Pumpkin Eyes

The wind stacked tables between rows of corn, though
no one mowed Tuesday's short-grass-movie-lawn. Need
needs the arc of morning to move without adverbs—

for as twisted as she gets on the grape, we are grateful
for each November. For pomegranates and Canada geese
and nips of other-world booze as a once new year moves
to field its fated end.

Speaking from the seat of wide wail paints, sometimes dumb
or luck gets you out of an in with just a new tattoo, and you
get to trade Irish with snowy owls again, and visit with a cow
who homes on the sea side of a mountain; her cartwheel hat
is blue or green or grey.

Raw wind may come from another dialect one day and blow
our burdens to the ground, but we, who know better, will
blame the faeries anyway, and re-tune ourselves as we walk
across the backbone of a spirit we claim and call home.

The dissaccociated images set up a scattering, like buckshot. I wonder if you found a thread to act as a tightrope to balance the images with sense, in the sense of information. The first line sets up a pastoral scene for me, but the piling up at the end seems over kill. Maybe short grass or movie lawn, but not both. Why are we grateful because "she" is "twisted...on the grape?"
Also not sure about traveling pants as it has become a pop-icon, but maybe that's the point. Interesting choice of the last 'sentence' being just a prepositional phrase, not sure what in the poem it is modifying?

larry

A lot of delightful dropfalls of sound, Maggie, and the whimsy overall very appealing too. My favorite passage: "Need / needs the arc of morning to move without adverbs." I don't know how to cohere the whole poem either, but enjoyed reading it a lot. Tom

a most pleasing read.
love the way it ends
with the hats.  a most
appropriate end.

tiko

You're so right about the pants, larry. I hyphenated short-
grass-movie-lawn to give it the speed it needed.

It's not quite there yet, but it's moving that way, and hopefully away from whimsy, Tom.

Thanks for the read, guys.

Maggie




The wind stacked tables between rows of corn, though
no one mowed Tuesday's short-grass-movie-lawn. Need
needs the arc of morning to move without adverbs, for
 
as twisted as she gets on the grape, we are grateful
for each November. For pomegranates and geese on
the move. For nips of other-world booze as a new-old
year moves to mark its fated end.

Speaking from the seat of wide wail paints, sometimes dumb
and luck gets you out of an in with just a new tattoo, and you
get to trade Irish with snowy owls and with cows who home
on the side of a brown mountain in the most appropriate hats.

Raw wind may come from another dialect one day and blow
these burdens to the ground, but we, who know better, will
blame the faeries anyway, and re-tune ourselves as we walk
across the backbone of a spirit we claim and call home.

Liking this a lot, Maggie. It's not cohering for me, but I can live without that. It's like leafing, quickly, through a good book of photographs. One great image after another.

I like the cumulative piling of images in the final verse, in one complex sentence that seems to take a lot of unpacking.

Cheers

David

First Revision of

Pumpkin Eyes

The wind stacked tables between rows of corn, though
no one mowed Tuesday's short-grass-movie-lawn. Need
needs the arc of morning to move without adverbs, for
 
as twisted as she gets on the grape, we are grateful
for each November. For pomegranates and geese on
the move. For nips of other-world booze as a new-old
year moves to mark its fated end.

Speaking from the seat of wide wail paints, sometimes dumb
and luck gets you out of an in with just a new tattoo, and you
get to trade Irish with snowy owls and with cows who home
on the side of a brown mountain in the most appropriate hats.

Raw wind may come from another dialect one day and blow
these burdens to the ground, but we, who know better, will
blame the faeries anyway, and re-tune ourselves as we walk
across the backbone of a spirit we claim and call home.


maggie flanagan-wilkie 



dear Maggie

what i enjoy here is the delightful mixture of brush strokes
that remind of passing through
Norman Rockwell, Andrew Wyeth , Peter Greenway ,Malvina Reynolds, Murphy Anderson, Berenice Abbott
yet while maintaining the other worldliness of the wondrous faeries

this is a poem i would truly appreciate to hear aloud and embrace while my eyes closed
and the light of the storytelling pumpkin eyes bright.

much enjoyment here

and i shall be back to see where you further go with your eraser and quill.

miles of smiles
silent lotus

I think the revision outstanding. The adding of new-old-year in the first sequence of images acts to herd them, giving this reader a vantage point from which to watch the next. Agree with David about the last sentence. It works for me in its nod to the title, which corrals the opening images, in a way, faintly.

Excellent.

larry

Maggie, this new last S a fine one - (with typo?) - ! Tom

I couldn't find the pulse in this one, though it's got lots of interesting image and language.