This Poem was Submitted By: Mark Andrew Hislop On Date: 2004-04-30 06:10:02 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Down to the river

It's not quite an odour,  In and around our far-pitched tent, Of city and mothballed innocence Of stale things, bread, sausages and cordial, But some unredeemed ambience. We bring  A sacred wish to leave all things behind. We are not yet ourselves, even here. But we are, unknowing, wise, we spores,  Waiting on a wind to fling us To cling where we can grow. This man and boy and girl Makers of holy days from dirt and fire and smoke Can no more unleash our independence Than cease the river’s wash of rock. We are our chains, and we must bless them. We will bless them here. So, down, we take the footpath, Watchful, through the other uncircumcised tents Where heavy metal rents empty rooms behind Eyes wild without recognition  Of any sacred ground. From our strangeness in this strangest land I dig out one vast question: To whom should I say "I love you"? Should I choose the air that cleans the stars, Or the light that makes diamonds of the sand, Or the chill waters my son and daughter baptise me in, My head and feet aflame with cold To walk newborn upon the newborn earth? My children wash their stones and feet, Laughing into their eternity, Laughing in their scent of innocence, Laughing till they break my heart, Brooking no denial, And I, the father, am made clean.

Copyright © April 2004 Mark Andrew Hislop


This Poem was Critiqued By: Elaine Marie Phalen On Date: 2004-05-07 20:30:55
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.85714
Mark, this is a rare and moving poem. I can't really critique it because my mom - who has lived with me for almost 18 years - has just been hospitalized and I'm too weary to make much sense! But it's a worthy tribute to the legacies upon which we all draw, and then leave in our own turn: the children, the histories, the bonds with kin and clan and the land itself. The "sacred wish to leave all things behind" is almost like a desire to be reincarnated as other beings, spores into seedlings. The baptismal waters allow us to be remade, and the young shall lead us into new insight. Yes, we do become our own chains. Release is impossible unless it comes from within. But we can be led into it by those with fresher insights and more eager embrace of whatever may lie ahead. There's a Psalm-like cadence to the piece, and the diction complements it. The end result is one of eloquence and a resonant joy. This is an affirmation. If we learn, not only how to love but whom, we are the richer for it. Indeed, our children may well show us how to live more fully and gladly. They possess what we believe we have lost but can still imagine, still understand, and still recapture. The river flows through and around us all. It's a huge metaphor, not only for time and life but for the cleansing process that allows us to progress spiritually. This implies a karmic dimension that each new generation must accept, as the old go to seek renewal and enlightenment. "Uncircumcised tents" - great use of metonymy! [I think of Othello's "uncircumcised dog"]. It is as if the ancient ritual reaffirms our place in the chain that stretches from Abraham himself. "The air that cleans the stars" is amazing. "Unknowing, wise" is an oxymoron that so fittingly describes the human soul itself. Perhaps we do know more than we understand. Sorry this is so disjointed. I could not let the poem itself pass unacknowledged. Brenda


