[stylist] Comments on Ghost of Yesterday poem

[Bridgit Pollpeter]

Barbara,

If anyone says this is crappy, just send them along to me, smile!

Very powerful. I like where you break the lines, line breaks can make or
break a poem, and while I have limited understanding of the mechanics of
poetry, I think you chose your line breaks very well. Where you break
lines, and even stanzas, the emphasis is left on one word that focuses
on the poems intent.

I like how the emotion builds. You state the poems intention from the
beginning, but you make us enter it at a slope instead of a drop-off
cliff. I like how the emotion builds and builds, like a well-crafted
argument.

Suggestions: The line, "These times are a changin," is a very over-used
cliché. Personally, I'm torn on its use. Initially it stood out like a
sore thumb (talk about over-used cliches, grin!) to me, but then on the
second read, I liked it because you're contrasting the old and new
generations, and this phrase is indicative of a past era. In and of
itself, it holds a lot of meaning in this poem for multiple reasons. I'm
curious what others think about this.
Try, emphasis on the try, playing with some imagery; attempt reaching
for some different, or unique, language and imagery and metaphor that
could contrast, therefore supplying a potential stronger meaning. I just
like to suggest things like this as an exercise; even the most
accomplished writer can work on something and try new things. I like to
give some suggestion or question a section, not because I think a piece
is bad, but simply to encourage one to stretch their writing muscle; you
may find something that really works, or you may hit on some new
inspiration, or nothing may happen. It's just a suggestion.

Over-all, I really enjoyed this and find it very powerful. We have a lot
to think of after reading a poem like this. It's moving and
thought-provoking.

Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Read my blog at:
http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/
 
"History is not what happened; history is what was written down."
The Expected One- Kathleen McGowan

Message: 13
Date: Mon, 5 Dec 2011 15:26:57 -0600
From: "Barbara Hammel" <poetlori8 at msn.com>
To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] Ghosts of yesterday poem
Message-ID: <SNT139-ds5FD92B78A8DFD9BAA9037EBB50 at phx.gbl>
Content-Type: text/plain;	charset="utf-8"

Okay, here?s a poem I wrote earlier this year.  After I get done reading
the last book in The Earth?s Children series, I intend to try writing
more poems?I have my seasons sestinas to finish up?and maybe I can be
taught how to write better by taking criticism and change things before
I consider it a final draft. Here goes:

    GHOSTS OF YESTERDAY



These hallowed halls are haunted

By the ghosts who, yesterday,

Were the life and breath of Iowa Braille

But now have gone away.



You can hear their footfalls echo

Off the sturdy limestone walls,

And if you listen closely

You can hear their childish calls.



Almost a century and a half

Of memories linger here.

As I roam these silent hallways

On my cheek there falls a tear,



For in the utter stillness

All those children hold their breath,

Their ghostly hearts are terrified

Of their forever death.



But sometimes in the silence

All those sunny smiles of old,

Overwhelm my heart with gladness

And more joy than I can hold.



These hallowed halls are haunted

And if you can walk on by

Without hearing or seeing those darlings

Then you haven't ear or eye



For the history that lingers,

Which we wish to not let go.

But the times they are a-changin',

And you new folks just don't know.



To you it's just a building

That was built in days of yore

To house and teach blind people,

Nothing less and nothing more.



The facts of its existence

You can hold inside your head:

What classes were taught and where,

And when and what was fed.



There are piles and piles of pictures

Of people you never knew,

And lists of names not familiar,

So don't know which goes with who.



And, frankly, in your forward-looking,

Futuristic sight,

You don't want to think of haunted halls

When you turn off the light.



You don't want to walk by daylight

And glimpse a little shadow pass,

You don't want to, in the quiet,

Hear light tread of lad or lass.



You don't want to sense the presence

Of the children we used to be,

All our talk of ghosts that haunt here

Is making you feel creepy.



But these hallowed halls are sacred

To us oldtimers of the place,

We don't find it creepy to meet

Ghosts of our childhoods face to face.



Those piles and piles of pictures

Of people you never knew

Have names we find familiar,

We know which goes to who.



And we know when they attended

And friends they might have known,

And friends of friends who knew them

Till our web of connection has grown.



This isn't just a building

That was built in days of yore,

To house and teach blind people.

It is ever so much more.



It was home away from home to us,

This Braille Jail, some would say,

But the grown-ups owed our parents

Safety for us to learn and play.



These limestone walls and hardwood floors

Hold precious memories

You new folks just can't grasp because

They're not your used-to-bes.



You never saw it thriving with

The clamor of children at play,

Or with classrooms of children learning

Or large and small kids bowing to pray.



For you this is an empty shell,

The life has ceased to be,

So you're filling it with strangers;

Crowding out its history.



Those little lisping whispers

And the steps upon the floor

Are our imagination

That you wish you could ignore.



But these hallowed halls are haunted

By the ghosts who, yesterday,

Were the the life and breath of Iowa Braille,

But now have gone away.