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This Poem was Submitted By: marilyn terwilleger On Date: 2005-04-14 09:27:35 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Crooked Shadows

There is a hush about the forest when phantom fog creeps in and whelms the leaping sun. It crawls between mountains hiding from light and dims heaven's torch. Taunt trees accept their fate and celebrate a veil of brume while swaying in unadulterated rhythm. Listen.... it sounds like a prayer, soft with a persistent flair. Too soon night invites a dark indigo cloak upon the scene and splintered beams of light slither as a curled moon lies like a silver sliver in a navy sea of sky. I stand at the window inhaling mountainous pomp and feel my heart pump as I watch in dread crooked shadows come...and now...sine the sun my muse is dead.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Claire H. Currier On Date: 2005-05-03 03:56:12
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.28000
Love the title...Crooked Shadows...........love Mother Nature is her full glory and this one certainly celebrates that with the structure, word flow, images projected with the flare of your pen, feelings, alive within and without..... hush about the forest, phantom fog creeping in.....leaping sun......... I can see you poet, standing by your window, taking in the scene you presented to us........the shought of a hush coming from the forest, the sun dancing between the trees, the birds resting on branches deep within and their morning chirps heard off in the distance.......... I find it hard to think I am mourning the passing of your muse my friend.........he is alive and well......and I thank you for posting, sharing this piece of beauty with us........... God Bless, Claire

This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2005-04-30 11:51:36
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Crooked Shadows I like this title which promises much There is a hush about the forest when phantom fog creeps in and whelms the leaping sun. It crawls between mountains Great scene setting with beautiful soft words: "phantom" fog "welms" which echo the moment and aamzing personification - as if the shadow itself were the shadow of a huge cosmic persona -- what a picture! hiding from light and dims heaven's torch. can clearly see that scene and feel it as you describe it in such metaphoric luxury Taut trees accept their fate and celebrate a veil of brume [lovely and lyrical] while swaying in unadulterated [this word is a little consonant heavy for the piece] rhythm. Listen.... [excellent directive!} it [is]a prayer, soft with a persistent flair. Too soon night invites a dark indigo cloak upon the scene and splintered beams of light slither as this line break is inspired - manu poet do not know how to use space effectively a curled moon lies like a silver sliver [- in a navy sea of sky.] I think it would be stronger without this elaboration] I stand at the window inhaling mountainous pomp [great!} and feel my heart pump as I watch in dread crooked shadows come...and now...sine the sun my muse is dead. Oh yeah ...sure - your muse is alive and kicking, Girl! Amazing poem - thanks Marilyn Best Rach

This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2005-04-26 14:24:59
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.73333
Marilyn, I have an affinity for fog aberrant weather, so this immediately draws my attention. It sounds much like a “screenplay” I wrote with a couple of buddies in High School, no it wasn’t video tape, it was 8MM…. anyways, you had me hiking into the “brume” of mystery. Crooked Shadows – When begun, one did not think this was what it is, but that it was something different. After reading, one realizes the title fits well, not only the passage of mist, but also the character of the weather pattern itself. There is a hush about the forest when phantom fog creeps in and whelms the leaping sun. – So well put. I often, here on the central coast of CA, have work on the peaks, and as I drive the roads towards the sun, I can see exactly what you speak of, the creeping fog hiding the sun from those areas that it conquers. it is almost a surreal example of forbidden love. It crawls between mountains hiding from light and dims heaven's torch. – Nice choice of words “dims” and “heavens torch”. The timbre it adds to the description sets the a part from many other “fog” related poems. Taunt (taunted or taut?) trees accept their fate and celebrate a veil of brume while swaying in unadulterated rhythm. Listen.... – “unadulterated” adds a sort of “virgin birth” type innocence to the “veiling” by the fog. It says, listen, it is a new sound, but listen, the “prayer” contains feelers from crypts as well as heaven. it sounds like a prayer, soft with a persistent flair. – “Persistent” is a powerful amplifier. It speaks, softly, and the conquering occurs, silently with quiet tenacity. Excellent. Too soon night invites a dark indigo cloak upon – that tweener time, of royal to past indigo are always times when I feel alive. I can absorb a palpable moment, when we wait and listen for the next step into the forest. the scene and splintered – An apt descriptive of light, streaking into the foggy forest. beams of light slither as – (Oooh I like slither, beams of light – or fog, slithering) a curled moon lies like a silver sliver in a navy sea of sky. – yea, you had to use Navy, and now it is incumbent on me to pretend I like this line/verse. No, no, don’t tell me you picked it without a thought to who might read it, … by the way, nice segway. I stand at the window inhaling mountainous pomp and feel – (another great descriptive, “mountainous pomp”. I feel it ba-bee!!). my heart pump as I watch in dread crooked shadows – the crooked, the shadows, the true personality of the night, with “heart pumping” and life musing, and the hesitation goes on….. come...and now...sine the sun my muse is dead. – I had to work on this one, for “sine” has specific meanings, the sun is waning, the fog is winning, the moon is reaching, and “sine”, the sun, the muse is dead, and what has that to do with “sine”. So I looked, and learned, the sway of the sun and moon is a circle, made up of (2) arcs, one seen the other not seen. As the wane the reach the “sine” (ordinate of the endpoint of an arc). Excellent, and now I have a new toy!! Thanks Marilyn.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Gerard A Geiger On Date: 2005-04-14 13:22:54
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Dear Marilyn; This work is astounding! You take the moments of twilight and evening fog mix them with sunlight refracted from the moon as slivers among the spreading indigo of darkness... stand at the window inhaling mountainous pomp (unique,beautiful originality) watch in dread crooked shadows (presumably through the trees) sine the sun...and your muse is dead... Sun or no sun, your muse is alive and kicking, and I feel it all the way to my ankles.... This is just superfine work Marilyn...I am proud to have shared this moment of discovery with you....Thank you for this lesson.. Always your friend, Gerard

