This Poem was Submitted By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2005-02-07 11:20:34 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
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Lessons My mother taught me how to mourn
{not how to greet the morning wild
with gladness, drunk with dreams
and stumbling toward a bliss
of consciousness}
My father taught me how strive
toward a worker’s world of peace
[not how to make a picket fence
behave or satisfy demands
of massing dandelions]
and you – you slapped me
wide awake and taught me to attend
the light
and listen for the sounds of life
that bubble up
in kneaded clay
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Copyright © February 2005 Rachel F. Spinoza
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2005-03-04 13:56:48
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.94118
Rachel, as always with your pieces, I had to read it often enough to ease the emotional draw it has on me. I sought to see if the extent of the verse, a very personal look at the development of an individual, contained a greater nexus or prosperity. I wondered at the “stop and smell the roses” overused axiom, at the “you can hit a mule with a two X four, but you can’t make him drink” oxymoron/mixed metaphor, and at my life, finally my life.
Only then did I find the resolve to address this spectacular allegory.
Lessons – The subdued matter of the title plays to the early “character” of the lessons taught, but later, shouts in embellishment, the future lessons- revealed. I like it.
My mother taught me how to mourn – I sensed immediately the broader use of the term “mourn”, it is a symbol of the reserved, I here, therefore I am feeling of life. It leads us with “a need for redemption” that you provide in your next, “nixed nexus” that represents the future revelations.
{not how to greet the morning wild
with gladness, drunk with dreams
and stumbling toward a bliss
of consciousness} – I understood this, the giddiness of living, of striving, of discovery, of intemperate spirit, and I “mourned” that mother could not display it, possibly did not know of its calling, but more likely, that she had lost or misinterpreted the zeal of her youth.
My father taught me how strive
toward a worker’s world of peace – This sounds like my father, a good man, who when he laughed, lit up the room, but more often he made do, and worked, and he taught me by example, how to be a “good man”. Once again, there is an aspect that makes one wish for more.
[not how to make a picket fence
behave or satisfy demands
of massing dandelions] – I was a boy, I learned the picket fence thing, (I am not sure you meant a metaphor here, but if you did, he also taught me how “fences make good neighbors”, but that is a lesson with more drawbacks than boons), but “massing dandelions”, I worked all my summers to that end, but if I understand you right, there in the dandelion is the spirit neglected.
and you – you slapped me
wide awake and taught me to attend
the light – I do not think this day comes for many, or maybe many just see the slap, and duck or wince. “To attend the light”, promontory to freedom, to beauty. Awaken the spirit to the souls desires. Excellent transition.
and listen for the sounds of life
that bubble up
in kneaded clay – There was once a transformation with me, that at times I must “stir up the spirit within” to maintain coincidence with. You hear and see the sounds of life, the resolve of creation that you were unaware of, till that moment which broke the mold, and allowed flight. “The kneaded clay” produces a pot, that is hardened in the kiln, glazed and usually hand painted. The “kneaded clay” takes the form the creator designs.
Rachel, the “bubble up” indicates that the kneading of the human spirit is an on going aspect of life, and that the final vessel, glazed and painted, will only be seen when the pot is completed at the end of our life. I also concur, that the awakening, if clinged to, will add a wondrous color and design to the final painting, and that is to be strived for.
Thanks for sharing, I enjoy your verse to no end!!
This Poem was Critiqued By: Sandee L McMullan On Date: 2005-03-02 18:27:45
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.88889
Title: Lessons
A good title that reflects and clues the reader of content or the narrator’s approach to the body of the poem.
A very touching opening first line acts as forewarning perhaps. I want to read on with a little be of apprehension in the tone as resembling death around the corner or in the next line.
Ah, now in second line I come to { }a punctuation that I have no idea what to do with in this context. I am confused; I was looking at the parenthesis doing this job.
Second stanza addresses further lessons, therein a hit to the title. I esp like “stumbling toward a bliss in consciousness”. Gladness didn’t do it for me, or the drunk with dreams is too expected here to me.
Third stanza brings in the Father, giving a balance to the readers perspective of lessons of life. I like this introduction of other personal side note re: parents.
Fourth stanza again meets with some unusual punctuation, same as before.
The content here in the 4th is bright and refreshing “picket fence behave” and the “dandelions” brings this poem alive with image at this point. good one. Perhaps in second stanza, needs at least one image representing mother to ground the reader’s vision from abstract to concrete.
The slap I feel this, again the poem enlivens with sense device this time. “attend the light” is hard to know what image that is. I suggest try to ground this in the mind eyes.
Ending is superb leaving the reader with sight and feel of clay in their hands; the snapping of bubbles works.
I enjoyed this poem; it needs a little work on the images in the beginning; but by the ending the reader is in the poem.
. . . .
regards
This Poem was Critiqued By: Troy D Skroch On Date: 2005-02-24 23:41:55
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.92308
Rachel,
I read this poem over and over and over and then sat and looked at it for a long while trying to understand the beauty of the last stanza, then it hit me or "slapped" me awake.
