Songs of Procrastination (2nd Revision)

[determinedtofail]

I made this poem last year when AAMCO had may car hostage for 2 months. During that period I was running/walking 4 miles plus taking the bus to work everyday. Here is what I came up with, interested in getting feedback on this one.
Songs of Procrastination (2nd Revision)


Late at night
my mother sits in a chair
hidden away,
strumming an old Spanish melody.
Only the Moonlight bares witness to her tears.

I have often asked myself,
"Why does she cry?"
"What notes have led her there?"
If only she would have chosen a different chord.

She can revise them now as she likes
but, they are only songs.

Those songs now fade toward the falling night.
In the sound of a growling bus
whose echo grabs the wind
rumbles over asphalt
as a pair of broken spectacles trumbles,
but, they are only glasses.

At times, I have seen those songs
those same glasses
circling the heads of newborns
inviting eyes to danger
whispering the secrets of the universe in my left ear.

Songs are written,
written on tattered pages
so creased, they can not help but fall open at me.

What procrastination!
What truths?
What delicate little lies.

Drifting,
like dandelion seeds to summer.
How such seeds
pass my body.

I close my eyes.
The rhythm of my feet
returns to me.
I walk along seeing people.

Children blessing the ground,
with the soles of sneakers.
Young lovers making promises with their eyes.
An elderly couple holding each other against the wind.

I turn away from such music.
I hear it all too clearly now;
as bees sting and swell my heart.

I return from my travels.
My shoes lying next to the door.
My shoes,
worn, dirty, well trodden
but, they are only shoes.



----Austin 2008

[Marion Poirier]

Austin, some suggestions for trimming.
IMO you are saying too much in this poem.
It sounds like rambling after S5.
You don't need to beat the theme to death.
This may well be my own preference for shorter
more focused poems. There is much that I like
in this poem - only too much of it.
M

I walk through empty rooms.
Late at night my mother sits, back,
hidden away, comma
softly strumming an old Spanish melody.
The moonlight at times revealing her tears.

I have often asked myself,
"Why does she cry?"
"What fingers
what hands
what fingernails
what notes have led her to this?"
If only she'd would have chosen a different chord. to strike
She can revise them now as she likes
but, they are only songs.

Those songs now lay elsewhere.
in in the sound of a growling bus
whose echo fades toward the falling night.
It grabs the wind, rumbling over the asphalt
pulling a trembling pair of broken spectacles
from a youthful suicide
but, they are only glasses.

At times, I have seen those same fingers of death.
The ones, circling the heads of newborns.
The ones, inviting my eyes over beautiful cliffs.
The ones, whispering the secrets of the universe in my left ear.

Sometimes the songs are of peoples and their stories(
whose tattered pages, so creased so
they fall open at me.

Often times, they are the acts of fleeing cowardice
whose sweat soaked guilt rises, comma
even now, comma into the corners of my armpits(no SC
as stains cry toward the sunlight.

I think this would be a good place to end the poem.

What procrastination!
What truths?
What delicate little lies.

Lies are flying away
like waving dandelion seeds.

Then again,
how such hopes
such seeds of dissonance
have sustained my mind well past my body.

Still, I choose to be selfish
just enough to create
not enough to be blind.

I close my eyes
songs return.
the rhythm of my feet
rescuing me from stagnation.
I walk along seeing people.

Children blessing the ground
the slapping soles of their sneakers.
Young lovers making promises with their eyes.
A single parent feigning off exhaustion with a smile.
A book worm eating a sandwich on a parch bench,
While being stalked by ducks.
An elderly couple holding each other against the wind.

Ifll turn away from such music for,
I hear it all too clearly now;
as the bees of remembrance sting and swell my heart.

I return from my travels.
My shoes lying next to the door.
My shoes.
Worn, dirty, well trodden

but, they are only shoes.

[Marion Poirier]

Austin, I think the most creative examples and in
keeping with the voice of the poem would be
these three. IMO in this case less is more. M

Children blessing the ground
the slapping soles of sneakers.
Young lovers making promises with their eyes.
A parent feigning off exhaustion with a smile.
A book worm eating on a parch bench,
while being stalked by ducks.
An elderly couple holding each other against the wind.

[determinedtofail]

Thanks Marion. I felt that last stanza was a little cluttered too.

Children blessing the ground
the slapping soles of sneakers.
Young lovers making promises with their eyes.
A parent feigning off exhaustion with a smile.
A book worm eating on a parch bench,
while being stalked by ducks.
An elderly couple holding each other against the wind.

I agreed with many of suggestions you had and found them helpful. Took things a step further and also changed up some of the order and trimmed it down a bit.

[Marion Poirier]

Austin, this last revision is much better. I like it a lot
with the edits and trimming. One more suggestion
that sort of jumps out at me in the last reading and this one.
In line 3 of the opening stanza - the word somewhere
sounds too casual - like it doesn't matter.
I suggest in a cushioned
chair, or in a corner of the garden, a secluded place etc.-
be more specific.

A typo in stanza 6 - These songs are written.
You have written typed twice,

Very good revision!
Marion

[determinedtofail]

Marion,

Somewhere was added recently. I was trying to allude to reflecting on the past. So I agree doesn't quite go and maybe I can work another way toward my intention.

In the 6th stanza I used the word written twice. I think that is Pablo Neruda's influence on my poetic tendencies. Still working on the grammar aspect and construction of my poetry. Is it more beneficial to use a comma between the two?

Warm regards,

Austin

[Marion Poirier]

Austin, IMO the first stanza is improved now
with simply hidden away as I believe it was
in the original.

The comma between the repeated words make all
the difference so that the reader knows it was
intentional. I'll have to read Neruda again - was
not aware that this was a technique of his.

Marion

[determinedtofail]

Marion,

Thanks for the feedback.

Take Care,

Shawn

[mfwilkie]

Think about dropping the softly before strumming, determined.
They imply pretty much the same thing.

Thinking over the rest.

Maggie

[determinedtofail]

Maggie,

Thanks for the feedback. I shall have to think over softly and strumming for a while and see how it sits with my ears and eyes. Maybe your suggestion will give me a different way of approaching the mood.

I changed a few lines and words in this poem.

Thanks again Maggie

---Austin