Ah, the fascinating poetic concepts which our own anatomy yields to us. Good exploration of the subject matter.

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Very strong sense of fragility. Love your descriptions of your own features ("oyster knees", "cadillac eyes", "baby bird face"...) and the repetition of 'bones' and 'in this war'. The insect spine is also super-cool.

I think you could lose the 'twisting' before muscles (the sloping vines image is enough for me - also, two 'ing' words very close together.) Also, the first line could possibly be stronger.... seems a little whimsical.

What happened, Adah? I don't understand the illness.

--
Fuselit - pocket poetry and art, made with love and diligence!

Roundtable Review - reviews, articles and new writing in poetry, fiction, film, art and stage.

Another outstanding poem for you. I can't really describe its charm as eloquently as ~jack-cade did, but I enjoyed it. I really like those descriptions, too. Some parts of the poem remind me of Sylvia Plath a bit, but only a bit.

I'm not completely sure about the title, but I guess it's fitting. The first line might not be the best one, but I think it works nicely. I'd perhaps change the period into a comma there. The repetition of "strange" seems like it's not really needed. "Dry desert ground" seems redundant.

It’s strange to think of how I am built.

I was struck by the possibly of subtle imprecision with the connection of "strange" and "to think". I understand the line well enough, and think "realize" is more precise. However, there's a pretty strong saving grace in it, which may well be the path taken. If you intend the first line as a way of preparation for the reader, then it's fine. "I'm going to back up just how strange it is by taking you on a tour!" If you intend it as lackadaisacal comment: "My! I've never quite given it thought, before, but how odd!", then it fails, and needs a slender tweak. I think perhaps "to" is the major culprit here.

Sliding, fluttering organs with their
shy ways- Then my sloping vine
muscles shrink, grow young and weak
to hang on my bo
nes, my deceptive earthquake bones

"Sliding" does not marry as well as it should to "fluttering". Whether you intend to demarcate separate organs as having separate traits, or, if seems the case, you merely mean to give all of them similar descriptions, the portrayal can be strengthened with attention to this line. Your word "then" reinforces the tour aspect of the body, "see here?" "see here?", but it does seem to take a level of poetic veneer from the poem, but that may well be me. I was possibly poetically spoiled just before coming here, by the reading of the poem which occupies my most recent "favorite". I recommend it to you, strongly.

which like december are upon me suddenly
in arthritis- arid, splitting ground, they are silent
silent silent oh what now silent as
the desert earth beneath. They never breathed a word-
and oncoming decay, like a sleeper tide
took from me my joints.

I wish I'd finished my critique of this last night, but I had to give it up halfway through to relenquish the sole phone line which shares the web connection. I say this, because I had mentioned that I was strongly reminded of "The Bell Jar" by the entire poem, when Plath reminisces about the students' medical examining room visits she'd pay. "Yada-yada-yada..."

I know my role. In this war I am french
I am I am- I know my role, in this war
I surrender. Bones now! Tomorrow my spine
like an insect, flies away, taking with it
high heels, a book on my head. Wrinkles nestle

Just to be pedantic, is "french" in this state to illustrate the submissiveness and lack of assertion which a capital "F" would not lend? The rest of the stanza is wonderfully done. *Checks for surprise...finds none.*

and drape my crepe skin over bones in my face,
my baby-bird face is now a strange old nest
of a strange old woman, barely supporting my
cadillac eyes, shining like chrome and a blurry reflection.

Excellent. I've nothing but admiration for your phrasing here.

When I was young with coffee skin and
snapping oyster knees I wore those thick glasses,
to watch the eclipse.

A comma between "snapping" and "oyster" seems to offer relief for the "molecule" of imprecision when reflecting on whether the phrase is a noun or verb phrase. However, it also seems to interrupt the flow. I see no way out but to leave it as is, and let the devil take the verb!
You, on the other hand, may see poetic recourse.

Overall, the poem has some of your trademark strengths; but I'm not going to put it on the same level as your average. For you, for what you write, it's a rung below average. The fact that it's superior to much other modern poetry doesn't blind me to my (probably solely owned) opinion that I've seen better from you, and I expect better from you.

It's not like I can expect better than this from writers below your level, now, can I? So.

Two things.

1. Overall, good job, with great descriptions here and there, but lacking in your typical strength: consistency. Your opening line may well be attributed to a call to pay attention, which gives it a passport to remain as is.

2. I would not frown were you to let me in on how you've been doing of late. (Won't mention envy of "of late".)

>.<

Take most precious care, Poetstrich.

--
Before an important decision someone clutches your hand--a glimpse of gold in the iron-gray, the proof of all you have never dared to believe.
(Dag Hammarskjold)

Bah! I misspelled relinquish and missed it on my proofread! *Sues brain.*

I've been mighty litigious with my anatomy lately!



--
Before an important decision someone clutches your hand--a glimpse of gold in the iron-gray, the proof of all you have never dared to believe.
(Dag Hammarskjold)

Bah! I misspelled relinquish and missed it until after I'd hit "Submit"!

*Sues brain.*

I've become mighty litigious of my anatomy lately!



--
Before an important decision someone clutches your hand--a glimpse of gold in the iron-gray, the proof of all you have never dared to believe.
(Dag Hammarskjold)

Thank you candycane. I'll be thinking seriously about what you've said when I edit this.

It is the first part in a seven-part series about a girl who is ill.

I am ill. But okay otherwise. I won't post the other poems, yet. They are weak and raw like marinated tuna.

*sniff-sniff*

Nuff said!



Good luck with your other poems.

--
Before an important decision someone clutches your hand--a glimpse of gold in the iron-gray, the proof of all you have never dared to believe.
(Dag Hammarskjold)

Thank you!