[Critique Group 2] Leonarfd's critique for April

[Abbie Taylor]

Hi Leonard, Thank you for your comments. I've already sent the poem to The Avocet and am waiting to hear back from them.

By the way, Alice said you needed the guidelines for submitting to The Weekly Avocet but that Lynda would send them to you. If she hasn't, and you're still interested, let me know, and I'll send them to you. I think your poem on gardening would work beautifully for their gardening challenge. Take care, and happy writing.—Abbie

Abbie Johnson Taylor, Author http://abbiescorner.wordpress.com
http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com
abbietaylor945 at gmail.com
Order my new memoir at http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com/memoir.htm

On 18 Apr 2018 08:46, tuchyner5--- via Group2 <group2 at bluegrasspals.com> wrote:
>
> Abbie
>
>  
>
> I couldn’t find many change suggestions. It’s pretty tight.  It certainly treats winter as a time of despair.  By this time many of us are ready to say, good riddance.” I understand winters in Wyoming can be quite harsh. Try to remember this feeling in early August when the only mid-day breezes are blasts of hot air.  You might consider making the point of reference in the first person, so it would read, “My garden… est.”
>
>  
>
> GARDEN
>
>  
>
>  
>
> Groceries from one's own back yard,
>
> asparagus, corn, peas, tomatoes,
>
> rejuvenate life and the world,
>
> Revitalize is an alternative which has a lot of long ‘I’ sounds to internally rhyme with life.
>
> destroy last vestiges of winter,
>
> end snow, cold, despair.
>
> I like the way snow-cold despair can be read as an adjective of despair.
>
> New beginnings come forth.
>
> Alice
>
>  
>
> Definition of a group of poets: A group of female Poes rhyming the mysterious side of night.
>
>  
>
> ·        This was a lot of fun. I love it. However, I don’t know how to pick on it. I did make a series of comments, though. I had to think a lot to come up with them, and that was half the fun.
>
>  
>
> A colony of beavers
>
> must know something
>
> about colons and semicolons.
>
> ·        Do they know how much a costaRico colon is worth in New York?
>
> A sleuth of bears 
>
> hibernates to envision
>
> the highs and lows of detective stories.
>
> A kaleidoscope of butterflies
>
> flutters around fictional fantasies.
>
> But, what do we call
>
> a group of poets?
>
>  
>
> A murder of crows
>
> sounds appropriate for
>
> a group of mystery writers.
>
> ·        Are the crows victims or victimizers?
>
> A flight of doves
>
> must develop
>
> many creative ideas.
>
> ·        As in a flight of fancy.
>
> A convocation of eagles
>
> must ease into
>
> historical fiction.
>
> ·        Are they able to see truths in history that only their eagle eyes can see?
>
> A cast of falcons
>
> must focus on
>
> TV scripts and stage dramas.
>
> ·        In my opinion, hawk eyes are as good as eagle eyes.  They are not only good cast members, but they have an eye for casting. the cast.
>
> A stand of pink flamingos
>
> perches upright and ready
>
> to present behind
>
> any podium.
>
> ·        Where they often embarrass themselves and turn pink.
>
> Perhaps, you can think of what to call
>
> a group of poets.
>
>  
>
> A cackle of hyenas
>
> have to turn to comedy.
>
> A troop of kangaroos
>
> can write military history.
>
> A leap of leopards
>
> jumps into a variety
>
> of genres of literature.
>
> A charm of magpies
>
> channels their talents
>
> into romance writing.
>
> A watch of nightingales
>
> knows when to write
>
> bedtime stories for children.
>
> Before the end of this night,
>
> please tell me the name
>
> for a group of poets.
>
> ·        A mob of poets writing in all directions. Following rules, making them up as they go, and for some a four letter word.
>
> A parliament of owls,
>
> ·        Trying to write about “who” they are, and getting nowhere.
>
> a pod of dolphins,
>
> ·        Who write about seals and whales.
>
> a pride of lions,
>
> ·        Who believe that poetry is the only  writing worthy of their efforts.
>
> a company of parrots,
>
> ·        Who rarely write about anything original.
>
> a kit of pigeons,
>
> ·        Don’t take what they write to heart. they’re only kidding..
>
> a litter of puppies—
>
> ·        Shouldn’t that be ‘letter’ of puppies?
>
> all meet to ponder
>
> the predicament of naming
>
> a group of poets.
>
>  
>
> Near the Poetic License Branch,
>
> a  chattering of squirrels
>
> may reveal the choice.
>
> A game of swans may select
>
> the winning name.
>
> A descent of woodpeckers
>
