In the corner,
Arms curved out to hold,
Wooden hands protruding,
Stretching and resting,
From its sea green damask clothes,
Its legs slightly bending,
Clawed to the rug below,
Awaiting, making room,
For two if one was small,
To be there snuggled in a lap,
When happy or when sad,
Now worn in spots,
With traces in its threads,
Of all the times it held them,
A father and a son,
Who now grown gazes down upon it,
And imagines he’s still little,
Standing looking up,
His father there again,
His arms held out to hold.
Feb 15, 2011
The Old Wing Chair
About This Poem
Review Request Intensity: I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing Stage: Editing - draft
Comments
Some ideas for your
Some ideas for your consideration, Arrow to make the chair more delicate, perhaps? (So glad to see your return!)
In the corner,
arms
curved out to hold:
wooden hands protruding,
Stretching and resting
From its sea-green damask clothing,
its legs slightly bent
Clawed to the rug below, (love this line!!!!!)
weighted in its making (a pun perhaps????)
Room for two if one was small,
To be there snuggled in a lap,
happiness and sadness
Now worn into spots, (a little different *poetic* take?)
tracing the threads,
telling its story--
A father and son,
arms in embrace
of the two
which one imagines himself sitting there,
I wonder.
Just some thoughts....
~A
Nice
but
A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.
Salman Rushdie
Here's a revision, better ?
I've incorporated some of the suggestions: eliminated some of the "its" as they did seem repetitious for no reason. I have kept the closing line because I intended it to echo the second line. I have added two lines toward the end making it more explicit who is looking at the chair, but am still a little uncertain about them wondering if this is not obvious anyway and doesn't need to be said.
Thanks for your comments.
In the corner,
Arms curved out to hold,
Wooden hands protruding,
Stretching and resting,
From its sea green damask clothes,
Its legs slightly bending,
Clawed to the rug below,
Awaiting, making room,
For two if one was small,
To be there snuggled in a lap,
When happy or when sad,
Now worn in spots,
With traces in its threads,
Of all the times it held them,
A father and a son,
Who now grown gazes down upon it,
And imagines he’s still little,
Standing looking up,
His father there again,
His arms held out to hold.
me like re-write
for what my opinion is worth
me 2. ~A
me 2.
~A