The Last Friday

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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.


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Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem.

renee.barger
renee.barger


Posts : 218
Join date : 2016-09-17

Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem. Empty Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem.

Post  renee.barger Fri Apr 26, 2019 8:59 pm

Rework of "Anxiety is painful" poem. More life added more stanzas, but I'm not sure if it would be better as prose instead. While I really enjoy this poetry forum (I always learn something new), I'm realizing I don't think poetry is a strength for me. Any input (and some encouragement) would be greatly appreciated.






At the Front


Arriving late on Easter Sunday,
the only empty seats are at the front left.


Thank God we arrived after greeting time.
I’m out of “everything’s fine” smiles.
No positive thinking left
that everyone washes their hands.


If we go to the front,
they’ll ask us to stand for praise and worship,
and there’s no way to hide white, bulky bandages
when you’re standing at the front.


My hands are always bandaged.
Avoidance works only for so long.
OCD drives me back
so that Anxiety can hold my hands on the burner.


My husband takes one bandaged hand
and leads me down the narrow side aisle
along the wall of sparkling stained glass.
He doesn’t let go of my hand during praise and worship.
He covers my hand with his during the sermon.


After the altar call,
at the beginning of the closing song,
I turn around.
My grandma had been sitting behind us all along.
My parents come down from the choir loft.
My mom hugs me and points out that,
“You came.”


__________
Renee Barger

April 2019


Last edited by renee.barger on Sat Apr 27, 2019 8:36 pm; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : accidentally typed "for the choir loft" instead of "from")
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Pat


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Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem. Empty At the Front

Post  Pat Sat Apr 27, 2019 4:54 pm

Of course, it's at the front where everything is more exposed.

I am following you fine.  Free verse poetry seems to work here.  I don't see a need to go to prose poetry.  

I love the line  (l. 3)  Thank God.....  because that's why you are there, I suppose.  Thanks and worship.

Okay, anxiety exposed.

I love S 2, L 2 :  (Stanza 2, Line 2) "everything's fine" smiles.  Says  sooooo much.   

I don't know if I am right or not, but it sounds like you don't want germs on you from any handshaking.   So you have protection with the bandages.  Makes good sense.  

That line of thinking:  OCD  and anxiety.  Yep, that sounds like the combination to explain everything.

Nurturing Husband.  He is not letting go.  "Covering you"  in so many ways!  Did you hear yourself?  He is there and covering more than your hand.  You are under his protection.  Goal:  to trust.  But it may be a slow journey.  Goal with God:  to trust.  May be a sloooooow journey.    
Exposure and admission:  probably first step.  

Near the end:   "I turn around....."   We all have a turn around, don't we?

You have nurturers:  grandma, parents, mom.   Close ones to help you.  Your mom puts words to it.   You came.   Love it.

You are thinking, thinking, thinking.  Aware, aware, aware.  Like the sparkling stained glass and white, bulky bandages.

Near the end:  'points out' sounds harsher than 'says'.... wonder if that's how you mean it.  

He covers my hand with his  (like what?  like he might gently hold a hurt bird?  make it nurturing).  It is a way to deepen the poem even more.  

I like the poem, Renee.  Hang in there.  Life is just difficult.  I think the hardness hits me every few years, then lightens up, then boom!  hard again.  It cycles?  I don't know, but God is always there for us.  Grateful for that.    

Love how you handled the anxiety.  The metaphor is powerful.  You used it well.  Bandages.  We all need bandages sometimes.
renee.barger
renee.barger


Posts : 218
Join date : 2016-09-17

Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem. Empty Thanks, Pat!

Post  renee.barger Sun Apr 28, 2019 7:49 pm

Pat, your reply was so incredibly encouraging to me. Thank you so much for your words of encouragement and understanding and also for the good advice. I made those changes you recommended. I think it makes it a stronger poem, so thank you!
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Admin
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Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem. Empty Getting there

Post  Admin Tue Apr 30, 2019 5:57 pm

Pain takes time.  No rushing to the finish on this one.

I am thrown off by the last line of stanza two.  It seems like part of the sentence is gone.

Stanza four is another area that throws me.  I am not sure what you are "telling" me.  I like the mystery and hint of symbol of the first stanzas.  Perhaps you are trying too hard to make it a poem.  Just write what you want and then cut what is too much telling.

I look forward to another read of this poem.  Don't tell us what you are trying to do until we can read it back to you and you smile.

TS
renee.barger
renee.barger


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Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem. Empty Re: Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem.

Post  renee.barger Tue Apr 30, 2019 6:52 pm

Thank you, Sukany. I am learning so much about my anxiety disorder, and I'm struggling to narrow it down to one point. I feel like I have a book's worth of information. And yes, the pain is taking time for me to write about it. Thanks for pointing out where I'm telling. Still a struggle for me, obviously. Smile
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Admin
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Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem. Empty Love the vehicle

Post  Admin Tue Apr 30, 2019 7:21 pm

Renee

Placing the reader in the situation of "church" is a fine vehicle.  It allows the reader to "feel" the emotion.  Telling will seldom help me "feel."

