[John Riley]

Matador

I am no longer led astray by spun journeys. I have wandered too far, too many times. All I saw fell dead before me. Dead like old wood on a beach. The journeys have ended. Now I wait. No ship in sight. No wooden-wheeled carts loaded with dead corsairs pass by. How did so much end with nothing to say? Nothing to present? On each of my journeys, I was instructed to remember how time is collected—there is no end to the ways to divide and collect what cannot be held. When the end refused to present itself I turned to dust again. The empty journeys I took up and down the globe are gone. No circumference was discovered. I wait and dream I am a bull with a matador's irons—a cape made of ice and wind.

[W T Clark]

Each component has its strong crystal John, but I'm not quite sure the shifts from declarative vision-speech (first few lines) to Kafkaesque mission (I was tasked) to extraordinary metamorphosis (turned to dust) quite fit into each other. A lovely series of fragments. The final image is transfixing. But I think it needs more room to transition between its modes. It's overly-compressed. I owe you a lot of letters. Eventually debts will be repaid. Write me still: I'm not much here anymore and doubt I will be.

Hope this helps.

[Jim Moonan]

.
(Note: I used "you" vs, "N" in commenting because I feel I can speak directly to the poem's protagonist. I use "me" vs. "reader" because I feel a direct connection to what the poem is saying.)

It reads beautifully on first pass. Second pass even more-so. I can see myself on the beach at a distance from you. We've both arrived there having experienced dissimilar journeys, though we are at the same turn.

Inventory of a sort is being taken. You are alive to tell of your journeys that have passed between your fingers like water. You wonder where you'll go next. You feel emptied of everything but now.

These parts:

spun journeys
Such good double entendre

Dead like old wood on a beach"
implies that the deadwood has journeyed far to get where it has gotten with nothing remaining that tells of its life's journey that has ended stranded on a beach. Beautiful.

How did so much end with nothing to say?
Is a devastating thought.

I was instructed to remember how time is collected—there is no end to the ways to divide and collect what cannot be held.
All your teachings, knowledge acquired, experiences accumulated — all of that feels for nought. But you are there. Waiting. Alive. Hoping for someone or something to arrive and take you further.

The empty journeys I took up and down the globe are gone. No circumference was discovered.
The expansive geography of this is wonderful.


The final image is one that sweeps aside the inevitable and instead readies itself for more.

It's really a beautiful moment of a poem.

.

[Carl Copeland]

One minor stylistic nit while I’m letting this sink in. So as not to repeat “to,” I’d suggest either

there is no end of ways to divide and collect what cannot be held

or

there is no end to the ways of dividing and collecting what cannot be held

Thinking out loud: I didn’t know what matador’s irons are, which wouldn’t matter, except that I’m unsure what image I’m supposed to get. Darts sticking out of the bull’s back? No, those are banderillas, not irons. Given the cape (and the poem’s title), I suppose it’s the bull who’s assumed the role of matador.

[John Riley]

Thanks to each for the help. I’m sure I’ll make the changes.

Cameron, you are on to something when you say this needs to be longer. I’m thinking of opening up this one and a few more of my compressed poems. It’ll be interesting to see where they go.

[Matt Q]

Hi John,

Sorry to have taken so long to get to this. I've come back to it a few times trying to work out what wasn't quite working for me, despite my liking the individual parts. I particularly like the close: the N turning to dust again, bull with matador's irons, the cape made of ice and wind.

I think there's maybe a bit too much preamble here. Do you need the first two sentences? They're largely covered by "The journeys have ended", and losing them reduces some of the repetition in the poem, which as it stands has four "journeys" and one "wandered".

You could start from "The journeys have ended. Now I wait". I'd say that maybe makes for a better start. More in media res. And seems to largely cover what precedes. It tells us that there are no more journeys or wanderings.

The journeys have ended. Now I wait. No ship in sight. No wooden-wheeled carts loaded with dead corsairs pass by. How did so much end with nothing to say? Nothing to present? On each of my journeys, I was instructed to remember how time is collected—there is no end to the ways to divide and collect what cannot be held. When the end refused to present itself I turned to dust again. The empty journeys I took up and down the globe are gone. No circumference was discovered. I wait and dream I am a bull with a matador's irons—a cape made of ice and wind.

Or maybe start with "The journeys have ended" and insert "All I saw fell dead before me. Dead like old wood on a beach." before "Now I wait" -- since the beach ties in well with the ship. Which would give this:

The journeys have ended. All I saw fell dead before me. Dead like old wood on a beach. Now I wait. No ship in sight. No wooden-wheeled carts loaded with dead corsairs pass by. How did so much end with nothing to say? Nothing to present? On each of my journeys, I was instructed to remember how time is collected—there is no end to the ways to divide and collect what cannot be held. When the end refused to present itself I turned to dust again. The empty journeys I took up and down the globe are gone. No circumference was discovered. I wait and dream I am a bull with a matador's irons—a cape made of ice and wind.


best,

Matt

[John Riley]

Thanks for looking in, Matt. Your suggestion of where to begin is correct. I should have seen it but in a piece this small it's easy to miss fluff.

Thanks