In the case of the parents, the ones who are supposed to be "kneading the clay" and nurturing the life, they don't exactly do that. They seem more pragmatic attending to answering the problems of life rather than "living" or teaching their son or daughter to live life "wild with gladness, drunk with dreams".
My father taught me how strive
toward a worker’s world of peace
For example, the above two lines give me a feeling of apathy, seeming to channel away energy rather than concentrate it. No playing in the flowers are leisurely yard work for this dad as you go on to explain.
But it's the last two stanzas, the third thought, that really ties it all together and completes the poem wonderfully.
Something or someone really wakes up the son or daughter. "Slaps" them awake. This almost feels like a reference to this person's second birth. Good word choice even if it wasn't your intent. Then the poem goes on to say that the someone or something teaches the person to attend the "light", the positive, the life in life, so to speak.
The last stanza shows the completion of the person and completes the poem. The person is complete, because they know the difference between living life and surviving it and the last thought is complete balancing the poem perfectly. I think of the master potter bringing life out of the clay as I read. Beautiful.
and listen for the sounds of life
that bubble up
in kneaded clay
What excellent, balanced poetry that reads "cleanly" and fluently with impact, at least for this reader.
Thanks,
Troy
This Poem was Critiqued By: cheryl a kelley On Date: 2005-02-16 10:50:10
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Rachel,
This is short but says volumes.
Our parents teach us so much, but what is is that they teach. Your mother taught you how to mourn. followed by what you were not taught - how to be drunk with gladness. This is just enough information. It allows the reader to think about their own experiences. My mother taught me how to work - hard, and how to endure drudgery, but never how to dream of being fulfilled and to do the things you love.
the next stanza repeats the same theme with a different (wonderful) example.
and finally the "you in the poem teaches you (discovers in you) creativity and freedom, and you find all the things you were never taught. Nice piece. well done! An interesting, readable, creative love poem (most are so unreadable)
This Poem was Critiqued By: Claire H. Currier On Date: 2005-02-11 01:36:58
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.81818
Lessons.....good title for this piece poet.....structured well your words allow for emotions to burst forth and capture.......hold onto, images projected as well.......
it must have been a very sad thing to be taught to mourn like the opening line suggest.....and the mother whose own heart was heavy in this lesson most likely brought forth from her own childhood.....there are so many who have never had the opportunity to live, laugh, hug and enjoy life......wild with gladness, frunk with dreams....dad's lessons were just as needed as mother's in their own way my friend but I certainly do enjoy the lesson taught in closing by the one who slapped you awake.......for some of us faith will have stepped in here, for others your life's mate with all the joys associated with new love.....a yearning perhaps for family, friends, etc., but to me it is the shapping of the clay that brings it all together and the knowing there is more to life then what lessons you had already been taught....
and you – you slapped me
wide awake and taught me to attend
the light
and listen for the sounds of life
that bubble up
in kneaded clay
I did a poem once that referenced a ball of putty
......and we were that ball of putty and our family was the drawing room where we were formed...
Thanks for posting, for sharing with us your emotions......feelings, beliefs.......be safe, God Bless, Claire
This Poem was Critiqued By: Elaine Marie Phalen On Date: 2005-02-10 18:22:49
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hi Rachel ...
My mother taught me how to mourn
Wow, what an opening! It speaks of a legacy that entails loss and pain, as if this family has known much of both.
{not how to greet the morning wild
with gladness, drunk with dreams
and stumbling toward a bliss
of consciousness}
Here is a mother who must have been conscious of duty, of the obligations that we must assume toward our ancestors, of the awareness we must always maintain to honor their trials and sufferings. For her, there are no dreams or visions ahead, but only the haunting footfalls of pursuing ghosts, alive with screaming.
"Morning" picks up on the homophonic "mourn". "Wild with gladness" is wonderful! "Drunk with dreams" uses alliteration to great effect and then "stumbling" is linked to "drunk" through assonance and also through its logical action, since drunks tend to lose their balance. There's kind of an Emily Dickinson image here, like the little tippler against the sun. The sibilance of "bliss ... consciousness" is unexpectedly soft after those two "d" sounds. The speaker's desire for a higher state of awareness is not what her mother had in mind, methinks.
My father taught me how [to] strive
toward a worker’s world of peace
Ah, here is the paternal legacy - the socialist ideal, pure and untainted by greed or personal ambition. It is the workers who should determine their own fates. There is dignity in their labor, not to mention necessity.
[not how to make a picket fence
behave or satisfy demands
of massing dandelions] ... I like the use of two types of parentheses, the fancy ones for the post-mother-
reference, the sturdier for the post-father-passage; emotion vs pragmatism?
He's a political idealist. The mother, perhaps, is his opposite, although you don't really tell us that. Clearly, the father has his own sense of vision. Yet he is helpless against those "massing dandelions", who overpower the lesser plants because they're stronger, and might makes right. He seems not to be a forcible person in this context. Yet, although his wife mourns for what has been lost, this man looks forward to what can be achieved, even when it's impossible to do so.
and you – you slapped me
wide awake and taught me to attend
the light
and listen for the sounds of life
that bubble up
in kneaded clay .... the "l" consonance augments that bubbling effect
What beautiful cadence these last six lines have! The iambics are subtle but certainly enhance the way this passage is read.
