Robert Burns dreamscape poem

[eclipse]

Williams Burns would plough soil,
his son practiced vowels alluding
to embryonic verse, he had a dream
about staring into a loch near four
trees that were shedding leaves.
The moon made an imprint Roberts' death
mask,then a poet made the mask cry
through spoken verse shedding tears 
over four countries.

Agnes Burns passed away, the faint
imprint of a mask laid on waters,Robert
Burns muttered a verse, the winds
mingled with the death visages sinuous
breath as it followed a poets words.

Robert Burns collected two roses 
that passed each other on a river
and caught two tears that crossed
each other on opposite faces to
warn in a distinctive accent of thorn
approaching thorn, the scent of
revolution was carried from France-
the faces of it's dead appeared on a
river next to a burning forest. 
The sun and moon offer veins,
can a poet discern the patterns 
in the flames to find an incantation
and mix fire with blood and turn
around the flood of French indignation
to create a balanced synergy borne out of
Scottish resentment.

Hands of dissent pull at tree roots, former
selves pour through Burns like the grains of
sand in an hour-glass, he is a sailing ember
spawned in time's fire hovering outside of
an hour-glass that drifts towards Scottish 

rose whose head has been replaced with

that of the English monarch singing Celtic

songs tempting native traitors to prick their

thumbs and drop blood on English soil, hands

of consent in the ground wait ready to hammer

the rain like nails an astute poet weighs fire

on scales making them tip subtly as he rips

up pages of history. 

[eclipse]

This poem was written for a competition-any feedback would be appreciated-thank-Barry

[David W. Parsley]

Hi Barry, interesting piece, though I like "Quills" more.  Strong images.  I have diction issues:

"mask" appears near end of stanza 1, then near start of stanza 2.  Feels repetitive.

"incantation" appears twice in the poem, neither time organically, feels forced.

On ‎9‎/‎28‎/‎2017 at 12:43 AM, eclipse said:

Hands of dissent pull at tree roots, former
selves pour through Burns like the grain of
sand in an hour-glass,

plurality mis-match between "selves" and "grain"

"incandescence" feels forced

Hope that helps.  I know how it feels to want more comments on one's poem.

 - Dave

[Tinker]

Hi Barry,  I was giving this time before giving more comments.   The added strophes adds a lot to the poem and sounds more like you than the beginning.    

If this were mine I'd clean up the syntax and focus more on Robert than his parents.  As I said before, early on it reads like a list of facts.

L3   he had a dream    . . . . . .  who is he father or son?   The way it is written the subject is the father and the son just an after thought.   The son isn't even named yet we know the full name of the father.

That is where I'd start.   I think fixing the beginning help bring the rest of the poem together.
 

~~Tink 
 

[JoelJosol]

I like the mythic quality of the lyrical narrative, and its musicality. With the suggested edits, this should go a lot better.