I wonder if you can stay in "church" for the entirety of the poem.  "holding hands to a burner" doesn't seem like "church talk" to me.  What about looking at a version without that stanza?

I am encouraging another version . . . even if it means posting TWO next month.

I can feel through your words.

Todd
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Pat


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Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem. Empty Anxiety in church

Post  Pat Tue Apr 30, 2019 9:06 pm

Renee, what if you let the title "tell" what's going on?
People will get it without S 2, without the therapy words.
Trust your readers.  They'll get it.
 
I agree church is a good container for the poem.  No need for burner.  You can sit on hands or bandage them.  I like bandages.  You do not have to explain why they are bandaged.  You said "everything's fine" smile.  We get it.
It's the germ-free part that I think you are struggling to say.  I need to think about it too.  Not poetic, but there has to be a way to say it symbolically.  You got us thinking.   I like the church setting where we focus on pure, clean, sin-free.  Smile   

Thank you for sharing.
renee.barger
renee.barger


Posts : 218
Join date : 2016-09-17

Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem. Empty Thank you so much!

Post  renee.barger Tue Apr 30, 2019 9:28 pm

This is great feedback. Thank you so much. I am excited to polish this poem! I may share it again next month. Smile

Thank you SO SO SO much!
renee.barger
renee.barger


Posts : 218
Join date : 2016-09-17

Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem. Empty 2nd Draft

Post  renee.barger Tue Apr 30, 2019 9:37 pm

Version 12:
At the Front


Arriving late on Easter Sunday,
the only empty seats are at the front left.


Thank God we arrived after greeting time.
I’m out of “everything’s fine” smiles.
out of hopeful thinking
that everyone washed their hands recently.


If we go to the front,
they’ll ask us to stand for praise and worship,
and there’s no way to hide white, bulky bandages
when you’re standing at the front.


My husband takes one bandaged hand
and leads me down the narrow side aisle
along the wall of sparkling stained glass.


We stand to sing.
He doesn’t dare let go
like the first time he reached for my hand
during an intense scene of a movie.


During the sermon, he covers my hand with his,
as gently as he would over a candle-lit dinner.


After the altar call, I turn around.
My grandma had been sitting behind us all along.
My dad follows my mom down from the choir loft.
My mom wraps me up in a warm embrace,
“You came.”


__________
Renee Barger
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Pat


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Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem. Empty I got it, but I'm taking

Post  Pat Wed May 01, 2019 9:35 am

a little break from it. 

When it feels right, I want to look at it again.

Within a week or so.... 

More later,

Pat
renee.barger
renee.barger


Posts : 218
Join date : 2016-09-17

Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem. Empty I will take a break too

Post  renee.barger Wed May 01, 2019 9:45 am

Likewise, I'll set it aside for a few days/weeks. Thanks again for all your help. I'm remembering why I've liked writing poetry. Smile
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Pat


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Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem. Empty Remembering why you like poetry

Post  Pat Wed May 01, 2019 12:03 pm

is worth the entire poem.    Smile
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Pat


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Not sure if this should be turned into prose instead of a poem. Empty Okay, I messed with YOUR poem....

Post  Pat Thu May 02, 2019 2:06 pm

My grands are coming tomorrow, so I got after it.  
Here is something to think about, work with, let it be helpful if it can be.  
I hope I'm tracking with you.  If not, just tell me.  
Know that you can piggyback off of anything we send to you, Renee, and make it totally different.  Just consider it me playing in the dirt.  Smile
Renee, it is double spaced here, but I single spaced it.  So many indentions of 10 spaces that I am not going to try to fix the spacing.  Just see if the idea is helpful or not.    


Standing Against Anxiety




Arriving late on Easter Sunday,

         only front left seats are empty.

 

Thank God

          we arrived after the greeting time.

           I’m out of everything’s fine smiles.

           Lips dry when it comes to germs

           and handshakes.

 

Down front,

           no way to hide white, bulky bandages.

           Exposure, though no one sees but me.

           Still, someone might guess.

 

My husband takes one bandaged hand.

           He leads me down the narrow side aisle

           along the wall of sparkling stained glass.

 

We stand together to sing

          He doesn’t let go of my anxious hand

          like the first time he reached for it

          during an intense movie scene.

 

During the sermon,

          my husband covers my hand with his

          the way he might  hover over a candle-lit dinner.

 

After the altar call, I turn around—

         Grandma covers us from behind,

         Dad and Mom float down from the choir loft,

         Then Mom wraps me up in a warm embrace, saying,

         “You came….”

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