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Shakespeare's Monkeys

Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.

May 16, 2025  

More in Dregs & Other Unreadables

Bulldozer Prints

I can smell the dirt,
all the dirts.
The thick black rotting compost
held by roots
and forced into servitude to a bevy of oak
and birch,
fir
and beech
as the nutrients are leeched out.
That's the most pungent soil.
I like it.
It's not the smell of death,
but the smell of eternal life.

The sapling and I are the same age.
He has six rings inside,
if I cut him down I can show you.
While his roots are clawing into the soft ground.
I have no rings
no leaves
no magic.
His magic came in the seed
buried in the orange mud the day I was born.
But I have legs.
I am not rooted.
I know the stars,
and swimming in the cool spring waters that baptised me in the spirit,
years after the so-called holy waters drizzled on my scalp named me God's.

That is my sod - my roots
in the spirit, in the water.
And I am young,
I don't know it yet.
I don't know it is beautiful when I see the place
where the sunlight lurches through the leaves of a hundred of his kin
and then waltzes the afternoons away
-- here by the clearest view of the wound.

I don't know beautiful, but I know the strata of this earth,
and the way she bleeds from the blades of man's might
as he makes way for easier access
to the glory he does not understand he's destroying.


Under the holy black that is the sapling's home,
where that humus turns to rocky clay.
I know that smell too.
I know the smell of rain, caressed --
Held -- long into the morning
until the sun calls her home.

Until small hands dig in search of something to mold into a dream,
revealing the larger stones
some filled with amethyst
and some only rosy quartz,
both lay naked in the sand.
And I know the smells, but I don't know
each grain.
and I don't know that every miniscule microbe and every pebble and every rock
is a hymn as loud as all the angels and archangels as they praise His name.
I don't know that this is a holy testament to the expanse of knowledge --
unknowable.
unknown.
and yet easily revealed in a juvenile fit of fancy,
before being
misunderstood, buried again, and forgotten
for years and years,
until the boy is dead and buried
in the heart of a man he never dreamed.

Comments

White_Feather - on June 5 2007

I know you don't really appreciate the pat-on-your-back kinds of critique, but I really love this.  I thrill at all the different styles of poetry in the world, and the multitude of voices it produces . . . but it's these poems that speak right to the soul, that are almost like music, or a drug, and take me elsewhere that feels like 'home' to me.  The other, more intangible thing I like about it is that there's the essence of masculine spirituality here, which is something I don't see enough of.  I'm sure someone else will offer a more helpful critique, but sometimes I just can't help myself from applause.


Alcuin of York - on June 5 2007
This is good – difficult to grasp fully, because there are so many elements you have pulled together. (This is not a criticism, but a compliment.) Going through it repeatedly, I was able to discover increasing extents of content and implications, and this made reading it very rewarding.
Some critiques: In S2, I think eliminating the commas and periods at the end of the “I have no rings, / no leaves.” would work better; if you don’t agree, then the period after “leaves” should certainly be a comma, not a period. Also, at the end of S2, I would change “called” to “named”.
In S3, the phrase “is the clearest view of the wound” should be set off with an em dash or semi-colon instead of a comma. The length of the sentence makes it a bit awkward. Also, in the phrase “holy black sod that are the sapling's home”, I think the “are” should be “is”, n’est pas?
Finally, I think the end of the S4L1 should be a comma.

I like both the theme and its execution. You have put us in the place of an object we normally regard as extremely inanimate and alien to us.
Alcuin
Anstey - on June 5 2007

When I posted this poem on Alsop Review, I was told it had no hope. That is was a worthless piece of shit, and that I should give up on it entirely. I was actually pretty devestated, and I didn't really write much poetry for months after that experience. In fact, it was the impetus upon which a nuclear change occured in my writing. I went back to the very heart of things changed everything to the core of how i write. I think, all poetry I wrote before that is notably different than all poetry after. To this day, i find this poem hard to look at. Hard to think about. And virtually impossible to believe in.

