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LISTENING TO WALLS

I've come to know many a wall
in houses which were old and new.
I remember best a lonely hall
whose end had one window for view,
in a near forgotten old farm home.

That widow (encased by a wall)
overlooked a garden small and wild
whose weeds were dead in the late fall
although that day was fairly mild
with scraps of clouds in the sky's dome.

And that hall, as is their way,
had doors into bedrooms and such
behind which lives lived out their play.
Those doors now opened by mere touch
revealing rooms within the gloam.

Every surface on that long hall's walls
held faded squares and picture hooks
"Remember me..." it quietly calls
from everywhere save corner's nooks
where now just lonely echos roam

Perhaps ghosts could tell the tale
of the times now come and gone
in this derelict beside the vale
which has greeted one too many dawn
while accumulating its long tome.
...perhaps I've known too many walls...

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Last few words: 
I know this is pretty rough so let me have it lol
Editing stage: 

Comments

I like the theme and, generally, the flow. I am a big fan of structure and I love playing with structure and blending it to create. The 4+1 ABABC choice works for this.

Plus tetrameter is my natural pacing, so that's a win for me.

I do stumble on some areas and, on some lines, the pacing and flow feels off. So, since you asked for the raw truth, I've gone through with a list of suggestions. As always, these are suggestions only, ignore them as you desire.

------------------------------------

I've come to know many a wall
in houses which were old and new
but I [recall] a lonely hall
** [that housed a window and a] view
in a neglected old farm home

That widow (contained by a wall)
** overlooked a garden grown wild
whose weeds were dead in the late fall
**although that [days were] fairly mild
with scudding clouds in the sky's dome

**And [in] that hall, as is their way,
had doors into bedrooms and such
behind which lives passed as a play
those doors now opened by mere touch
revealing rooms within the gloam

**Every [blemish] on that hall's walls
held faded squares and picture hooks
**"Remember me..." [it softly] calls
**from every space [and] corner nooks
**where now naught but [dry] echoes roam

**Perhaps [these] ghosts could tell the tale
**of a time [that has] come and gone
**in this derelict [nigh] the vale
which has seen one too many dawn
**while [amassing] its ample tome

...perhaps I've known too many walls

------------------------------------

Mostly I edited for structure. At times I offered alternate ideas that I believe are true to the feel of your piece.

Again, I like this, whcih is why I gave such extensive attention to it. I believe it is worth exploring and honing.

---------------------------------------------------------

Jonathan Moore

As usual I let this sit again for a while and came back to it with fresh eyes. I checked out your ideas and used variations of them where it seemed best. I appreciate the thought you put into this on my behalf...........stan

author comment

I've come to know many a wall ( do you study walls closely)
in houses which were old and new ( the walls were old and new ? The
but I remember best a lonely hall ( a hall can be lonely? )
with, at end, had one window for view ( with , at end, ?)
in a neglected old farm home

That widow (contained by a wall) ( a widow or a window contained by a wall ( seriously not one just floating)
overlooked a garden spot grown wild
whose weeds were dead in the late fall
although that day was fairly mild ( do weeds die in one day where you are)
with scudding clouds in the sky's dome ( sublime cliche)

And that hall, as is their way, singular to plural
had doors into bedrooms and such
behind which lives passed as a play
those doors now opened by mere touch
revealing rooms within the gloam ( A Scottish Hall suddenly?)

Every spot on that hall's walls ( hall's walls humorous assonance))
held faded squares and picture hooks
"Remember me..." this gallery calls
from every space save corner nooks ( antiquated language arrives!)
where now naught but echos roam

Perhaps ghosts could tell the tale
of a time now come and gone
in this derelict beside the vale
which has seen one too many dawn
while accumulating its long tome ( long tome? Excuse me? )
...perhaps I've known too many walls ( ( and we care ?)

This may be structured to a style but it's far too forced and mixed up to make sense. This needs a really good edit - down to one stanza perhaps.
Jimm

I'll address both comments instead of each separately. First I know how some poems have a good enough set of "bones" to demand suggestions for improvement. I also spend more time in critiquing poetry which I enjoy but would become much better with a bit more thought. I am pleased you feel that way about this scribble. I've been so busy lately I've hardly had time to think much less write any poetry. So when I saw a poem could well be contained with a wall, I quickly jotted down this rough draft before the muse left or the real world intruded.

