Skein Home
Author's Works
View without comments
 

When mapleleaves glow red, I will write you

to know myself; I will write us to uncover

your roots, grafted neatly into mine.

You scarred me lovingly – wrote

long scions into the curve of my trachea

for remembrance, bound the wound tightly

and waited. My throat aches each time I speak

the syllables you embroidered through

my language, and I want to know if you feel

identical pangs where I marked you

with soil and blood and grammar.

I used to think I lived alone within my skin,

but I cannot write without finding you curled

there, leafing out within my sentences.

cgroom: Alecia -- this is wonderful, as always. The image of carving into the trachea to speak words for two people is utterly fresh and to me and while it's raw and almost too-vivid, it's great for that reason. I am left with two images: two intertwined trees, and words tumbling out of scarred throats. These images are somewhat at odds because the former is a state of being, the latter is an action. I wonder if there might be some way to bind the two closer -- perhaps hint that the trachea is your trunk carved upon by lovers? Perhaps show the trees in motion, growing or the leaves moving in the air? I doubt this is much help because it's so strongly based in my reading of this. mwirth: You know, I read this as describing a family member, such as a sister, rather than a lover. I'm not sure which you meant, but if the latter, it gives a feel of being "blood brothers", as close as family, coming from the same womb in a metaphorical if not literal sense. The images do work, and I like how succinct it is- not a word wasted. heather: You know I like this one... I think I'm still having issues with "Harvest" though. It's a warm, crunchy, brown title and you've written a cold, chilly, green poem. I think it deserves a colder title. Sorry, that doesn't make any sense. It's a mood thing. Your title makes me think cider and acorns and your poem makes me think hospital-green and healing incisions. alecia: Hmm. Maybe it would help most to explain what I was after here: the ways that people change each other simply by co-existing. Ever watch people pick up each other's patterns when they live together? I notice it most often in vocabulary, in expressions, in ways that people use words and phrases (hence the grammar line), so that's the main point of the imagery. I've noticed myself changing lots over the years, and the most traceable changes are the turns of phrase, etc, that I pick up from friends, family, lovers. (I had love on the brain when I wrote this-- once, even after things turned hurtful, I still had all of this language that had become common to the two of us, and it reminded me every time I opened my damn mouth-- but it works for family members and friends as well.) So that's what I'm after here. And I'm thinking that the images may be a bit too oblique-- not just planting, but grafting. Hence scions, hence bindings, hence my writing about fruits of harvest in the spring because that's when the two plants grow together (or not) and you see whether a graft has been successful. Heather, your impressions of healing wounds aren't out of place here, and I really think you might be right about the title. But does it need more to make the intent clear (suggestions above)? tasha: two last comments from me - one) harvest conjures up the time of year that you have used in this poem, but not the emotion. there's more being rooted than uprooting, if that makes sense. two) i got the sense of romantic love (bordering on being unhealthy, but achingly beautiful ; ] ) immediately. p.s. it also brings to mind the greek myth of daphne becoming a tree (a laurel, even) when apollo pursued her. sap flowing into veins, wood replacing flesh - but of course that was an escape rather than a unification. um. quite simply, i like the images you have presented _a_lot_. alecia: okay, how about this as revision-- i'll post here instead of over again because the changes are minor, and it might be nice to read them at the same time... When mapleleaves glow red, I will write you to know myself; I will write us to uncover your roots, grown neatly in through mine. You scarred me lovingly – wrote long scions into the curve of my trachea for remembrance, bound the wound tightly and waited. My throat aches each time I speak the syllables you cut and grafted into my language, and I want to know if you feel identical pangs where I marked you with soil and blood and grammar. I used to think I lived alone within my skin, but I cannot write without finding you curled there, leafing out within my sentences. that's only a few words different, but i think the changes make the cut-and-regrow aspect of grafting a little bit clearer. now the title. hmm. dunno yet. suggestions? thanks *so* much for comments, everybody. i really appreciate the discussion here; new persepective has helped me see this poem a bit better, methinks. samira: I like the little changes of the second poem, particularly those relating to the word grafted. I really share HEather's concerns about the title, though I understand your explaination. One thing that came to my mind as an ice cold, new green spring thing, but also a harvest is maple sugaring, especally since that is the rising of sap throuigh the tree and you got maples into my head in the first stanza. That said, maple sugaring doesn't really loop back into grafting. It was just an idea that I thought that I would share, since the image of a sugaring off was so strong. Also, I really like the ideas behind this. They came through very clearly for me, and I don't think it is just because we have talked about this so much. And while it was clear to me that the subject of the poem was a lover, it successfully evokedall sorts of relationships for me. I liked that, becasue thinking of love called up a poinancy that I don't normally associate with friendships but which, god-fucking-damn it, can be equally appropriate there and it tied those things together for me. But then again, I am homesick and poinant about all sorts of things. samira: Hmm. When I said clear to me that it was a lover, I did not mean that the poem seemed explicit, just that it was clear from my reading standpoint. If that makes sense. lisa: Lots of these comments seem to be talking about "the" time of year that this poem takes place. For me, this poem moves very smoothly through the seasons, without hitting the reader over the head with it. In the fall (the end, the dying) of a relationship, the author writes about the relationship, and is disturbed by how much the lover's language creeps into what the author thinks should be her own thoughts. The poem moves through the winter when the memories brought to the surface by linguistic habits just evoke pain and loneliness. In the end of the poem the new leaves show the coming of spring when, although it ends with a certain wistfulness, there is a sense of the author's healing through incorporating what she has learned from this lover into herself rather than continuing to struggle with it. Nice work. A lot accomplished with an economy of words. Add comment