Is This writing too Poetic—hard to understand?

Question

Running, dodging, falling—faster and faster, struggling to breathe—Paul twisted through the market place, his leather satchel flying behind him. It’s too late . . . you are not going to make it . . .
He growled a curse when ahead a large passenger carriage lurched to a halt in the middle of the thoroughfare. Avoiding near collision with a group of beggar children, Paul careened to a stop. The path he had roughly cleared behind him closed with more people.
It was cold, utterly cold, and wet. So horribly wet. And today of all days, when he would be leaving on a journey that should change the course of his life for what he hoped to be the better. He had his ticket, his belongings, and the resolve to face this. But now, with the milling crowds impeding his desperate escape, he was about ready to collapse in despair.
Life was not—and never would be—accommodating to this certain Paul Brynton. He came from a long line of bad luck. It was his fate, he supposed. But at the moment, Paul would have nothing of it.
In the distance he heard the bellow of the steamboats, warning of imminent departure. Whistles, shouts, and freedom. It was enough to make a desperate man do just about anything.
Stepping back to look at the roof line above him, he calculated. Back a few yards was the opening of an alley, and snaking towards the rain sodden sky was a stairwell to the second floor. Paul elbowed his way towards it, over-throwing market stands and old women as he went. Howling protests floated after him. Grasping the rusted iron rails of the ladder he finally reached, he paused only to make sure no eyes were watching. Then, Paul climbed.
Above the chaos, on the house tops, the way would be clear. A little unconventional, but much more expedient than scrambling for passage in the crowded streets. All he knew was that he had to hurry to get to the docks and his boat, ironically christened The Triumphant. It would wait for no one.
Slippery rain made it treacherous. And he realized as he went that the braces had been weakened over time, his weight causing the steps to groan. Paul clung tightly when a gust of wind rushed past him, and as he did, it began to bend towards the cobblestones. This rebellion of gravity caught the attention of an apple vendor.
“Oi! You! Get down, it’s going to give!”
This naturally brought around the attention of the jewellery hawker beside him. He began moving towards the alley alongside the apple vendor, and both were calling for the innocent to stand aside. They were determined that if the ladder gave way, only one fool would suffer from it.
“Look out! What do you think you’re doing?! Get down!”
Paul refused. Those twenty feet below were eternity to him. If he was to die, he would die trying.
The leather satchel snagged on a jutting brace and he was forced to jerk it free. Another grinding squeal sounded.
Now . . . or never.
Just as everything went out from beneath him, Paul’s fingers were ahold of the rain trench that ran along the roof ridge. Crying out, all his strength went into hanging on. An explosion of sound burst beneath him as the ladder hit stone.
“He’s hanging on!”
“Someone get a ladder!”
“He just destroyed the only one around, idiot!”
“We need help—he’s going to fall!”
Women were screaming at the men, the men bellering back, and Paul realized—as he had so many times before—that if he didn’t do something, bad luck would.
Feet dangling into space, he edged his arms from the rim to the shingled roof. Cautiously, slowly, Paul raised his body with strength born of his will to live. He dared not look down.
Paul . . . you can do it . . . you HAVE to do it!
A cry of relief went up from below as he disappeared over the edge of the rooftop. Paul lay still, a single heaving breath all he could manage.
Suddenly, far away . . . a bellow from the sea, a whistle, crashing waves . . .
Struggling for air—satchel in hand—blinking back the rain. Then he was up . . . and running.
“Where is he?”
“Are you alright, boy? Are you still there?”
No. He was gone. He was alive. The sweet scent of liberation enticing him forward.
Here I come.
Russia.

Answer 1

Your writing is hardly poetic, and anyone who is literate can understand it. You're not using any complicated concepts, and in fact you seem to have confused the use of having imagery, personification, and details for being poetic. If you want poetic writing, go read "The Great Gatsby".



The only thing you did was use a bunch of literary devices to make the scenes more described, and frankly you use it so much that it gets repetitive and distracting.



Also, quit it with using ellipsis ( the ...). They're used to show omission of something, and you're clearly not omitting anything. Just that is a huge deduction against your writing.



If you want poetic writing, here is a sample from the book I mentioned:



"His parents were shiftless and unsuccessful farm people--his imagination had never really accepted them as his parents at all. The truth was that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of himself. He was a son of God... and he must be about His Father's business, the service of a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty. So he invented just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen year old boy would be likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end."



"He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips' touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete."

Answer 2

no longer all poets do, consistent with hazard some for despite reason. Conversely, no longer ALL poetry are impossible to appreciate, yet whilst one pre- supposes this, then each so often, the hassle-free preconceived theory circumstances your techniques to no longer understand what might have been straightforward. So this question quite is almost asking an answer for what does not might desire to be stated. A pissed off lament of an impatient teen who did no longer understand Shakespeare lumped ALL POETS right into a team of saddists who got down to place in writing stuff just to confuse the already confounded fella.

Answer 3

It's rather overwritten, and not particularly well-written either:

'Crying out, all his strength went into hanging on.' - what was crying out, his strength? and if all his strength went into hanging on, why was he crying out?

Some words are misused, eg careened to a stop (careen means clean the hull of a ship). It's hard to understand Paul's age, and quite hard to visualise.

It reminds me of the old teacher who said, 'Look through your work, and if anything sems particularly fine, strike it out.'

It has potential though.

Answer 4

It's more like the mind out drawn in every little detail. I like it. Confusing at some points.

I like your writing type. It's interesting. It's sorta poetic, I mean it's like a story, but as in a "poets" words. Do you get what I'm saying? Lol. Furthermore, I have nothing to critique.

Happy writing(:

Answer 5

So... you're asking "Is my writing TOO good?" Well no, it is not. I don't see much in there that could be considered "poetic", and I understand it perfectly. Not the best in the world either, you seemed to want it to be dramatic and didn't realize it sounds like a soap opera.