I think anyone who has attempted to write poetry knows that writing something that people enjoy and relate to is like winning the lottery without buying a ticket. Even harder is to show your poems to family and friends, either because its about them and would be uncomfortable to have them critique a poem showing how terrible they were, or because they always tell you that its just so wonderful and that you are basically the next Robert Frost.
I would very much like it if whoever reads this would give me some constructive criticism on this “in progress” poem. Now, I won’t turn down a pat on the back or a “I don’t like this” comment but if you could expound on that it would be much appreciated. Sometimes its nice to be level set as I think we all get a little to close to our writing and forget that, on occasion, it just stinks. So please, hurt my feelings.
Orchard on the Hill
The memory only starts as we are riding
our bikes down the hill. Not a flash of memory
more like a fade in. You and I riding down
the hill to the orchard. You swerved to the left,
I kept going, looked at the shit eating
grin on your face, eyes snapped forward seeing the snake
in the road. Black scales, blood, I rolled over it, legs up,
front wheel no longer in control of itself,
a silent scream that I don't think was all that silent.
I hated you in that moment. I hated you
because only someone who hated me could do that.
I don't remember if I cried, I'm sure I did.
What I remember is your laugh and my relief
to leave that spot in the road, to get back
riding to the orchard, to get to the farm stand
on the hill and buy candy with my brother.