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This Poem was Submitted By: Rick Barnes On Date: 2005-04-26 04:47:13 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Second Avenue

Nothing is open. Last night refuses to turn to morning. The streets slowly release yesterdays warmth into an empty sky gone far beyond blue. I have all of these things that I had promised in the light of day I would do. Tomorrow may not need them done, and these deserted streets are not asleep because it is too early, they are abandoned because it is too late.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2005-05-01 17:55:15
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.59375
Rick, There is a morning time in the city before everything that's as if time stands still. It's after yesterday, before today. You're hung over from the excitement of the day before. You had big hopes of accomplishing things, but in the light of day they arn't important. It's like twilight hour. [twilight zone] I'm here, your there, but where are we......mostly where are you? It's always late but never too late. Stick around and you'll see the stores open inevitably. [patience] I get going on crazy 'things'. Excuse my silly rambling. Time never moves at the speed we wish.[don't care] Another fun one to dwell on. I'd love a minute in your brain. Dellena

This Poem was Critiqued By: Audrey R Donegan On Date: 2005-05-01 00:18:39
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.26087
God I love that line - 'The streets slowly release yesterdays warmth into an empty sky gone far beyond blue.' 'and these deserted streets are not asleep' - a smooth rhyming line I am envious of your talent, Audrey

This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2005-04-27 12:06:39
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
It pleased me to hear of the abandonment. At least I'm alone with someone nearby. NorthWest

This Poem was Critiqued By: Mell W. Morris On Date: 2005-04-26 17:28:03
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.66667
Ramblin' Rick: I should stop right there, liebchen, because I do not understand your poem. Ergo, it has me in a full-Nelson and there's no way out except the way of the poltroon. This feels like a dream of frustration, a place of Catch 22; damned if you do, etc. Which Second Avenue? Where? Sci fi: morning never comes, hold onto the night because the usual transition from dark to light is stalled like a squall off-shore. I love it; I love it. Streets releasing yesterday's warmth and the receiving sky is empty. Sounds as if a list of necessary tasks has been contrived and likely not needed. Here I sit, unable to declare my boundaries...where do I end and you begin...same as the mean streets...empty streets are not asleep because or the early hour, and mean streets are abandoned becauce of the late hour. I have thought of you constantly for two days, now your book is trandsporting around the apartment. I wonder why crepuscular means sadness because no one comes home to me at day's end. This not an accidental poem and it exists apart from yourself. I fight to not hit the delete button. It defines me.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2005-04-26 11:08:06
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.69697
Rick: There is an eerie feeling that suffuses this work as if time's been suspended. Not being stuck in a time warp, like “Ground Hog Day” but pausing in no-time, when “nothing” is open. Time is usually feels as if it is flowing, except when we are at a moment of turning, of reconsidering, or perhaps, wanting to escape, i.e., the dentist’s chair. Even dependable ‘night’, personified, “refuses” to become morning. (Turn to ‘mourning’?) The streets even seem very reluctant to let go of what has been, releasing the 'heat' of activity, pressure, as in the 'heat' is on. Is it ‘the heat of passion’ in which they wish to linger? The reason for this reluctance appears to be an existential dilemma. Existentialism denies that the universe has any inherent meaning or rationale and requires individuals to take accountability for their own actions and form their own destinies. Their skies are not filled with cherubim and seraphim, but are really empty, “gone far beyond blue.” The implication here could be dual: the sky is so devoid of reference as to have lost its ‘blueness’, that is, it’s symbolism of happy times, of promise. Or, perhaps as ‘blue’ is a synonym for melancholy, the sky may represent a state of being that is “far beyond blue” into utter hopelessness and despair. This poem seems the obverse of “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening” but elicits it, at least for me. The speaker in this poem has “all of these things/ that I had promised/ in the light of day/ I would do.” Frost declares: “But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.” Some interpret this as a kind of credo, or promise to the future. But because he has repeated the hypnotic statement, he could be referencing a state of suspended animation. Perhaps he wishes more than anything to enter into sleep, trying to shake himself back into coherent reality by invoking his ‘promises’ and his responsibilities. And in your poem, the speaker also considers the potential for action, based on “all of these things that I had promised.” He sees the streets as “deserted” rather that “lovely” as Frost’s woods. That the streets “are not asleep” but rather “abandoned because it is too late” sets a theme that is deeply melancholic. The sentient streets are aware, bare of traffic, profoundly deserted. Wide awake in the universe, but empty of purpose and even of that necessary quality for streets to maintain their identity: direction. The speaker seems wide awake in a state of mind that hesitates between hope and hopelessness. “Tomorrow may not need them done.” What is “too late” for the streets to continue their cycle of warmth and release, in night which refuses to turn into day? What are the promises, made “in the light of day” which seem futile now? The pervasive sense of purposelessness is overwhelming here. I cannot feel it as a freedom or a letting go with relief. That violates my world view (though here I am abandoning the speaker’s ‘world view’ for a few moments) in that ‘it is never too late to turn things around.’ But for the speaker, at least at this juncture, “it is too late.” I feel a sense of uneasy resignation just now, as if I have accepted the situation ‘as is’ when in fact everything in me fights for a different outcome. This is the moment when I will have to realize I cannot separate my emotions from my analysis of the poem, nor will my desire for the speaker to see things differently (as I interpret this poem) let me off the hook. As always, your poetry’s complexity, intensity, and candor have maximum effect. This also convinces me of another maxim: great poetry is simply written. Only you, Rick. Incredible. Bravo! My best always, Joanne

This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2005-04-26 07:28:12
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Second Avenue Excellent piece Rick – I have made some cosmetic suggestions. Nothing is open. Last night refuses to turn to morning. Profoundly rich beginning which draws us right in The streets slowly release yesterday[‘]s warmth into an empty sky gone far beyond blue. Good use of imagery # I have [done] all of these things that I had promised in the light of day I would do. [But] Tomorrow [does not] need them [-done,] and these deserted streets are not asleep because it is too early, they are abandoned because it is too late. Fine ending with its paradoxical and somber tone. Great to see your work again Rick, I hope all is well with you Always, Rach

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