Now it's pretty common for me to post something nearly fresh off the pen. But then I review them over and over as time passes, making changes as ideas occur and often based on suggestions receive from readers such as yourselves So have no fear that this one will just sit around and become stale lol.
Now on to questions posed in the second comment :
Yes I Do study walls closely. No way for you to know this but I'm a carpenter/ contractor by trade
and the Houses are both old and new. but I agree this line is needing work
I can't believe you've never be down the hall of a deserted house and not absorbed a feeling of lonliness
The with, at end was a late night typo. Should have been WHICH, at end. But upon review I change it from both lol
Window contained by a wall. A phrase to keep reader's attention of the wall, not the window
"Do weeds die in one day where I Live?" well, actually there are some weeds here which are robust one day and after the first heavy frost are wilted and dead the next. Kudzu comes first to mind
LOL sublime cliche. Yes there Are some instances where a cliche is the best choice though I prefer avoiding them
Gloam...I never really thought of this word as being uniquely Scottish but it Does best describe a certain late day type of approaching darkness
Hall's walls...I hesitated using this because the assonance is so obvious
"save corner nooks" I guess save could be considered an antique use of the word. But I think it fits pretty well in a poem about and antique hall written by an antique guy lol
"Tome" a little used word which means story...+ it keeps the rhyme going
That last line...I know it seems a bit out of place but I don't think this single thought warrants a full stanza yet it Is needed to fully convey the protagonist's state of mind. I seldom do this but at times it just seems right.

Thank you both for taking the time for your detailed critiques. I usually let stuff sit a few days to gather input (except typos or misspells) before I do first edit. or second....or third . So if you return and see no change don't worry because the changes Will come...............stan

author comment

A good write and as Jonathan says it just needed a little attention.
Houses that have Spirit, joy, death, old and new in a mixture, that have seen better days, as with their gardens and pathways, they are painted here in your piece.
Yours Ian.T

.
There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

I'm just completeing a remodel of an old mill house which is over 100 years old. There were places all over the walls where a ding or even a bash bore witness to some long ago story. And of course the walls were hollow and I got to thinking about how many memories those walls must hold. This scribble is the result. Thanks for dropping by...........stan

author comment

There's mileage in the musing but the poem is much too cluttered and distracting - where the original idea began was quite cute turning the " walls have ears" adage into "wall have voices" instead but it ran off with you. Why not just be honest and say what you used as defence after my crit' - basically how you look at walls, feel them, intuit about them, muse on them and how they carry a narrative. It also reminds me of the thought processes of some music - The End by the Doors where the story unfolds as he "walks on down the hall " pushing doors open. Take Jim's advice and break on through to the other side - the honest, concise part of you that stops trying to force a fat woman into a tiny corset. You are a better writer than this because at least you understand the basics of Poetic dynamics.
Jimm

Things done in haste seldom turn out as well as those done over time. I myself stated that this is pretty rough in the author notes. But even in all eventual edits this poem will concentrate on walls rather than doors. For my intent is to tell how walls are for containing things be they space , time or memories. And if one takes the time to "listen" their stories are there for all to see. Whereas doors are for passing from one realm to another. And windows are for viewing things from the safety of one realm which are in another realm.

I see your thoughts on song lyrics being some of the best poetry written in the last 60 or so years matches mine. Indeed the line between lyrics and metered poetry is pretty thin. Appreciate you sharing your thoughts.........stan

author comment

When critiquing a piece of work, it is important to separate "how I would have done it" from "I see this as a problem."

---------------------------------------------------------

Jonathan Moore

I see value inboth methods of critiqueing. Although I don't use exact alternative when I edit a poem, sometime a specific suggested alternative can lead me to discover a change which is an improvement over both the original poem an the suggested change. And to point out specific things about a poem which doesn't work at least leads me to cosider the mentioned ares a bit more closely. And ANY critique which is respectful or at least civil is always welcomed by me. After all almost nobody has time to do many indepth or even rudimentary critiques..........stan

author comment

We have here in our country many houses where the walls tell stories.
We have pieces carefully put there behind the daub, chicken bones and a coin under the window sill, a childs shoe, so many things that whisper stories of old, you are right to dwell with their stories and write of their ways.
Don't change you know from the old days there were many strange things that the walls of a house have to tell,
Yours Ian.T

.
There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

Yes old things in general have their tales. Even an ordinary pile of field stones tell at least of somebody clearing them from a field and the labor that entails. Thanks for dropping by............stan

author comment

My Mother who was born in 1906 and went into service at12 told me stories of when they did stone picking for one penny (Old Money) a day.
They had to walk miles for Doctor and milk and life in those days seemed more purposeful.
Even when I was a child we did jobs that I never saw the money for pulling mangoes and topping and tailing them for the cattle feed.
Those good old days, sometimes remembered to make us smile and to realise the worth of things today.
I don't have to go to the bottom of the garden now to the toilet there and that bloody print, off of the newspapers I just wonder if there are some pieces from 1940's still embossed on my bum lol.
Have a lovely week young man and take care of you and yours,
All our best thoughts , Yours Ian & Anne

.
There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

I recall each spring for a time having to clear the pasture of quartz stones which had shouldered their way to the surface over the winter. It being our pasture, there was no pay. Each season brought a different chore. But those days now are recalled with colored lenses and sometimes I yearn for their return. I expect such is so for all generations. Kind of hard to imagine my offspring recalling these times with the same nostalgia. And I hope you're not awaiting Me to check you for transferred new print lol.......stan

author comment
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