[John Riley]

Revision


Cicadas

The day I died I kept it a secret said
the man with a face like cast iron,
not shiny steel, told the shoppers
going in and out of the everything store.
He sat beside the sliding glass doors
painted with red letters—ENTER HERE—
EXIT THERE—I thought of telling my brother
I was dead, he said, the rust at his lip corners
flaking as he spoke, his black stare seizing
a rushed customer’s eyes, but I thought
of how he reacted when I said a gathering of cicadas
one spring was demure when their sound lulled
between the flight of joy that is their song—
how he flew back and stared until I left to become
the messenger of fortunes, a man who
can kill doves with dreams and build houses
with stares— and when death came wearing
wings made of clear film that fluttered
my happy ghost free from my body I knew
to come here to tell the people who walk in
and walk out, seeking the new with empty pockets.



Cicadas

The day I died I kept it a secret
the man with a face like cast iron,
not shiny steel told the shoppers
going in and out of the store’s collection
of vanity and aloneness. He sat beside
the sliding glass doors painted with
red letters—ENTER HERE—EXIT THERE—
I thought of telling my brother I was dead, he said,
the rust at his lip corners flaking
as he spoke, his black stare seizing
a rushed customer’s eyes, but I
thought of how he reacted when
I said a gathering of cicadas
that came one spring were demure
when their sound lulled between the flight
of joy that is their song—how he flew
back and stared until I left to become
the messenger of fortunes, a man who
can kill doves with dreams and build houses
with stares— so when death came wearing wings
made of clear film that fluttered
my happy ghost free from my body
I knew I should come here to tell the people who
walk in and walk out with change in their pockets.

[John Boddie]

John -

I've read this several times today and I'm sure I'll read it a few more tomorrow. All I can tell you at this point is that if I had purchased a book that had this poem in it, I'd consider my money well spent.

When I lived in Chester County, we had a neighbor who raised sheep, spun their wool and made a few sweaters for sale at Christmas, at least one of which came with a list of the names of each of the sheep who contributed to it. I could pass my eyes and hands over the wool and feel the different textures just as I saw the changes in color and marvel (there's no better word for it) at the way everything came together as both a whole thing and a collection of parts.

This poem strikes me in much the same way. In it dying is shared at the same time it is unique to each individual who dies. Nothing is static, even as the principal characters observe the flows of other souls who move from somewhere to somewhere else.

Like I already said, this one is worth the money.

JB

[annie nance]

Hi John,

I, too, have read this one several times. Your use of third person within first person had me going back several times just to keep it all straight in my head. Talk about ENTER HERE - EXIT THERE... lol

I like it a lot. It's thought provoking and it grows on me each time I read it. Is it about mortality? Futility? Vanity? Is it a warning? An omen? Or something else? I like poems that change every time you read them. This one feels like its not quite arrived yet, so if that's right, I look forward to coming drafts. Or maybe the arriving is on the reader's end.

annie

[John Riley]

Thanks, John. To say a poem brings you back for more readings is what I want to hear more than anything.

Annie, thank you for your kind words. I wanted the movement from different directions and am pleased you noted it. If you have suggestions I am all ears.

[Max Goodman]

This flits around (like a cicada?) and avoids settling on an image. The strong first nine words are followed by the unneeded "is what," which signals the poem's strategy of frequently drawing the reader's attention away from what it has just said to something else.

The important interaction with the brother turns on an abstract word: "demure." The first mention of the store is abstract, focusing on "vanity and loneliness." The end is abstract: hope and change. None of that reaches this reader as strongly as the first nine words or the flaking rust.

Instead of being told the man's face is "like" cast iron and that other (living) faces are like shiny steel, I want to understand that from seeing rust flaking at his lips (my favorite line here) and the way the store lights hit the face of the shopper he's addressing.

The flitting and abstraction are clearly intentional, but my reaction is all I can offer.

[John Riley]

I made a few changes for consistently, pace, and clarity.

[Max Goodman]

Sorry to make a note that isn't a crit, but neither of the versions currently up is the version I commented on in post #5. At minimum, both the first and last lines I commented on have been changed in both versions.

[John Riley]

I meant the top to be a revision.

The more I look at this one the less I like it. It’s clunky and over bearing. The theme is there but it needs to be softer. For the record, it isn’t abstract enough.

You can let it sink please.