This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2005-04-14 10:44:42
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Marilyn: Your entire poem belies the final line; that night has come and the sun has gone, you write "my muse is dead." And the poem ends! But the poem lived whilst the light decreased. "dread/dead" suggest a mournful tone, and yet, the poem is filled with resonant, pleasurable imagery. I can't resist a playful approach, even given that the poem is a bit 'dark' in theme. I am so happy to be back, and that the site is up and allowing us to present and appreciate and discuss one another's art work. Marilyn, this poem is a gold mine of wordplay and sonics, and vivid imagery. There is a hush about the forest when phantom fog creeps in and whelms the leaping sun. ---delightful image of the sun leaping, being whelmed by the "phantom fog" It crawls between mountains ---the fog personified is almost 'creepy' as it "crawls" hiding from light and dims heaven's torch. What force, beside fog, could dim "heaven's torch"? What insidious thing could the fog symbolize? There is melancholy, and perhaps a presentiment of things afoot that are not part of 'heaven' if I understand correctly. Taunt (taut? taunted?) trees accept their fate and celebrate a "veil of brume" -- exquisite suggestion of fog/winter while swaying in unadulterated rhythm. Listen.... For me "unadulterated" implies that the rhythm of the trees is unqualified or diluted by anything. But I also feel a hint of 'adultery' in this word, as if the trees' rhythm is stimulated by the fog, which incites them to act in un-treelike ways. You write "it sounds like a prayer" and yet, I have the feeling that it is not authentic. Something in this rhythmic motion is slightly creepy. I am reminded of your poem, "Adda" dealing with the frightening aspects of wind. Too soon night invites a dark indigo cloak upon (suggest omitting "dark" if you revise, as "indigo" shows darkness) the scene and splintered beams of light slither as a curled moon lies like a ---Moon as symbol of the feminine? A sleeping woman in fetal position? silver sliver in a navy sea of sky. Above, your allits are magnificent. The short 'i' sounds of "splintered/slither/silver/slither" are simply splendiferous! Again, your verbs give another clue to things behaving differently than one expects, as previously with "creeps/crawls" and now, "slither" -- something mysterious is afoot! I stand at the window inhaling mountainous pomp and feel my heart pump as I watch in dread crooked shadows come...and now...sine the sun my muse is dead. The words "dread/dead" and "pomp/pump" convey a sense of anxious waiting. The "crooked shadows come" and things change in a subtle, unsettling way. "sine" as in 'without'? What is the sun for this speaker? I suspect that the metaphor is that the sun is the source from which all good things flow. In many cultures, the sun is a symbol of the divine. The coldness and darkness of "crooked shadows" seem to represent something which has 'overshadowed' the light in the speaker's life at present. An absence of the source of all good, if you will. I am over-analyzing! I cannot help but feel that the poet's sensitivities and sensibilities are affected by something which is vague, hard to define, but which she feels very deeply. She also maintains intense awareness of the lack of that vibrant force or vitality that ordinarily 'lights' her writing and life. This is a fine work of art-- a watercolor done in muted colors. A Chopin ballade in a minor key. Perhaps a bluesy song, sung by a woman alone. Thank you for this thoughtful, moody piece. I enjoyed it immensely! Kudos! Best always, Joanne

This Poem was Critiqued By: Helen C DOWNEY On Date: 2005-04-14 10:23:08
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 7.00000
MArilyn, It sounds like you were in the deep dark forest! I like how you depict the life of the forest. The tall trees with thier leaves...'It crawls between mountains hiding from light (the forest floor)...'dims heaven's torch'..the protectionf of the leaves. You describe beautifully how the trees 'sway in unaduterated rhythm'...and with that one word "Listen"...I can hear the russel of the leaves, the silence of the reverant air. And in the 5th stanza your use of words so describes the darkness as well as the slivers of sun rays. The last line is my favorite..."sine the sun my muse is dead". It is true that without an energy source we are not much. Truly enjoyed your poem. Well written. Helen

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