[Trevor Conway]

Your epidermis is moving,
pushing cells from deep within,
and even before they greet the light,
they’ve all discreetly perished.

So many flakes of skin
ghost to ground without a trace
that running a hoover over a floor
is an unwitting funeral.

Don’t mourn
what must be sacrificed:
the living die
in mute instalments.

And remember
that when you stare into the face of your wife,
all which makes her beautiful
has recently deceased.

[James Brancheau]

I like the conceit here, Trevor, and the poem mostly works for me. I think that you could get rid of “of skin,” and I might tinker with the close a little bit. Something like:

“that when you stare into the face of your love,
all that is beautiful
has recently deceased.”

I prefer “love” because I think it opens the poem up to other, slightly different interpretations. “wife” may somehow sound more personal, but I like the trade off. I’m not too fond of “And remember” for many reasons and they are all personal preferences. One of them is that I don’t like being directed to remember. I’ll certainly remember it if it’s a good poem… Another reason is that, imo, it comes off as a little amateurish. Something you might find on a refrigerator magnet. Probably I'm forgetting some famous poems that do this... Again, it's a personal preference.

I love that each of the three stanzas leading up to the close bring up the idea of dying quietly. That’s right on. Makes that close more effective and poignant. The poem’s about there, in my view, and enjoyed.

[Trevor Conway]

Hi James,

Thanks very much for your take on this. It's very helpful to hear it. I'll keep all that in mind.

Cheers,

Trevor

Originally Posted by James Brancheau

I like the conceit here, Trevor, and the poem mostly works for me. I think that you could get rid of “of skin,” and I might tinker with the close a little bit. Something like:

“that when you stare into the face of your love,
all that is beautiful
has recently deceased.”

I prefer “love” because I think it opens the poem up to other, slightly different interpretations. “wife” may somehow sound more personal, but I like the trade off. I’m not too fond of “And remember” for many reasons and they are all personal preferences. One of them is that I don’t like being directed to remember. I’ll certainly remember it if it’s a good poem… Another reason is that, imo, it comes off as a little amateurish. Something you might find on a refrigerator magnet. Probably I'm forgetting some famous poems that do this... Again, it's a personal preference.

I love that each of the three stanzas leading up to the close bring up the idea of dying quietly. That’s right on. Makes that close more effective and poignant. The poem’s about there, in my view, and enjoyed.

[Glenn Wright]

Hi, Trevor—

This is a very striking and memorable meditation on our impermanence. The commonly cited estimate is that all of our cells (except for brain cells) are replaced every 7-10 years. So the memories we have that are more than ten years old are those of a dead person. The idea that the faces we love are actually dead is wonderfully creepy. The title is perfect. Fine work.

Glenn

[John Riley]

It is a good conceit. I like it all but the last stanza. I understand it could be hard to cut but it undermines what comes before, which borders on being a meditation on impermanence. Suddenly we have this tv show cut to the wife's face. It isn't as good as the rest of the poem.

Good one.

[Phil Wood]

Enjoyed Trev. The meditative and observational voice
is grounded in the domestic.

Phil

[Nick McRae]

Originally Posted by Trevor Conway

Your epidermis is moving,
pushing cells from deep within,
and even before they greet the light,
they’ve all discreetly perished.

So many flakes of skin
ghost to ground without a trace
that running a hoover over a floor
is an unwitting funeral.

Don’t mourn
what must be sacrificed:
the living die
in mute instalments.

And remember
that when you stare into the face of your wife,
all which makes her beautiful
has recently deceased.

Hi Trevor,

You've got some enjoyable lines and thoughts here, my main feedback is that I found the narrative a bit too shrouded. It looks like you're trying to get some kind of theme across, but I couldn't quite pick up on it. So without that I was left without the emotional punch. So opening the poem up a bit to allow for better understanding may be in order.

My only other thought is that you could go for something simpler than 'ghost'. The word is overdone, for the most part, and in this scenario it came across as a bit tired to me. IMO, the simpler 'fall' would work better.

Hope that helps,
Nick

[Jim Ramsey]

Hi Trevor,

If this is more than you want in the way of a critique please ignore it and forgive the intrusion. I wonder if this piece would have more impact if your word choices were a little more specific and connotative. As an example, here is the first stanza with some word substitutions that I think would lift the poem out of its subtle descriptive observer mode into a more subjective thematic approach:

Your epidermis is plotting,
shoving cells from deep within,
and even before they greet the light,
they're all discreetly murdered

All the best,
Jim

[Trevor Conway]

Thanks, Glenn. Appreciate your feedback.

Trev

Originally Posted by Glenn Wright

Hi, Trevor—

This is a very striking and memorable meditation on our impermanence. The commonly cited estimate is that all of our cells (except for brain cells) are replaced every 7-10 years. So the memories we have that are more than ten years old are those of a dead person. The idea that the faces we love are actually dead is wonderfully creepy. The title is perfect. Fine work.

Glenn

[Trevor Conway]

Cheers, John. I have a look at the wife part again and see if I can replace it or fit it in a better way.

Trev

Originally Posted by John Riley

It is a good conceit. I like it all but the last stanza. I understand it could be hard to cut but it undermines what comes before, which borders on being a meditation on impermanence. Suddenly we have this tv show cut to the wife's face. It isn't as good as the rest of the poem.

Good one.