Poetry / "I used to feel summer in my bones."

   Ok, you have the potential to write poetry but you are also a “mess” and my point is too much of that comes to the page “without giving me”, as the reader, a better hook into the poem.  I had to make myself finish it. This is not my issue so it disinterests me unless the art of the writing is a little stronger.  I need to connect though images but you have craftfully maintained your waifish being. That may be your intent but I want more and I don’t get it.  Maybe this could work in the larger context of a collection of poems if your take care of yourself well enough to write it.  Ofcoarse this is my opinion and you can feel free to discard it like a bad or good meal. I think you shouldn’t do that.  BTW, please eat something if the picture is really you: it’s hard to write without brain food. If it’s a friend, feed her; she looks hungry.  ( I know, it’s not that simple) Finally, please don’t feel ofended if I read between the lines too much; it’s an occupational hazard.

This is very good.  I haven’t reviewed a work on this site for a long time, so that should tell you something that I’m here.  

Prose? Well, that is always a subject for debate.  Baudelaire wrote many poems in paragraph form, and no one except hardcore “formalist” will deny it’ poetry, so you don’t have to worry about that.

What makes this poem-ish is that you use specifice images + unique rhythm + turn of phrases, metaphors and other poetic rhetorical structure.  While great prose utilizes these same rhetorical devices, most of the time it lacks a comprehensivness and conscious rhythm to stand on it’s own (at least that’s the way I look at it).  In the end, “poetic” is like “charm” : an unquantifiable X.  

The title is what originally caught my attention.  It sounds very familiar, yet strange – almost like a Edna St. Millays “Summer sang in me a little while/ that in me sings no more” Yet your version uses bones and not song as the metaphor. I like bones (using them in poems that is) – very visceral, anatomical contrasted to summer breeziness and whimsy.  

Other individual lines I liked:

In a world of mirrors and measures.

Horror and macabre.

Ceasinglessly, i love these young women who posess diet pills as lucky charms,

the shadows run from themselves.

In an arm-chair psychological note, many undercurrents richly intertwine.  For one, the character/narrator observes these “skinny” women in mocking, sneering tone – however, there is also a sense of envy and self-pity in the mocking – which lends a sort of tragic “ha ha, you’re pathetic …but so am I” which gives no tidy resolution.

In some sense, this is a meditation on Beauty, or even Fleeting Beauty, and by extension, Love. But it’s not done in a typical woe-is-me sentimental verbal vomitting, but mixed with solid imagery of “Knife wielding, toilet mouthed, cat tongued.” adding an immense grittiness to it.  I guess the closest literary analogy I could give is that of Rimbaud or even The Beats.  

However, some lines can be stream-lined or omitted all together, but if you really want to know what and where, just message me (it’s a lot cheaper lol)

Keep it up – I’m looking forward to reading more of your stuff.

A.