The "you" is some other person, or perhaps even G-d, who has brought the speaker to fuller life and enlarged her perception. The birth image - "you slapped me wide awake" - implies a revelation of sorts. Attending "the light" - paying attention to the positive and attainable things - sounds close to "enlightenment". The newly-awakened individual is now her own person, not an amalgam of her parents. She must observe for herself the way of the world.
The "kneaded clay" is humanity, the shaping of potential into realization. Those "sounds of life", like the baby's first cry, arise from our mouths - from Adam's throat - from all the displaced and despairing people of the earth, who suddenly give voice to their own strength and courage. They have received a gift of Spirit - an expanded consciousness - to dwell within their flesh and give them hope. They are now more than clay.
Anyway, this is a poem that allows itself to radiate outward, from the parental center to something vaster and much more complex. With every generation, we restate the entire act of creation. We relive a certain element of Genesis and in our turn, we carry it forth to the next in line.
As always, it's a treat to read your work.
Later!
Brenda
This Poem was Critiqued By: Turner Lee Williams On Date: 2005-02-09 22:02:22
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Rachel--This is not a critique, but simply a comment(s) on what in my humble
opinion is a GREAT metaphoric/lyrical poem (although sequenced like a List
Poem). Your terse sober paternal sageness is completely and opposite matched
by poetical/non-literal verbiage (the stuff poetry is made of)!! The last two
stanzas (hyperbole) gives me goose bumps;
"...and you-you slapped me
wide awake and taught me to attend
the light
and listen for the sounds of life
that bubble up
in kneaded clay"
This understated titled/unpunctuated gem has absolutely nothing wrong--except
my muse did not bring it to me!! TLW
This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2005-02-09 18:53:56
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.00000
Rachel,
This is quite profound.
You must have/or had a wonderful parenting.
To teach a child to 'mourn' to me means 'to make it'. To be able to endure the not perfect times
and to be ok! Which actually is the best thing to do in preparation for adulthood and independence.
I think todays parents are misguided. Thinking to make their childrens lives better/easier thann what theirs had been is actually a dis-service.
My father taught me how strive
toward a worker’s world of peace
[not how to make a picket fence
behave or satisfy demands
of massing dandelions]
I'm unsure of this stanza. [help]
Maybe to not conform/satisfying massing dandelions.
And how can we 'make' anyone/or anything behave. Can't.
But if each person individually works to that peace-filled end it's possable.
???
and you – you slapped me
wide awake and taught me to attend
the light [and not be only thinking of worldly realities/think of God]
and listen for the sounds of life
that bubble up
in kneaded clay [we have the ability to shape our life if we pay heed]
Tell me if I'm in left field.
Very nicely gently got a good point across!
MY Best to you,
Dellena
This Poem was Critiqued By: Lynda G Smith On Date: 2005-02-08 20:13:59
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Hi Rachel,
I want to be like you when I grow up*grin*
My mother taught me how to mourn
From earlier poems I connect this first line with your matriarchial history. And from your mother's heart, the connective tissue of time and consequence in a gift of recognition. The line is so simple. Solitary, quiet, direct. I find the most profound thoughts are usually stimulated by words that have been pared of excess, sculpted to the bone. The m sounds somehow deliver comfort even with the solemnity of its genesis.
And then almost in an unconscious echo you continue with an aside in a soliloquey of that other world, an other worldliness, observed and experienced by the rest of the world, or perhaps another age...
{not how to greet the morning wild
with gladness, drunk with dreams
and stumbling toward a bliss
of consciousness}
What delicious sounds...
These words are as intoxicating as their reference, expressive with sound and sensibility. I like the use of the brackets to set these lines in thoughts apart to be considered somehow more carefully in our mind and heart. The metaphore is amazing.
My father taught me how strive
toward a worker’s world of peace
Your father too gave you a gift of great value. In the rythym of these lines there is a methodical respect for traditional values, and the ethical standards which are so much a part of who you are, as a person and as a poet. Here are values of the heart and mind and not pride in what we can do, but who we are. These are the things that will leave a lasting impression on the world; you, your poetry, all the things that are real - the intangibles that make up your frame of reference.
[not how to make a picket fence
behave or satisfy demands
of massing dandelions]
And finally to this unnamed facilitator, who brought you into the world, whether physical or mental, in a startling image of sound and sight. I wonder how many people become doctors in order to touch life in such a direct way. And how many are gifted with the ability to startle into life a being, a thought, a realization, a hope.... I do tend you push your poems into the metaphysical, but that is what I bring with me, and perhaps why your poems touch me so deeply
and you – you slapped me
wide awake and taught me to attend
the light
and listen for the sounds of life
that bubble up
in kneaded clay
Sometimes the kneading can be painful and sometimes fun, sometimes just hard work, but it's always productive. This metaphoric image of life bubbling up in the kneaded clay is one I will take with me into my kitchen the next time I make bread.
Thank you for this amazing piece Rachel,
Lynda
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