This Poem was Submitted By: Mark Andrew Hislop On Date: 2005-05-11 12:14:25 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Island life

That idiotic palm frond  That drank my breath last night Drips its morning sweat, Gives me back the taste of me, Wakes my dust to the sauna. So, I still live. Never mind. Call me Jericho. Did I tell you? I rode the pampas, once,  Stole on horseback A king’s daughter, Conceived two dozen sons, Conquered Troy. And Berlin. Did I tell you? It’s not like me to forget. Did I tell you? It’s not like me to forget. I walk my sanded street again today Beside my big blue gutter. No insolence to parry No deference to pay The moon will wax and wane On my word. My word is incandescent. Burn, I say to you.  Burn, I’ll wait- Until you’re burnt right through. I cannot see one toucan today. How familiar. The horizon is as far away as ever.

Copyright © May 2005 Mark Andrew Hislop

This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2005-06-05 13:03:58
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.53191
Conceiving two dozen sons. Wow were you busy! I'm not sure if this piece has any truth to it at all, but hey Mark, I can hardly understand it. Is that unusual? Going from palm fronds dripping sweat to blue gutters is quite imaginative or brilliant. I don't know which.! I cannot see one Toucan on my island today either. I do live on an island but we do have lots of Eagles, and Hawks, and Jays, and sea Gulls...oh well I'm just blabbering on here. What I do really want to say is that I enjoy trying to figure you out. Your mind is quite the enigma. I must see what other critiquers had to say. I wonder - will I ever make it to first base? Sincerely, Arnie

This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2005-05-29 10:45:29
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mark: This poem, from title to final line is deeply compelling. A soliloquy of angst, in a surreal setting that matches the speaker’s mood. Not self-pity, but self-perception, a too-tight fitting of the skin. With “Island life” I think of one living as isolated, in a kind of existence that feels dreamlike, detached, and yet all-too-aware of what is lacking. A ‘morning after’ (mourning after) effect, to be sure. A certain sardonic humor informs S1’s L-1 and 2. I could not help but smile. How we find ourselves in certain situations, in which we sought to find surcease, and yet “still live! Never mind.” I smiled again at “Call me Jericho.” Funny how we outlive even our most drastic efforts to become numb. Or at least, not so keenly aware of what is missing. Did I tell you? I rode the pampas, once, Stole on horseback A king’s daughter, Conceived two dozen sons, Conquered Troy. And Berlin. Did I tell you? Self-mocking, yet with wry humor, once again. Life’s potential adventures, in reality or fantasy, are textures which the speaker uses to scourge himself. And he is not finished yet – but goes on as if to repeat a now meaningless mantra. Feeling unlike himself, but unable to summon anything other than his repetitious scourge. As an aside, at times in my life I have done this. When mistaken in judgment in close relationships, for example. Or feeling like an idiot because of some misstatement given by myself or another. It’s not like me to forget. Did I tell you? It’s not like me to forget. Driving the point home. A pervasive sense of ennui, pointlessness. The speaker tells us (the poet informs) that he is ‘unlike’ himself. I walk my sanded street again today Beside my big blue gutter. Example of a powerful metaphor, above. Another walk on the sanded street, with ‘my’ big blue gutter. The speaker owns the gutter, where we think of life’s detritus floating past continuously. “blue” seems a reference to the extreme lassitude and hopelessness that are this poem’s reflective tone. No insolence to parry No deference to pay The moon will wax and wane On my word. Utter isolation, so that the moon seems the only witness to this parody of self. Your voice is extremely strong here, your poetic crafting honed, in brilliant, sharply defined points. My word is incandescent. Burn, I say to you. Burn, I’ll wait- Until you’re burnt right through. Relentlessly, the speaker attempts to discard his incandescent word. To flame his thoughts into non-existence. Yet what castigation would remain without these words? I cannot see one toucan today. How familiar. Nothing of joy or comfort. Bleakness, everywhere. If there are toucans, the speaker would not see them, or at least they would be seen as colorless, less than disappointing. The horizon is as far away as ever. The final line gives the artist’s perspective on this state-of-mind poem: endless, endless hopelessness. Imprisonment within one’s thoughts and altered senses. It is a fine work, in every sense. If I have gone beyond, or stepped all over, your intent for the piece, I hope you’ll accept my response to it as I can only see it through my own filters. Intensely, scribed with utmost precision and authenticity. A fine work, once more. Bravo! Peace, Joanne
This Poem was Critiqued By: Claire H. Currier On Date: 2005-05-19 06:46:35
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.90909
And so is the world some of us live in Poet.......a world of dreams, hopes, despair, truth or fiction.......sometimes it is hard and most difficult to tell...... Good structure, word flow, images of this island perhaps smack in the middle of some busy city life itself but still an escape from reality........the walls of Jericho came tumbling down.......will the walls you created do the same........thanks for posting and sharing with us once more.......God Bless, Claire
This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2005-05-17 08:50:01
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Jericho: The toucans are here. They enjoy Chopin's Nocturnes. I never liked Berlin. Yet, the grass is greener here. How unfamiliar.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mell W. Morris On Date: 2005-05-12 13:06:41
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
MAH, Glad to see you back posting altho I've been unable to review much. I'm unsure about the import of your piece but found it entertaining and well-written. At first, I thought mayhaps it was Gilligan's Island but poet's isle is much more sophisticated. Waking to a palm frond's sweat which recycles your own taste or aroma "Call me Jericho", poet says, and I wonder if that means walls will continue to collapse until they've all tumbled down. Or better, "Call me Ishmael," and look what happened to him! Stanza 2 regales us with adventures that you have to put reason aside and just pass the smoke. "Did I tell you" begins stanza 2 and ends it as well. Twentry-four sons should be of some usefulness in poet's imagined battles. And we begin to see that poet has indeed become a bit psychotic as he says, "Did I tell you? It's not like me to forget." That bit of verbiage is set apart for emphasis. Each stanza maintains a steady beat and is replete with assonance..too much to point out every instance. Poet reminds readers of his position: no deference to give wax and wanes the moon words incandescent... "one toucan today"is a very nice bit of play with words. But when you've exhausted your every bit of imaginative thoughts, poet is still stuck on the island. "The horizon is as far away as ever." A very sobering and pessimistic view of life as seen thru the no-hope reaction of poet as with her daughters. I've spent nearly two hours with your poem which is heads above most linguistry here. In fact, it's so danged existential, I think I missed much of the import. However that may be exactly as you intended. You owe no explanations and I don't usually give them myself. Good work. Mell
This Poem was Critiqued By: Audrey R Donegan On Date: 2005-05-11 13:08:09
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.57143
Mark, very impressive. Your imagery and inferences are spectacular. 'that idiotic palm frond that drank my breath last night drips its morning sweat'- you create a vivid picture for the reader. 'I walk my sanded street again today beside my big blue gutter' - wonderful inference to beach and ocean. This piece flows with such ease. Descriptive and clear - well done. Audrey
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