I would go even further than that. This poem, and the criticism it received, actually made me question what I'm about and who I am, and why I bother. I felt like I should never write another thing again so long as I live. It sucked all the confidence and swagger right out of me -- probably a good thing I guess.



  • stephan


White_Feather - on June 5 2007

I think that's why people hate critics.  I don't know, Stephen.  I may be a real beginner at writing, but I'm no beginner at recognizing truth, and beauty, and soul.   At the worst, I could envision criticism about tightening the piece up, but I can't for the life of me understand calling it shit.   I think this piece is provocative and powerful, and, for me, has something to do with what real poetry is.  Not just the perfection of word magic, but a reflection of the essence of humanity. 


Leanne - on June 5 2007

Only the lazy, the stupid and the excessively pompous will say a poem has "no hope" -- I wonder which that particular site harbours most of? 

It is not perfect.  A few too many words, really, but nothing a bit of pruning will not improve immensely.  If you're minded to edit, here are a couple of suggestions to begin with:

In L3, there is really no need to put "dirt" on the end, why not just finish the line with "compost"?  Too many dirts.

Further down, instead of "That is my sod. That is where my roots are. In the spirit", I'd suggest "That is my sod.  My roots are in the spirit.  In the water" etc.

I'd remove "awesome" from "man's awesome might"... "man's might" would do fine, awesome tips it into cliche.

In the last stanza, you could get rid of sod.  See how "under the holy black that is the sapling's home" sounds to you -- to me, it takes full advantage of the sounds without repeating a word that is overused and unnecessary.

Now... I enjoyed the innocence of this poem.  The absolute understanding of complexities that comes from not filling your head up with useless crap.  There is really not a stanza that I would consider superfluous, nor even an entire line, just those few words I've picked out.  And that's not bad, eh?     


Alcuin of York - on June 5 2007
Julie is right. You're also correct - you write differently and better, but this is hardly worthless. You pay more attention to phrasing and have tightened your language a lot. But that doesn't make this a bad write - certainly not hopeless. The ideas, imagery and connections indicate a lot of imagination. The dearth of metaphor doesn't make it hopeless or even bad. And yes, it is a good thing to have our swagger surgically removed. Humbleness is an important asset when writing.
On the other hand, I know plenty of good writers who have received some amazing rejections. I personally have rarely tried to get something published, and the few attempts were all rejected - and now I think it was for good reason. My style and patterns of writing have changed radically. Many of the earlier writes that I thought were fantastic I now see as mediocre. Again, they aren't bad writes; merely not very good. I think in both our cases that's called "progress" and "learning".
Alcuin
Shannon McEwen - on June 5 2007
I knew I liked Leanne for a reason. She's right Stephen, don't ever let anyone tell you it has no hope. It's a good poem. It could be a great poem. Do what Leanne says, she's smart. I don't know much about critiqueing....yet but later I will sit down with this poem and go through it and give it a whirl.

I happen to be a big fan of your poetry, I like your particular points of view.
-----
Life is what happens while you wait for great things.

Life is what happens while you wait for great things.
Jen - on June 5 2007

I hate bullies especially poetry bullies.  They are ignorant, know nothing, know it alls. 

I've had my work stomped on by a poetry bully and it didn't feel good.  I’ve learned to stomp back and turn it around so they look ignorant.   It really is quite amusing since know it alls have a gift for showing how much they really don’t know.

I'm on your side

 


Leanne - on June 5 2007
Shannon just destroyed my humbleness (thanks Papa Smurf for the word).  You know you suck, but not because of this poem.  I can feel another discussion on what makes good criticism coming on.  I wonder if it will ever be resolved?
Someday In May - on June 6 2007

Let me start by saying, when it comes to the technicalities of form and structure I am generaly lost. But what I can say is a poem with no heart isn't worth my time reading. Granted this still could use a bit of tweaking, but for someone to say it is shit is beyond me. As I said earlier, this reminds me very much of something. If a poem can evoke a feeling, a thought, anything in a reader, there is no way in hell that it is hopeless.


-----
...but what do I know?
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