The Graveyard

Sitting amongst Death's army
I reflected upon this wasted, ephemeral life,
And, lifting a pistol to my temple,
I was soon drafted into his ranks.

Presently, I found myself in a small glade
Creatures of all sorts flitting past.
Coming upon a pond, I gazed at my reflection,
And stumbled back in horror! The creature, nay,
Monstrosity, I had witnessed was unspeakable!
Skeletal in figure, maggots crawling through it's eyes,
The wraith beckoned me to come forth, to become one.

As I woke with a start,
I glanced at the unloaded pistol, and,
Swiftly pocketing it, began the long journey home,
As the clouds above slowly began to weep.

Author's Note

Just something I had in my backlog.

Reviews

[M.D. Aguiar]

Almost, my friend; indeed, how very close this poem is to being exceptional. Allow me to provide you with an example from one of my favourite writers, who strives to achieve a similar effect:

I.

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

I oft spend the mornings reading poetry; some writers beguile my imagination to the abject degree, the words of others ring hollow tones within my soul. Invariably, that which distinguishes the great from the uninspired bards of empty arias are these two qualities: melodiousness, and candidness. Thus, my soul dictates that it is impossible to achieve the effect of sorrow, or to stimulate the emotions, sans lyricism, and equally impossible to do so without sincerity. Beauty is not the pursuit of art, I'm afraid, merely an inevitable consequence of honesty, this latter quality being the true pursuit.

The aforementioned stanza is an excerpt from Poe, a man who has truly suffered more than any man should suffer within the brief expanse of a lifetime; I question not the candidness of his dolour. He begins with a caesura: "Lo!" and we do not see the use of the exclamation mark again throughout the entirety of the stanza; such a thing would be supererogatory. This, I believe, is your first folly; your poem begins in tranquility and the terror of the narrator is aroused awkwardly in the exact middle of the piece. This, I deem, an error -albeit minor- in melody, aesthetics, and candidness.

The imagery is pretty, but insufficiently lucid. He describes the morbid with nonchalance; should the narrator not recoil at the sight of the maggots? Yes a prelude to his horror was established in the preceding two lines, but this is chronologically dismaying. Emotions, followed by morbidity, followed by abject demonstrations of redolent emotions would have been better; your progression is thus: emotions, followed by morbidity, followed by emptiness.

If I have explicated the piece injudiciously, please let me know. Additionally, I very much enjoyed the second stanza, despite the inevitable imperfections.

[EastN]

Thank you for the observations. I am still trying to determine my style while attempting to get my verses to flow better. It is immeasurably helpful to get some actual input, as opposed to the blind praise I've been subjected to before. I will take your ideas to heart, and I must thank you again for taking the time to review my work.