Tris,
My son was three years old before I was able to write a real poem about him, one which I could keep from turning to saccharine-sweet mush.
I’ve always found that the closer someone or something is to me, the more difficulty I have writing about it.
I think it’s probably because the emotion involved makes it very difficult to be objective, and that carries over to my writing by blunting the merciless self-editing I need to produce my best work.
So, “Peeling An Apple” don’t quite work for you either, huh? Well, ever since I broke that window with the hammer when I was three, my ma’s been telling me not to touch stuff I don’t understand – if I’d followed her advice I wouldn’t be writing love poems, I guess.
I suspected the physics in that piece might be weaker than I’d let myself believe. Any suggestions how to fix it? If not, I’ll keep it on the back burner for a bit, eventually I may find a way to fix it myself or, if I can’t, at least I may salvage some lines or images.
I’m throwing a couple more pieces into the thread. All of them are open to criticism, suggestions or enjoyment – whichever best suits 'em.
Laureen,
Upon second, third etc, readings of your poems, I found them to be much stronger then they first appeared – damn, that sounds like a backhanded compliment. Anyway, I like them. I also like that you posted two so far apart in age. Interesting to see the more complex language and syntax in the later one.
I’m partial to your idea of bitter optimism (it may be what keeps the poem from sliding into sentimentality) and, for some reason, I can’t get “forgive the lawn for stealing certain spring afternoons” out of my head.
And both poems are infected with a wonderfully wry humour