> may tell us their pick.
>
> A dazzle of zebras
>
> strongly endorses:
>
> "a passion of poets."
>
>  
>
> However, I vote with
>
> an exaltation of larks
>
> and their proclamation of
>
> "an exclamation of poets."
>
>  
>
> We will write,
>
> discuss, recite, and critique
>
> poetry:
>
> welcome, and come join my
>
> Exclamation of Poets.
>
>  
>
>  
>
> Brad
>
>  
>
> The title is intriguing. It states that this story is a recurring dream, and it does work that way. However, there are implications in this dream that the people in the railroad station are dead and waiting for the train to take them home.  I assume home would be different for different people depending on what they believe. But the two interpretations of the title have a profound effect on how the story is perceived. If the dream is not about death, but waiting for Gdo, then it’s a psychologically derived anxiety. It is more than a dream, all hope ends there.  I like the idea that the title sets up a unresolved mystery.  In either case, it is a story about hope, faith and giving up.
>
>  
>
> When the PLF arrive it becomes obvious that the scenario has played out innumerable other times.  Their message is that there is no purpose. We are destined to play out a meaningless, nowhere existence.  I wonder if Bernie looses his faith every time he has the dream or whether in this telling he looses hope for the first time. Would he even know?
>
>  
>
> This is a well told, story. Very depressing. There, are you happy now?
> Bernie's Recurring Nightmare
> C By Brad Corallo
> Word count 416
>
> The small, desiccated, white haired gentleman sat on the old scarred bench
> that ran around three of the walls in the damp, dark, dingy railroad
> station. He wore a clean though thread bear grey suit and scuffed black
> Oxfords. Between his feet was a stained old duffle bag whose color may once
> have been blue.
>
> A chance sound caused him to try to look through the ancient window glass
> which was covered with the grime of years during which time it may never
> have known the touch of a cleaning rag. He saw nothing. He said to him self
> "she's acommin' down the line, the Glory Train."
>
> I love the visual descriptions. They really set the mood.
>
> An old woman who snored in the corner echoed in a sleepy voice"she's a
> cominn' down the line." 
>
> A ragged old man who was lying under the bench said "how long you been
> waitin'?"
> The gentleman, Bernie thought and said "bout a yearin ahalf." "And you
> still believe?" the ragged old man asked with contempt. 
>
> "I gotta get home and I'll be agoin' on the Glory Train. She's comin' down
> the line" he said with conviction.
>
> "You're a fool" the ragged old man spat. "That train is nothing more than a
> myth. Once it was a hope but now, empty wind!"
>
> The sound of automatic rifle fire split the early morning quiet. With that,
> three heavily armed, uniformed men crashed through the door and said "no
> body move, this station, in fact this entire railroad is now under the rule
> of "the peoples liberation front (PLF). 
>
> "Here we go again" said the no longer sleeping woman. 
>
> "I advise you to comply with our orders. If you do, you will not be injured.
> But for starters, none of you are going anywhere!"
>
> The PLF gives this story a whole new tier of meaning. Poloitical movements, or even social movements, that are meant to free us, most often end up enslaving us. In short we aren’t going any where.
>
> A terrible awareness lit in Bernie's eyes, "it doesn't matter, we never
> were!" he said, in the voice of a man whose eyes were finally opened and
> whose last hope was finally dashed. 
>
> Val
>
>  
>
> This is absolutely beautiful.  I think I could see your process of choosing certain words and being careful not to use the same words twice. I made some suggestions of alternative words and a few minor things. 
>
> Ultimate Decision
>
> River flows with terrible speed,
> taking everything in its path
>
> Takes everything
>
>
> within its' unyielding force.
>
> Survival dimb for fragile creatures
> clenched in its' power,
>
> Clenched in its awesome power. Needs 2 more beats for rhythm.
>
>
> yet, a single hope glitters.
>
> The rhythm changes here.
>
> Against teaming circumstances,
>
> Against the teaming tide.
>
>
> refuge is utmost, sliding beneath unmoving rock--
> crammed in wet mud alone.
>
> Cleaving to slick mud alone.
>
> Against impossible odds, we cling to love,
> a strand of hope, thinner than fear.
>
> I love thinner than fear.
>
>
> Spinning prayers toss us from the torrant
> wounded, yet unbroken.
>
>