Prose-poem: Man on the Rec Way.

[Manna]

The South Hill Recreation Way is mostly straight, mostly flat, which is quite a feat itself in Ithaca, where you can't go anywhere without going uphill. When you see a deer, seldom do you see the flash of a white tail as it bounds away. It is more likely for them to saunter into the brush, if they are moved by your presence at all.

A man stepped into the trail, then turned back to look at his yard, groomed and flowery, then at me, though not fully facing. He stood there without moving, and watched as I approached, his back straight, his hands folded behind. He was brown-skinned, and wore a purple tunic. I expected him to be followed by others, but he was alone. He had a lazy eye. He made no move to walk, run, had no dog on a leash. My eyes traveled about, returning from each foray for information back to the brown, tunic-wearing, lazy-eyed man and his still stare. I looked through perforations in the brush to the garden he'd come from. I looked beyond him to the trail ahead (gravel and greenery), down to the little gadgets on my handlebar (12.2 mph). He was alone. I was alone.

Nothing else to learn, my gaze returned fully to the man. No grey hair. I looked him in the eyes, and one of his looked back at me. As my approach drew near, he faked a lunge at me; brought his hands from behind and pounced into a stance. His eyes widened, and he smiled.

================================================
previous version:



The South Hill Recreation Way is mostly straight, mostly flat, which is quite a feat itself in Ithaca, where you can't go anywhere without going uphill. It stretches from Burns Road through the woods to near the place where Gail and Joe live, a marriage that sounds doomed whenever either of them talks about it. When you see a deer, seldom do you see the flash of a white tail as it bounds away. It is more likely for them to tolerate your presence, roll the black marble of their eyes and saunter into the brush, if they bother to acknowledge your presence at all.

Many people have houses whose backyards are demarcated by the Rec Way. A man stepped into the trail, then turned back to look at his yard, groomed and flowery, then looked at me, though not fully facing me. He stood there without moving, and watched as I approached, his back straight, his hands folded behind. He was brown-skinned, and wore a purple tunic. I expected him to be followed by others, but he was alone. He stepped into the trail, and stood still, watching me. He had a lazy eye. He made no move to walk, run, no dog on a leash, made no indication that he would in any way use the trail. My eyes traveled about, returning from each foray for information back to the brown, tunic-wearing, lazy-eyed man and his still stare. I looked through perforations in the brush to the garden he'd come from. I looked beyond him to the trail ahead (gravel and green), down to the little gadgets on my handlebar (12.2 mph). He was alone. I was alone.

With nothing else to learn, I allowed my gaze to fall fully upon this man. I judged his age to be close to my own, probably a bit younger. No grey hair. I allowed my own stare to meet his. I looked him in the eyes, and one of his looked back at me. As my approach drew near, he made as though he would lunge at me. He brought his hands from behind and pounced into a stance. His eyes widened, and he smiled.

[mat james]

hasn't he got anything better to do than stare at your egocentric self, manna?

Matj

[Manna]

I don't know. I was wondering the same thing.

[Alan Alda]

Hi Manna~

Enjoyable read. I'm still not completely comfortable with Prose poems even though my last English course had a chapter on them...such a fine line...

But, I do believe you have to be uber diligent on making your language tight as possible. Although, the story here is told well (and is quite interesting with its dilemma) it could use some weeding.

The South Hill Recreation Way is mostly straight, mostly flat, which is quite a feat itself in Ithaca, where you can't go anywhere without going uphill. It stretches from Burns Road through the woods to near the place where Gail and Joe live, a marriage that sounds doomed whenever either of them talks about it. When you see a deer, seldom do you see the flash of a white tail as it bounds away. It is more likely for them to tolerate your presence, roll the black marble of their eyes and saunter into the brush, if they bother to acknowledge your presence at all.

Things I question:
Do your readers need to know the uphill thing? Does 'that' add to the poem's intent?
Would "in" be better than a comma here?:
where Gail and Joe live, a marriage
The deer thing seems convoluted, telling us (readers) what you don't see. Maybe naming them: (white-tailed deer) would be sufficient. You can still say they 'tolerate' you. I think it is a little bit too anthropomorphizing to give them that 'eye roll' (of disdain?). But their black eyes, their sauntering and indifference can still be relayed.

Sooo, this is how I'd approach each paragraph/stanza. Questioning and carving.

Hope this helps.
Great story!


L
p.s.

Many people have houses whose backyards are demarcated by the Rec Way

L1. S2. I think "the" before Rec Way could go. And 'demarcated' is such a mouthfullofmarbles word, did you consider: border ? This line stood out on my first read, is why I bother to mention it (for what it's worth)

[Manna]

yeah, I've been combing this a bit, almost ready to repost.
I'm not really sure if this counts as prose-poem, either. Might be better to call it a short short.
Also, my friend Ali showed up at work today wearing a purple tunic. I dare you to guess his coloring. The Rec Way guy wasn't Ali.

[Alan Alda]

M~

Your revision of this piece doesn't do it any favors.
Sorry.
One example is where you state the lunge is fake...when the smile shows us that without 'telling.'

L

[Manna]

I wasn't so sure the smile did show that. Could'a been a creepy, bloody-toothed smile.
But I will think about it. Most of the editing seemed to me to reduce the unnecessary repetitions and over-explanatory stuff.

[Casey Butler]

Maybe the creepy looking smile was one of those painful ones, and the bloody teeth came from biting his own tongue.

Casey

[Casey Butler]

And it was better un-edited. Lots of rythm.

[Casey Butler]

I mean "rhythm". I think.

[Manna]

Was there something essential about Gail & Joe that I missed? When I first wrote it, I just couldn't remember the name of the road at the other end of the trail, but I knew the neighborhood, and what it brought to mind for me. But that element ended up being an unnecessary distraction for me when I was editing.

What other essential things did I remove?

[Alan Alda]

Sigh.

What is imagery or interesting detail?

Let me go simply from memory of reading the original version much earlier today:

white-tailed deer
their black eyes
foliage
purple tunic
brown skin
a troubled marriage
a lazy-eye
being alone on a trail with a stranger
the delight of tension broke with a good humored smile

I find little interest (wandering my memory of your poem) in the flatness of the trail or how difficult it was to make it that way.
I found your reference to your cyclometer completely dispensible...and couldn't figure out why your made "gadgets" plural.

I wonder if making you both burst out laughing at the relieved tension you created would make this better.

If I was you, I'd question everything on paper. How something 'came to be' is not significant and is a pointless distraction when editing.

Any of this helpful?

[Casey Butler]

What other essential things did I remove?

No essential nouns or stuff that I could point out, not being the one who determined what's essential from your point of view in your work.

I don't know if the "rhythm" (still looks wierd spelled that way) is essential.

But I know that while I just sort of scanned the first one, I was drawn into the second, and gently rocked through the whole thing by the rhythm of the words as you first wrote them?

I'm not a fan of editing what first comes out, execpt for spelling and maybe rearranging something that didn't make sense because the sentence was too long to hold the thought it was carrying together.

[Edited to add:] Kind of like that sentence. LOL

Casey

[Alan Alda]

I'm not a fan of editing what first comes out...,

Poetry is a craft, not a matter of spontaneous combustion

[Casey Butler]

I'm not a fan of editing what first comes out...,

Poetry is a craft, not a matter of spontaneous combustion

And here I thought real Poetry was the craft of spontaneous combustion.

But I'm no poet craftsman and have no urge to be.

I think.

Casey