This Poem was Critiqued By: Wayne R. Leach On Date: 2004-05-03 19:23:08
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.55789
Mark, this is a miraculous piece, with a depth of vision not often seen. Did you study philosophy? I love the allits, the assonance and the sparkling imagery. The truncated lines and the interior rhymes are a very effective attention getter - saying, "Hey, look at me and REALLY think about what this poet is saying." I won't copy all the good stuff, just the things I think need some attention/change, so here they are: There, that should about do it! :>) Best wishes - and, of course, peace. wrl
This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2004-05-01 07:02:19
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.16418
I like the part about washing stones and feet. And laugh. I like the part about the river. And brook. I like the part about the uncircumcised. And remember. The part about the way down. And leave all things behind. That part. That. truly wonderful. but true? as true as poetry can be. as true as life. That.
This Poem was Critiqued By: G. Donald Cribbs On Date: 2004-04-30 23:01:34
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.60526
Mark, this poem is an interesting lesson. It took me a few reads to really get the whole Jesus coming to earth to baptize and that whole thing. But, it's very good, nonetheless. You're very subtle in the layers of your poetry and writing style. I like that. It's a great gift to use as a writer. I like that whole thing about wanting to leave our things behind. Very cathartic, like being baptized. Great analogy. I liked the use of uncircumsized tents...though I'm not sure why. I'm not saying it's a phallic thing, I just mean the whole idea of being clean or unclean and the argument that circumsision is of the heart not the flesh is a great area to touch on with this poem. Thanks for sharing this with us. I enjoyed the read! Regards, Don
This Poem was Critiqued By: Lennard J. McIntosh On Date: 2004-04-30 13:42:35
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hello Mark: Your poem virtually oozes allegory in a manner that crafts mystery. Yet, mystery distinguishable enough to have this reader reasonably certain he recognizes its meaning, though, not entirely secure in that understanding. Herein, lies what I consider an exceptional work. In Hamlet, man’s mortality that was symbolized by Yorick’s skull. It was not understood on the initial readings. Yet, the inscrutability of Shakespeare’s work encompasses a fascination hardly equaled. Mark: A sacred wish to leave all things behind. Len: There is no mystery about how the narrator [the father] describes their feeling to get away – so intense he calls it sacred. Mark: …we are, unknowing, wise, we spores, Waiting on a wind to fling us Len: My goodness, this is a poignant assessment of man on this earth; we really know so little, yet we take pleasure in our wisdom, while in fact, we’re spores thrown about by the winds of circumstance. And this forms a curiosity to demand reader concentration. Are they on an actual canoe or sailing trip, camped [and cramped] among many others, who apparently show little inclination toward friendliness? I don’t really know. However, you craft exhilaration in me from my supposition. This is excellent styling! Mark: Should I choose the air that cleans the stars, Or the light that makes diamonds of the sand, Or the chill waters my son and daughter baptise me in, Len: I have read that the best in nearly every field most often walk in doubt. Parents are among those who work in diligence, yet can only proceed in hope. With the exception of the one who sees fault in all but himself or herself. Len: I checked your spelling of “baptise,” to find that Webster considers it acceptable, though not preferred. Might I suggest that you check it, also? I’ve bee wrong before. :o) This is powerful writing, Mark. Congratulations, sir! A fellow poet, Lennard McIntosh
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2004-04-30 11:47:35
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.50000
Down to the river Is the word “river” not in caps to indicate a downward motion? Interesting. It's not quite an odour, In and around our far-pitched tent I am not sure of “far-pitched” as it is a relative distance unless this is A Briticism with which I am unfamiliar Of city and mothballed innocence What a magnificent adjective. It shows the power of just one word to jolt us our of complacency. “”mothballed” innocence – innocence closeted and stale – waiting to burst –fetid and of a peculiar odor which is not “quite” an odor when one is in the same room with it too long. Of stale things, bread, sausages and cordial, The way this is listed and because of the punctuation I think that that the cordial is stale and I never met a stale cordial -they always seem to taste just right to me. But some unredeemed ambience [lovely]. We bring A sacred wish to leave all things behind. Indeed! Wonderful We are not yet ourselves, even here. But we are, unknowing, wise, we spores, [yes-great word for us growing into out fledgling, fleeting little lives – “spores”] Waiting on a wind to fling us To cling where we can grow. The internal rhyme or fling/cling is lovely. That is a hard thing to master without sounding contrived. You have a delicious ability to play with sounds. This man and boy and girl Makers of holy days from dirt and fire and smoke WONDERFUL Can no more unleash our independence Than cease the river’s wash of rock. We are our chains, and we must bless them. We will bless them here. Ah, yes ….If one cannot escape one blesses the prison – who was it said, “Eventually one even gets used to hell” So, down, we take the footpath, Watchful, through the other uncircumcised [not sure of the meaning here- just “uncut’ or is there a deeper meaning?} more tents Where heavy metal rents empty rooms behind Eyes wild without recognition Of any sacred ground. From our strangeness in this strangest land I dig out one vast question: To whom should I say "I love you"? Yes – that is the important question Should I choose the air that cleans the stars, [incredible image] Or the light that makes diamonds of the sand,[and here!} Or the chill waters my son and daughter baptise me in, Would it be too stilted to rephrase this: In which my son and daughter baptize me>? My head and feet aflame with cold To walk newborn upon the newborn earth? Lovely repetition and the conceit of a newborn who is able to walk is remarkable. My children wash their stones and feet, [neat juxtaposition of the natural and intimately intensely physical aspects of the world and its gifts. May I suggest this: Laughing their eternity, Laughing their scent of innocence, Laughingly breaking my heart, Brooking no denial, And I, the father, am made clean. Wonderful ending to a powerful poem which takes us to new levels of understanding -the hallmark of fine writing..
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2004-04-30 10:44:26
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.09091
MAH, Another occasional catastrophe! I wrote a really, really profound (I swear) critque of this which was wiped out upon hitting the button to submit. It went something like, "it is no coincidence i left off reading Coleridge, Wordsworth, et al on my commutious train ride this morning to see this gem from their 21st Century offspring, another big, fat Romantic traipsing off into the egotistical sublime." And they i went into the most elaborate, line-by-line elaboration, which I will not swear to. But . . . such is fate. Sufficeth it to say, I love the piece. My indolence and intellectual short-windedness prevents a further explication. This is grand, or i'm obtuse. But I am also open to the possiblity that both adjectives fit their respective subjects. MSS
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