The Last Friday

The Last Friday is a poetry editing group. Once a month, we post a poem and then offer feedback to the other poems on the Forum. We're a friendly but honest group. We value each other deeply and desire for every poet to be published or become famous.


    I wonder if you can see what I see. . . what about wordiness? trying to give a full picture.

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    Pat

    Posts : 630
    Join date : 2011-09-12

    I wonder if you can see what I see. . . what about wordiness? trying to give a full picture.

    Post  Pat on Mon Jun 04, 2012 8:08 am

    I'm putting my poem in this morning. I'll critique this p.m. More later.



    Baling Hay



    Late afternoon, sun stays bright,

    temperature in the eighties.



    As in years past, you and I sit captivated

    in a truck on the side of a road watching

    a couple bale hay in a field of grass.



    The woman rakes, the man bales—

    she, in one tractor; he, in another.

    They do this thing together. They come on,

    slowly, the sun moving toward the west,

    puffy clouds hanging white

    against blue sky.



    She meticulously rakes hay into rows

    just ahead of his baler. He follows

    the straight rows with long sweeps

    and circles the field after her. The man

    spits out round bales of pale green

    every two minutes then whirls

    to pick up more hay.



    We watch the tractors twirl, glide,

    lead and follow. Another swing

    around the field.



    Unexpectantly, it comes:

    they are dancing. Partners dancing.

    Partners waltzing in a ballroom.

    Such beauty. Such grace.

    Mesmerizing.



    Pat Durmon, 2012
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    tsukany

    Posts : 592
    Join date : 2011-05-21

    I like the picture Pat

    Post  tsukany on Mon Jun 04, 2012 10:11 pm

    Pat,

    I really liked the total picture. I got a bit bogged down by the journey to get there. I would suggest cutting this back until the meaning gets damaged. Then put back only the details that finish the picture.

    The ending felt like you didn't trust me with it. You had to tell me what to see/feel. What if you ended with: Beauty waltzing in a natural ballroom. That is pretty broken, but see what I mean?

    The last picture was so startling. I was not ready for it. THAT is BEAUTIFUL. Smile

    Wonderful poem....

    Dewell H. Byrd

    Posts : 356
    Join date : 2012-01-05
    Age : 87
    Location : Central Point, OR

    Baling Hay....

    Post  Dewell H. Byrd on Sun Jun 10, 2012 3:58 pm

    Pat, It does drag on a bit around the belt buckle... some deleting might help. It seems you have told the reader somethings repeatedly.

    Love the end image. I can see it, too. Couple of nit-picks: Delete last line. in the tractor or on the tractor? Man spits out another bale or man's tractor/machine spits out another bail?

    I can smell the fresh hay and feel chaff on back of my neck...

    Those round bales are often wrapped in white plastic out here and a field of them are called dinasauer eggs by those of us still children.

    Good work. Dewell

    dennis20
    Guest

    Seeing the pic

    Post  dennis20 on Tue Jun 12, 2012 10:10 am

    Pat,  Great poem!  Everybody has already said it-- If you mince words in poetry it helps the person inject himself in the equation. For instance, "We watch...  You've told us you are sitting in a truck watching.  Just start with "the tractors twirl..."  I like that word here in making them dance.   Another aspect I wish you had mentioned was the smells. Nothing is so rewarding as the smells of new mown hay.   Sounds are slighted but you did give us spits. I know you could hear the click and clang and umph of the bailer gears and action, the chug of the tractors.  That sort of thing would have more fully used the senses in the picture.  But the poem has a great summer sky background.  Dennis

    Pat

    Posts : 630
    Join date : 2011-09-12

    I hear you. . . thank you

    Post  Pat on Thu Jun 14, 2012 7:10 am

    so much. Sounds and smells. And mincing. Very helpful, as always. Thank you. . . . Pat

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