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This Poem was Submitted By: Sandra J Kelley On Date: 2004-05-13 20:58:48 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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A Fragment

All day long, chained to his chair, he types pages of his novel, a story he is telling to no-one. The ice cutter (my great grandfather) walked delicately across the blue St. Lawerence. Long pole stretched across open palms... delete Sitting around the dinning room table I ask for a memory of my father like asking for the salt to be passed "There isn't one." I'm told. He is afraid it will be good. At the end of the day he presses delete. A group of orphans are ice skating A seven year old in a blue dress (my mother) Falls, her arm is broken in two pieces...delete The same stories, calculated to reveal nothing, are told over and over, even the words are the same. Freed from his motion control system he begins by erasing himself, In the watertown jail a sheriff pronounces "too many drunken Irishmen anyway" and locks the cell containing a man who may be (my grandfather)...delete I wrestle with silence, contend with my family for the stories they refuse to tell the top half of his lip, a chunk of his wrist, the tip of his right ear. The stories, faster than I can write them are being erased. After the words have filled the air, how will we breathe.

Additional Notes:
a much earlier version was posted on the link I am still working with it. Sandra

This Poem was Critiqued By: Erzahl Leo M. Espino On Date: 2004-06-04 01:09:22
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hi Sandra, Yes, I very much remember this…and this is supposed to be something of a series. From the title itself “A Fragment” – the mystery and puzzle of the piece is already obvious. As always, you write with such powerful and interesting messages which somehow reflects your diverse personality as an author. I can feel the strong personal connection of this poem. Something a “taboo” but needed to be revealed. “Sitting around the dinning room table I ask for a memory of my father like asking for the salt to be passed "There isn't one." I'm told.” --- These are powerful lines and the imageries and words are very effective! It keeps the riddle continuous. Clever metaphor! “He is afraid it will be good. At the end of the day he presses delete.” --- This is a perfect follow-up. “I wrestle with silence, contend with my family for the stories they refuse to tell” --- There are a lot of surprises in your story, in your poetry…that makes this piece unique and inviting. The truths are delicate…the words are careful. “The stories, faster than I can write them are being erased. After the words have filled the air, how will we breathe.” --- Great ending…lyrically done! Your words are constantly moving… Thank you Sandra for the journey... As always, Erzahl :)

