The Tangled Branch Discussion Forums

Alternative version

On the polished sill an African rose decants
a red film of butterfly wings; upended,
they flutter into an ancient death pose.

In the attic, shuffles and scratches
smuggle thief or refugee spirits
in among my boxes of memories.

The pool of sight from the lamp
only reaches the border of the table
so I stretch my arm out
into the fear and find, nothing.

In this house remain presences
bent in and out of shapes by emptiness.

Original

On the polished sill an African rose discants 
a red film of butterfly wings; upended,
they flutter and pose a series of questions
about what it means to die before dark.

In the attic above, shuffles and scratches 
smuggle a presence into my imagination;
thieves or refugees, spirits who’ve nested
in the goodwill among boxes of memories.

The pool of sight from the lamp only reaches
to the border of the table so I stretch my arm
out into the latent fear and find, nothing.

We remain ourselves, shared presences
bent in and out of shape by emptiness.

Interesting one Dave, in thought and diction, though there are elements that I can't comprehend, but that is often the case with poetry!

African Rose - my googling led to me to the 'black' rose and a symbol of death.

On the polished sill an African rose discants 
a red film of butterfly wings

discants - was a new word for me. Googling I found, a melody or counterpoint sung above the plainsong of the tenor. If that was the intention, I like the sound/visual combination of petals being shed, the flutter of butterfly wings. I presumed polished contrasted with the decay and transience. A light/dark contrast.

upended,
they flutter and pose a series of questions
about what it means to die before dark.

Upended by what? Like the external prompt to internal thought. Not sure, at this stage, why this threads to pondering about dying before dark or what that means.

In the attic above, shuffles and scratches 
smuggle a presence into my imagination;
thieves or refugees, spirits who’ve nested
in the goodwill among boxes of memories.

above - where else would the attic be?

shuffles and scratches smuggle - like the dynamic and concrete , in contrast a presence into my imagination feels abstract and formal (especially the weighty baggage of the concept 'imagination', besides we already know this is an external/internal process)

thieves or refugees - outcasts/rejects

spirits who’ve nested in the goodwill - taken advantage of

 

among boxes of memories - this, like your use of 'imagination', is telly and prosaic

Overall, I'm thinking this holding on of memories has let in the unwanted memories as well, which points to the limits of controlling our internal thoughts (suppressing unwanted thoughts)

The pool of sight from the lamp only reaches
to the border of the table so I stretch my arm
out into the latent fear and find, nothing.

This was my fav. stanza, the visual image brought me inside the poem, though the use of latent feels heavy handed.

We remain ourselves, shared presences
bent in and out of shape by emptiness

This pushes the philosophical questions of the poem. What is the ownership of self? What is the reality outside self? Is self a collection of selves? What is the relation between internal/external? How is each defined? The reference to 'emptiness' prompted the extistential notion of meaninglessness, nothingness, but it is a long time since I read Sartre's Nausea!

enjoyed

Phil

On the polished sill an African rose discants
a red film of butterfly wings; upended, like the image of each falling petal being a frame in a movie.
they flutter and pose a series of questions
about what it means to die before dark. 'to die before dark' I take to mean dying too young/soon? 'upended', I assume the last 2 lines here refer to the petals that land upside-down...their glory/potential hidden/lost.

In the attic above, shuffles and scratches
smuggle a presence into my imagination;
thieves or refugees, spirits who’ve nested
in the goodwill among boxes of memories. This stanza is loaded with a mix of the present and past. Guilt and acceptance, fear and compassion.

The pool of sight from the lamp only reaches
to the border of the table so I stretch my arm
out into the latent fear and find, nothing. This stanza concentrates on your personal examination of the 'situation', nice use of 'latent'.

We remain ourselves, shared presences
bent in and out of shape by emptiness. Good finish. You allow us to decide how much we're affected by them.

I am of course taking this on face value based on the title. If my interp is wrong....
Either way, a nice, considered write from my perspective.

Thank you both for your detailed thoughts and the considerable time and effort you have put into your excellent comments. Phil, whether or not I agree with everything you have flagged as prosaic I will of course seek to incorporate in a revision because they all make sound sense. Colm you are spot on with your interpretation, which makes me believe the elements of the poem gell somehow though it was written with a large degree of intuition rather than structural skill.
Dave
 

Hi Dave,

With the exception of a few word choices I prefer the original version. Decants vs. discants for instance but I suspect the latter was a typo anyway. 

This is a beautiful poem to my read that raises ultimate questions humans live with---or to restate it how does the human ability to observe the death of other living, beautiful and innocent things affect the "shape" of our own life. The non answer is disorienting in the dark beyond the lamp light. 

More of a tinker than a machete?

Some options:

On the polished sill an African rose decants
a red film of butterfly wings; upended,
they ask what it means to die before dark.

In the attic, thieves or refugees shuffle
and scratch, smuggle presence. All nested
in the goodwill of memory's boxes.

The pool of sight from the lamp only reaches
to the border of the table so I stretch my arm
out into the latent fear and find, nothing.

We remain ourselves, shared presences
bent in and out of shape by emptiness.

Thanks Linda for the considered response. Phil your revision is far superior to mine so for that many many thanks.
Dave
 

What a fascinating conversation! I'm very much enjoying your poem as it evolves, Dave. 

I wouldn't like to see the musical term descants that you so magically applied to butterfly wings, though, change to decants, which I take as something poured out as from a decanter.

Jackie

Thanks Alienflower. Yes decant is not only better but actually correct.
Dave