Between the lines, the endless lines of thought etc.

[Dave]

Revision
The mother’s a virgin, that‘s what gets me every time.
A virgin! imagine. A dusky white woman who believes
in the arc of the stars and brightness at night, possesses
the faith of refugees and the warmth of straw. Her son
carves crosses from wood without a care in the world.
The father’s boasts of deeds never seen but often retold. 

I may have got it wrong. That’s what happens between
the lines of words forcing their way across the page,
soldier ants, or beetles, fish with wings, take your pick
the second amendment sacraments and a self
that’s not a self but an arrangement of cells
constantly rearranging the meaning of life.

Paper is better

left blank
like wishes,
expectations

oh, and
truth.


Original

The mother’s a virgin, that‘s what gets me every time.
A virgin! imagine. A dusky white woman who believes
in the arc of the stars and brightness at night, possesses
the faith of refugees and the warmth of straw. Her son
carves crosses from wood without a care in the world.
The father’s boasts of deeds never seen but often retold. 

I may have got it wrong. That’s what happens between
the lines of words forcing their way across the page,
soldier ants, or beetles, fish with wings, take your pick
the second amendment sacraments and a self
that’s not a self but an arrangement of cells
constantly rearranging the meaning of life.

I watch water dribble on stone and die
in the heat of midday and doubt my sanity.
She swore she loved me and I swore I knew. 

She is not the virgin or that water on the stone
in case you think my syntax leads astray. She was
beautiful, not in a conventional way

women are beautiful but rather as you experience 
the merest ripples threading their way across a lake
while all the while the water is burrowing deeper
and deeper into the core - of the earth not the apple.

Beauty hurts when it withdraws. Hers hurt me
when she took it for herself. I never knew that was possible.

(Water represents sexuality to the historically and psychologically minded.)

I digress as one who uses words does.  
In the end it comes down to the spaces in-between
the words.

In between (betinween is amusing),
where breaths settle any argument.

Paper is better

left blank
like wishes,
expectations

oh, and
truth.

[Mark]

Dave
I enjoyed reading the poem. S1 and S2 are great. It could possibly end with S5. After that it seems to meander off in another direction. That is not a bad thing as such, perhaps another poem there.
The finale is good reading. The pace is nicely measured for most of the piece but I thought S6 a little less so. Can't say I like "syntax", perhaps something simpler?
The playful effect of gentle irony in a circular motion enriches the poem with an entertaining layer. I imagine you will want to kick this one around a bit.  
 

[Dave]

Thanks Mark
Good comments and a help. I have cut it as follows.
Dave
 

[Mark]

That's an interesting edit. The leap from s2 to s3 covers a large threshold.
But then... I was looking at what you cut...and imo that makes another standalone, which I really like because it's human and engaging. Perhaps this is the core of it. Whichever, the poem offers up a lot of raw material!
Excuse the edit. Not saying this is better or anything, just another take. Plus a title.

Siren

I watch water dribble on stone and die
in midday heat, and I doubt my sanity.
She swore she loved me
and I swore I knew. 

She is not the virgin or that water
on the stone. She is beautiful,
but not in a picture book way
of sunlit ripples on a lake.

Below that surface she is sinking
deeper and deeper into the core,
and the whole earth is her apple.

Beauty glows when it withdraws,
it hurt me when she took it away.
I never knew that was possible.







 

[Dave]

Wonderful edit mark Thanks. That really cleans things up a lot.
Dave
 

[Matty11]

The mother’s a virgin, that‘s what gets me every time.
A virgin! imagine. A dusky white woman who believes
in the arc of the stars and brightness at night, possesses
the faith of refugees and the warmth of straw. Her son
carves crosses from wood without a care in the world.
The father’s boasts of deeds never seen but often retold.

hi Dave,
Those lines had the most impact for me, though I understand the need to elaborate and reflect.

best

Phil

[Dave]

Thanks Phil. Appreciate the comments. Could be indeed the elaboration was more for my own need to express something.
Dave