This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2004-05-31 16:12:53
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.96000
Sandra: What an incredible example of what you say in critiques about "show us, don't tell us." You do this in a remarkable way - how much I'd like to read about each of the fragments given - search inside the mind of the writer -- each part of this piece creates a thirst (or hunger?) for more. The imagery is startling, and your formatting is as fresh and original as any I've seen. I felt myself caught up in this piece, forgetting it was your poem, even that I was 'critiquing' a work, forgetting everything but the immediacy of experience as given in "A Fragment." It also stimulated for me a vivid sense of my own experience (which I think is the trademark of great poetry - to allow readers explore their own lives in new ways). A few months ago I attempted to write a memoir - and deleted it to death. At the beginning, I was confused about who the story-writer is - thinking the voice to be the same as the poem's speaker - and a 'he' rather than a 'she' as is the poet. All day long, chained to his chair, he types pages of his novel, a story he is telling to no-one. This isolated writer, seemingly almost imprisoned by his task, is typing, but ironically, but a "story he is telling to no-one." He seems to typify the experiences of the narrator in the remainder of the piece -- little or no information is given and if there is some, it suffers the fate of "delete." The ice cutter (my great grandfather) walked delicately across the blue St. (Lawrence). Long pole stretched across open palms... delete I want to protest -- "But wait, writer! That's good -- tell me more! Why, oh why did you 'delete' this?" Sitting around the dinning room table I ask for a memory of my father like asking for the salt to be passed "There isn't one." I'm told. A rueful smile possesses me here. How often family members hold secrets, and thus entire histories, as so closely guarded that the identity of an individual is 'deleted' by their unwillingness to break out of this prison. They deny the real in favor of safety or avoidance of possibly unpleasant memories? He is afraid it will be good. At the end of the day he presses delete. Ahh -- fear of 'success' rather than fear of disclosure of family secrets? A group of orphans are ice skating A seven year old in a blue dress (my mother) Falls, her arm is broken in two pieces...delete This saddens - no - truthfully, angers me! It's a good story, and I want to read on. The writer appears to be kin to the speaker, or a least a close associate. An alter ego? The color 'blue' has emerged twice - here and the blue "St. Lawrence." Thus, the color is 'blue' and the texture and temperature are ice, or the hardness of the chair upon which the writer sits. The element of salt is strong here, as well. The same stories, calculated to reveal nothing, are told over and over, even the words are the same. You hit upon a powerful truth above, in many families - the seemingly 'rote' stories which are told, which "reveal nothing." How many times I banged my own head on this wall in my own family, wanting to understand more about my grandparents. I wonder if this unspoken rule about 'not telling' spills over onto the writer, who, unconsciously, obeys the stricture against revelation? Freed from his motion control system he begins by erasing himself, Startling - and wonderfully limned. You have a way of spell-binding this reader. The thought occurs to me that my own struggles with writing a memoir make this couplet especially poignant for me. In the watertown jail a sheriff pronounces "too many drunken Irishmen anyway" and locks the cell containing a man who may be (my grandfather)...delete Ha! Might have been my own great-grandfather, says I. I wrestle with silence, contend with my family for the stories they refuse to tell You've captured the discomfort in few words -- elegantly -- the word "refuse" seems a stronger descriptor than any to this point. It feels like being encased in cement. the top half of his lip, a chunk of his wrist, the tip of his right ear. Incredible! As I've said, I lost orientation in time and space when reading this. The stories, faster than I can write them are being erased. After the words have filled the air, how will we breathe. This surreal ending is astonishing. It seems that the identity of the writer and the speaker have merged and we have merged (reader/poet) and feel the very air being sucked out of our lungs. We can't breathe in again, lest we inhale the erased words. I don't know where you want to take this -- seems like it calls for another poem, as part of a series. I have no suggestions for change -- it seems to have been pared to its most salient elements already. If this is a 'fragment' I hunger for many more. I think that the title also captures the sense of fragmentation (repeated throughout the work) that one feels when trying to obtain history or even a bit of emotion from the closed doors and minds of some who feel the need to 'guard' the past with refusal to discuss or consider it. Remarkable! Kudos for this, and please, honor us with more. (Please.) Best to you, Joanne

This Poem was Critiqued By: Nancy Anne Korb On Date: 2004-05-28 22:41:12
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.28571
I sympathize with your character..having found much the same plight. I began researching my family tree and asking questions and reading to begin to understand and become involved with my roots........the need to know the stories.....delete. If they don't tell the stores and they aren't written down, will the family be forever deleted? I liked the poem. I don't know that I understand this kind of poetry, one can feel the emotion. The only other criticism I have is dinning is spelled dining. Otherwise, the poem and the meaning behind it were wonderful.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Edwin John Krizek On Date: 2004-05-23 10:11:27
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.50000
Dear Sandra, I love this poem. It beautifully illustrates the ethereal nature of memory and the problematic nature of families. The last stanza in particular sums up the situation, "The stories, faster than I can write them/ are being erased." The last sentence needs a question mark at the end but punctuates the sentiment of the poem. Fleeting words spoken to the air disappear into ? Ed Krizek

This Poem was Critiqued By: cheryl a kelley On Date: 2004-05-14 12:38:56
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 5.00000
Sandy! This is the best thing I've ever read. It's perfect. Every word packs serious punch and it really conveys exactly what you mean - It' hits home (OK, coming from me, I guess that's some kind of pun). Awesome.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Jordan Brendez Bandojo On Date: 2004-05-14 00:40:36
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.50000
Hi Sandra, This is amazing revision. I can you have added a lot and I believe this is now polished. The format is new and for me it is apt for it seems to suggest a fragment. The characterization of great grandfather, grandmother, and so on... makes the poem more interesting and it reinforced the tone very well. Thanks for sharing, Sandra. Kudos! Jordan

This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2004-05-13 21:38:18
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.91667
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