodge was the color
of congealed blood and during the day
the mountains in the Seward Range
shaped a shifting blend of shadows
and were still quite green although
the leaves had begun to turn.


***


One Week At A Very Quiet Camp
September, 2010


We slept in lodges that once
had been part of a boy's camp.
Our warm rooms were cluttered
with watercolors of hunting dogs,
lacquered fish mounted on plaques,
intricate antique models of sailboats,
framed charts of lake soundings.
The lake, dull gray and black
like burned charcoal, stalked
patiently beneath a thin, surface mist
the night we could not decide if
we should dive into the dark water.
I spent an evening reading Skylark,
a little book about a man and wife
with a hopelessly attached daughter
who shatter when they discover how much
more they love their lives when
the girl goes away for a week.
It's set in a fictional provincial town
in Hungary before the Great War. One
of the peripheral characters is a poet
who dreams of moving to Budapest,
but we know he will never leave home.
The paneling in the lodge was the color
of congealed blood and during the day
the mountains in the Seward Range
shaped a shifting blend of shadows
and were still quite green although
the leaves had begun to turn brown.

[John Riley]

I posted an earlier version of this a few years back. I read over it the other day and realized a section needed to be decapitated at the beginning. It much improved the poem and now I'm open to more suggestions before considering it completed.

Thank you

[Trevor Conway]

Hi John,

I found that this read too prosey, in a way that kind of reminded me of a diary entry. I think the language needs to be livened up, maybe fragmented rather than using perfectly grammatical sentences, in order to make it more interesting. Here's an example: "Lodges that once were part of a boy's camp, / warm rooms cluttered / with watercolors of hunting dogs, / lacquered fish, intricate models of sailboats"

It could well benefit from splitting it up into stanzas too, and I think is probably too much detail. For example, I felt there was no need to hear about the colour of the panelling of the wood.

I guess one of the main things I'd say is to ask what was the intention for writing the poem? Was it to describe/celebrate a particular experience you enjoyed?

All the best, and feel free to ask any questions if I'm being too vague.

Trevor

[James Brancheau]

It's early and probably I need more time to soak this in, John, but there seems to be a strong sense of discontent lurking in the poem. Like the water under the mist, the brown in the leaves. As far as I can tell (for now at least), it is not directly addressed—as often discontentment isn’t, and perhaps why Skylark’s parents didn’t realize how nice life could be without her until she went away. (I haven’t read the book, but found a brief summary.) Maybe there’s something about the avoidance of uncomfortable truths going on in the poem? Anyway, my only nits are pretty minor. “shatter” and “congealed blood” seemed to be too loud for this poem. But, again, it’s early, and I could very well change my mind. I like the poem.

[John Riley]

Trevor, thanks for commenting. I have to say that prose comments generally have no impact on me. It’s been thrown around so much as a negative here on a board centered around met poetry that it means little. It’s an opinion. I appreciate your other comments although I’m staying with single stanza for now.

James, thanks for reading and your willingness to sense forces moving through the poem. There is a reason to bring in the novel, for example, and I am grateful you are willing to note that. It’d be great if you came back.

[John Riley]

I made some edits in the red section.

[James Brancheau]

Hello again, John. I’m surprised that this hasn’t received more attention. But it hasn’t exactly been jumping around here. So there’s that. Anyway, I’m still stabbing in the dark as far as what the poem is more specifically about. Maybe it isn’t supposed to be all that specific. I looked at the revised section to see if that would give me more of an idea. Since you added “together,” I’m thinking that it concerns something beneath the surface regarding the relationship. (And of course “diving in” to something together could be suggestive...) Then there’s the extended reference to the book and I have to think that that has something to do with what’s going on in the poem. You are away from home, and of course there’s the character of the daughter who left home for a while, and the other character that speaker of this poem assumes will never leave home. And they are vacationing at what used to be part of a boy’s camp (so, again, leaving home shows up). I mention these things just to let you know how I’m trying to put things together and hopefully my thought process will be helpful in some way. Or maybe I’m just being thick. Would love to see what others see in this. Empty nest syndrome comes to mind, but that is, of course, a wild guess.

I do really like the poem. The description of the room is excellent and puts me right there. (I know such places quite well.) I like that you end the poem on “turn” now. (And I think leaves are more likely to be another color if they are still on the trees. I miss autumn…) And it seems to me that “turn” is a great word to close on, even if I’m unsure of exactly what’s going on. I also like the touch of music that’s in the poem. It’s there, almost beneath the surface, like some of the other wonderful descriptions in the poem.

So, in the end, my thinking is that this might need a nudge* towards clarifying the speaker’s situation. Could be as simple as another title (I don’t mind your current title—just saying). In any case, this was a real pleasure to read.


*Note: I’d like to stress nudge. I don’t think that it should be too explicit either, as that would be inconsistent with the poem, and probably (I’m assuming) the situation.

[Jim Moonan]

.
I agree with James in his sentiment that the poem could use a nudge toward clarity, but only a nudge. There is a psychological darkness in the poem that rubs off on the whole of the setting. It feels like perpetual nighttime.

What I like the most is the ambiance that the voice generates. I've been trying to flesh out my thoughts on this poem for a few days and at one point I felt the N to be thinking in the past but not able to recapture it. I do think the reference to the book Skylark is key to understanding the poem. Is it possible that you could simply not mention the specific book and instead simply allude to it without naming it?

I find it interesting that the camp was quiet. A boys camp would almost certainly be anything but quiet. It feels abandoned. There is definitely a quietude to it. A sense of interlude.

There’s a Van Morrison song entitled, On Hyndford Street that is a free-floating reminiscence of early childhood. Your poem has a similar quality to it — though I don't hear this as a childhood memory. It's almost as if the adult is inhabiting the child's abandoned world and unable to feel at home in it.

Misc. Thoughts

• The N seems to be bathing in memories. Nothing seems real, though nothing is unreal.
  
• “Burned charcoal” makes me think of grey ash, which works, but
  
• I thought this might be something of a meditation done at a retreat. I’ve been to those before. They give you space to reflect. I felt like Narcissus coming clean. I broke down and that was considered a breakthrough of some sort. I came away feeling manipulated.
  
• I like the tweaks you've made.
  
• What is this mysterious book entitled Skylark? Is it this? Or this?
  
• I like the solid wall of words.

.

[John Riley]

James, thanks for your help. I'm ok with only people who want to comment commenting. I'm pleased you like the poem. I've worked on it for years trying to give it more immediacy. It's been a challenge. It's difficult to do and I've tried to free myself from the urge to write this type of poem. But this one pops up repeatedly. I'll keep looking for ways to connect.

Jim, you can see what I say about working on that deeper connection. I do value all the things you say you like about the poem.

Thanks to both for the help.

[David Callin]

It's light and allusive and tantalising, John. I think it works well (although exactly what it works well at might be hard to say - succinctly, at least).

I see it as a poem of five sections, but the fourth section is the only one without a life of its own, being a development of the third. What would it be like if you dropped that fourth one?

I'm just wondering.

Cheers

David