Speak My Language

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So in reading this poem my immediate problem was trying to find the continuity of meaning. There almost feel like two conflicting things being described here: one narrator berating their lack of poetic ability, and the other their relationship with a maternal figure.

Another quibble is the lack of consistency in rhyming — some stanzas every concluding syllable rhymes, and in others only two or three do. This makes the reading kinda jilted, and stuck out as something that could be polished up.

Structurally, I felt the poem was great after the beginning. In terms of imagery, there were some delicious lines; I personally loved "with fingers dipped in blood I paint." A little cliché, but fits with the theme of art being something traumatic. However, the beginning is way more abstract and lacks that specificity I (personally, and probably without qualification) think makes a great poem.