This Poem was Submitted By: Mark Andrew Hislop On Date: 2004-05-08 05:58:41 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
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To my unborn mother Long are the days in which we shall be strange
Each to the other, though be blooded same.
Yet as I'm womb-expelled, the world to range,
You'll yield to me as I'll when you must tame.
Man's atoms may reveal to all my sex
Through radiating windows made of sound,
But all that vibrates me, as you, can't vex
This privacy by which we're ever bound.
Before we meet, I move to hold us now
In freshest swaddling clothes of our regard
Before our aches of life crease either brow
And small wounds make us think all things too hard.
When pain-tears jewel your cheeks, like blessings worn,
To me a virgin, you will be reborn. |
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Copyright © May 2004 Mark Andrew Hislop
Additional Notes:
If you, as I, believe rules should be broke
Then good are rhyming couplets for all folk.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Regis L Chapman On Date: 2004-06-02 14:28:57
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Wow, this one packs a lot of punch in a small rhyming package. Well done! The structure suits the ending especially well with it's exception and highly emotional paradox complete.
Besides the ending, which is great, my favorite line is: "In freshest swaddling clothes of our regard". I like the idea of concepts clothing us in some physical sense. Not many use this device as effectively as you do here.
It seems every line is replete with a paradoxical anthem or replacing a positive where a negative is usually found. Super good work.
All this works so well with the topic, but then it's not easy to see the topic through this- on it's face could be talking about a newborn child, or oneself, or the mother and intimate partner. You can get any of those out of this- or even metaphorical mothers- like the Earth or physical space itself. Great job to pack all in there. Wish I wrote it.
Thanks,
REEG!
This Poem was Critiqued By: Edwin John Krizek On Date: 2004-05-25 11:31:07
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.66667
Dear Mark,
I really like the structure you have given this poem. I find when I write in rhyme it comes out too sing songy for my tast, however, your poem doesn't have that effect on me. Interesting subject. It seems you believe in rebirth, the wheel of Karma. I know for me my image of my own mother is virginal as you state in your last two lines. While obviously this is sort of silly notion for one to have nonetheless mothers are special and you have written a wonderful piece about that.
Ed Krizek
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2004-05-21 11:27:57
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
MAH,
Wow. Unborn mother. Virgin. Swaddling clouts. The "unborn," though not strictly speaking apt, plays into the allusions that I think you play on, the Virgin birth, the child in the manger, etc. To say "unborn" mother is so loaded. I've heard of being born again, but not being unborn. :) Great idea, great metaphor. Though you use it also in the quasi-literal sense of not born yet, as if you haven't yet met this mother.
I do not see the "rules" broke here, at least not technical, prosodical rules.
A foolish law-abider,
MSS
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2004-05-10 16:16:37
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
To my unborn mother
[as incredible a title as ever richly dressed a sonnet]
Long are the days in which we shall be strange [nice assonance in days/strange]
Each to the other, though be blooded same. [downright Shakespherian]
Yet as I'm womb-expelled, the world to range,
You'll yield to me as I'll when you must tame.
must tame mother mother must tame [clever]
Man's atoms may reveal to all my sex
Through radiating windows made of sound ,
But all that vibrates me, as you, can't vex
This privacy by which we're ever bound. [lovely concept being bound by "privacy"
Before we meet, I move to hold us now
In freshest swaddling clothes of our regard [wonderful]
Before our aches of life [crease "either's" ?] brow
And small wounds make us think all things too hard. [if you reverse these two lines
it would give more power to the creased brow image [aside: "He thinks too much, such men are dangerous]
When pain-tears jewel your cheeks, like blessings worn,
To me a virgin, you will be reborn.
Was ever mother more lovingly won? Bravo
This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2004-05-08 21:57:29
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mum
An effective exercise in living upside down
under.
Bum
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