Go To The Graveyard (revision)

"twilight's numb pinch." "nighttime's anemia." nice. a lot of interesting imagery and wordplay here. the simple imagery of a face filling with color draws the reader in, to wonder what passion has been stirred in that person. Feel alive themselves.

I can't really hear it, and my southern drawl puts stresses and syllables where there aren't any, so I'll need a dictionary for assistance, but here goes (probably lots wrong with my scansion):

[Go] To [The Grave]yard, but [Whis]per

[If with] a [liv]ing [hand],
an [ang]el’s [sleight made] to [seem]
like [love] you [would wash] the [moss]

[from] my [crook]ed [stone, I] would
[blush, blink]ing, and in [blink]ing,

[blush. Look.] My [face] has [color now]!
Sit with me once, your eyes veiled

with [flor]al [plas]tic. [Ine] the [oil] spun [mist]
of this [capped] grey [ston]y [brook] let

the [shade whit]tle your [fig]ure
and [bludg]eoned [dia]mond [tears],
[wett]ing the [stone’s split shad]ow

that [sole] aes[thet]ic [grace]
[borne] from ne[ces]sity.

I [have] a [suit] and [mon]ey [now],
[hon]est [and sim]ple
a [deep riv]er’s [fare],

[clos]er. [Look]. [Fear] [noth]ing.
[Hear] our [hoarse min]istry:
the hungry, labored dead.

[bod]i[less] [voices] [coup]ling
[in] the [rab]id deja [vu] of [night]time’s a[ne]mia,
[in] the [floss] of a [pul]ley [rich] with

[the] disso[lu]tion, [the] dis[in]tegrate
[brok]en [dol]ly [phrases]

[Can] I [have] all [of] you [for] a [mom]ent?

[Clos]er! [Look]. [fear] [noth]ing. [Hear] our [hoarse]
[min]istry, [feel] the [fe]line [eyes ris]ing

[with] slit [voids] and [toss] the [can]dle
you [nev]er [meant] to [light]

lie [still. Look.]

[twi]light’s [numb pinch].
[Stay] a[while. Leave] your [tour]niquet [pul]ley
[here]; [let] my [voice ech]o in [yours]

[Sound] out
[Hear] the [dead] choir,
ill, [wail]ing; [pick]
the [i]vy [orbs], leave
a [hol]ly [trail].
[Fear noth]ing. My [face]
has [color now].

Some perfect iambs in there, some perfect trochees, as well as good use of enjambment and ceasura. It flows well for me. Even though iambs are supposed to the the natural flow of English language/the heartbeat, etc, I find that we don't talk like that as much as we supposedly do. The iambs usually feel too much like nursery rhymes or like military marches to me, if a poem is all perfect iambs. I start to read the poem in that forced rhythm and I don't think many poets actually intend that.

But that could also just be a symptom of me not hearing the stresses and needing to overexaggerate to compensate. 

Mentally tucking this one away as a sister poem to my "Sepulchers of Self". I think poems are good companions for us, and the universe brings them to us when we need their message most, so why not let them also be companions for each other? Or perhaps I read mine to you in a dream and that inspired your poem. It was on Neopoet once, but it's been unpublished for a long time for submission for publication. It wasn't accepted, so I'll repost soon.

Kelsey

PS: line 9, is "Ine" a typo?

PPS: Damn, I have bold on the stressed syllables, but it isn't showing up. Updating to have the stressed syllables in brackets.