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Literature Text
It didn't ask to be born
but after the tremendous thunder
and rampaging rain
it knew it would have to start off fighting.
When we found it
just below an old oak tree
the baby bird made
my pink tutu seem pale.
It cried out, calling for someone to save it
From the pain of being all alone.
My mother told me to go get a soft blanket
and as I did, she quietly whistled a tune
reminding it of the sweet brown feathers
of its own caring, magnificent mother
who was probably soaring
searching for her child she couldn't find.
It didn't ask to die during our walk home
where there would be bird feed and a dry place
perfect to have allowed it to get better.
But as it closed its round raw eyes
it tried to chirp out a tune similar to my mother's
in hopes it would heal the broken bones
that were shattered like glass when it fell.
Being four years old at the time
it was hard to imagine how death worked.
Was it like being under a black blanket: dark, safe and warm?
Or was it like a cave: deep, lost and scary?
Especially when I thought about the baby bird
being only four days old.
Reminiscing back to that moment
when I cried, cradling it in my arms
unable to understand that it was gone
I realized I still don't understand death.
What wonder it must be to die and show up
at a golden gate with an all knowing god
who loves you.
Perhaps, once the life is gone
from my brittle bones my droopy eyes
I will meet that baby bird
sleeping in the palm of His hands.
Then I will understand
that dreadful death is less frightening
and more of a delightful dream
that one day will come true.
but after the tremendous thunder
and rampaging rain
it knew it would have to start off fighting.
When we found it
just below an old oak tree
the baby bird made
my pink tutu seem pale.
It cried out, calling for someone to save it
From the pain of being all alone.
My mother told me to go get a soft blanket
and as I did, she quietly whistled a tune
reminding it of the sweet brown feathers
of its own caring, magnificent mother
who was probably soaring
searching for her child she couldn't find.
It didn't ask to die during our walk home
where there would be bird feed and a dry place
perfect to have allowed it to get better.
But as it closed its round raw eyes
it tried to chirp out a tune similar to my mother's
in hopes it would heal the broken bones
that were shattered like glass when it fell.
Being four years old at the time
it was hard to imagine how death worked.
Was it like being under a black blanket: dark, safe and warm?
Or was it like a cave: deep, lost and scary?
Especially when I thought about the baby bird
being only four days old.
Reminiscing back to that moment
when I cried, cradling it in my arms
unable to understand that it was gone
I realized I still don't understand death.
What wonder it must be to die and show up
at a golden gate with an all knowing god
who loves you.
Perhaps, once the life is gone
from my brittle bones my droopy eyes
I will meet that baby bird
sleeping in the palm of His hands.
Then I will understand
that dreadful death is less frightening
and more of a delightful dream
that one day will come true.
I decided that I was going to attempt to make a more "prose-like" poem because I loved how elegant they always turn out to be.
You'll be happy to know that in the true story, the baby bird, Pepper, was fine. She (or at least we thought she was a she) sat in the corner of our house for a bit, wrapped up in some blankets with bird food. After the first couple of days, my mom and I took her to a bird sanctuary, where the bird caretakers were happy to inform us that they would be making plans to release Pepper back to the wild when she was able.
For Twr:
Is the imagery solid and interesting?
Is the flow alright?
Does the poem leave a strong impact on the reader?
Is the poem unique and original?
Favorite part?
Critique:
You'll be happy to know that in the true story, the baby bird, Pepper, was fine. She (or at least we thought she was a she) sat in the corner of our house for a bit, wrapped up in some blankets with bird food. After the first couple of days, my mom and I took her to a bird sanctuary, where the bird caretakers were happy to inform us that they would be making plans to release Pepper back to the wild when she was able.
For Twr:
Is the imagery solid and interesting?
Is the flow alright?
Does the poem leave a strong impact on the reader?
Is the poem unique and original?
Favorite part?
Critique:
Comments93
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Overall Vision Originality Technique ImpactI like poetry that is straightforward and accessible. You've done yourself a big favor by not giving into the demon of flowery, pseudo-archaic language. You said you wanted to do a prose poem here but what you're actually doing is a free verse. In a prose poem you don't use line breaks. Instead you use meter and rhythm and other poetic qualities. It still reads like a poem, just no pauses for the line breaks and often tells a story. I found a good article about it at poets.org along with some decent prose poetry that can help you out.
You may or may not have noticed that I prefer brevity and understatement. Action drowned out by the piano, as it were. You have a lot of excessive lines, words, and images. But let's begin with the line by line review and then off to the starred review, as usual.
First Stanza:
cut out "barely holding on" and the rest of the second line.
The third line is nice and should be incorporated somehow, but a rewrite is necessary.
I'd put the tutu bit and the baby bird bit in two separate sentences.
Shorten up the last two lines.
Second Stanza:
Mommy doesn't ring true. This is being told past tense with adult language. Mother would be a better noun.
Just let your mother whistle the tune. What the bird thinks is irrelevant. Her whistle is much more captivating than the bird's thoughts. We can fill in for ourselves what the bird thinks.
Third Stanza:
Leave the death for the final portion and allow a little more subtlety without losing your straightforwardness. I rather like the idea of you having arranged everything, blanket, bird seed, etc. and then having your mother deliver the bird, dead.
Glass often shatters, and too much I think.
Fourth Stanza:
Your exact age doesn't matter. Imply it.
Remove second line.
I really like the idea of "under a warm blanket or in a cave" It's very good. This needs to be translated into the prose.
Fifth Stanza
"Allowing myself" remove. Just go ahead and reminisce.
You're going for the hard sell on this stanza. The reader will know that the child you doesn't understand death if you illustrate it properly with words. Don't come out and stay it. For whatever reason, that cheapens it.
Sixth Stanza
This can be shortened to a single line. It's really overdone though, "Maybe one day I'll see you again." The line can be used but you have to earn it. By earn it I mean you must have the reader absolutely in love with the characters. That's a difficult one to do.
Seventh Stanza
I like what you're going for here. You may even be able to end with this. Again it's sought for but not yet achieved by the poem.
Starred Review!
Vision 3 stars:
It's good that you have the story in order. Where you begin to flag is near the end when you run out of story to tell and slip into contemplation. You use some visuals but they don't hold a lot of attention. I'd like for there to be more to see.
Originality 1 Star:
I've seen this kind of work a lot. Continue to work on the piece though and originality may be found. Lots of artists wonder about death and it is the source of endless contemplation. Make it your own by adding your uniqueness to it.
Technique 1 Star:
This was meant to be a prose poem and turned out to be free verse. So far as poetry goes it is undisciplined, which is a mistake often made by inexperienced poets (including me). The purpose of poetry is to create lyrical language. When a poet shirks that, it comes at a very heavy price, especially in a literary world that has little respect for poetry anymore. The beauty of prose poetry is that you can get away with writing a poem and nobody will notice it until it's too late and find that they have actually enjoyed it.
If you know a decent poet or have a willing English teacher, you should look into using poetic meter. Also, read a bunch of prose poetry to help you get an idea for how it works.
Impact 1 Star:
Mainly due to issues with the originality and the execution of the piece. It doesn't send me anywhere and I don't come out the end feeling like I've accomplished anything or come to a better understanding of myself. Again, one of the best things you can do for this poem is to tame it. Right now it's very wild and it's up to you to break it in. I'll reiterated my points on using meter and poetic devices in concordance with prose. Rewrite it for certain. Use understatement, because that's always just awesome. Remember that literature does not always go for the throat. Kill them softly <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/s/s…" width="15" height="15" alt="
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