she dreamed of billowing sheets and march winds

hard times

 

outside,
diapers froze stiff
on february lines
 

inside,
were wails from
a pickled pine floor
 

she stomped her boots
 

numb,
took the baby to breast
shoveled oatmeal
into other hungry mouths
 

that hung open, like baby birds

 

 

Author's Note

critque welcome, encouraged

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

What struck me at first is what the poem isn't; this piece could have easily been constructed as a wailing, finger-pointing, accusatory rant--and it would have, most likely, stunk on ice. What it is a spare, unadorned view of a spare, unadorned life. It is form and message walking hand-in-hand. It is highly condensed--almost haiku or cinquain-like--but it is no less a piece for being so. The final image, suggesting both Spring and birth or, perhaps better still, rebirth, is flat-out brilliant. This is impressive, top-shelf work.

[G. Cedillo]

Helix and Kortas summed my thoughts up pretty well, - they're awesome reviewers - i'm just adding my appreciation to the page.
also, interesting choice to emphasis the single-word lines, an even briefer summary of the poem "outide, inside, numb"

thanks for sharing this,
g.

[Rachel Knight]

The rhythm and meter are impeccable. The last line might break the rhythm a bit, but every poem has a turning point, so perhaps the change is welcome. Whatever it may mean for the rhythm, the last line uses great imagery. I love seeing hungry little chicks in their nests.

[Hedra Helix]

that's so elegant;) beautiful mix of perfect readability and gorgeous sound.

you've got that ability to pass emotion right to your reader, { I read a few of your pieces ;)}
and your language soothes, you don't try to make your poetry over speak for floweriness, you've got great balance.

Diiig it

[Emily B]

wow!

[Viola Thoreau]

This has a certain ethereal quality and all visions you see that I see, emulated to readers
through such imagination, painting a presentiment of cycles of life, mothers, birds to women,
baby birds waiting for food in nests, babies suckling from mother's breast, and vehemency
of all despair in the background carried on to the quiet sweetness of life through love, alone.

[Sabine]

I think the title ( as a narrative construct) opens the poem's meaning to stage 'descriptor words' and build a harsh scene as a result of implications. ie., use of 'hung open' as it reimplies hanging sheets in another sense. Although needfully sad, Intense, and well-expressed. Sabine*