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This Poem was Submitted By: Mark Andrew Hislop On Date: 2005-06-11 00:23:40 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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The idea-hound

I fantasise this night-noon instant’s wood: Another being is breathing Nearing the hourglass’s hermitage And this empty parchment which detains my hand. The windowpane shows me no constellations: A being closer by Yet more internal to the gloom Is going inside the hermitage: Chill, sensitively as the lightless ice-fall, A hound’s snout brushes stem, bud; Its nostrils enable an advance, that this instant And again this, and this, and this Stamps tidy impressions upon the ice Amongst the bushes, and guardedly a limping Silhouette slips past tree-trunk and cave Of a presence that’s fearless to approach Negotiating open spaces, a sense, A broadening intensifying life Gleamingly, indistractably, Intent upon its own purpose Until, in an abrupt clawed searing reek of hound It bounds into the lightless cavern of the brain. The windowpane yet withholds its constellations; the hourglass runs, The parchment is inscribed. (After Ted Hughes.)

This Poem was Critiqued By: Elaine Marie Phalen On Date: 2005-07-07 06:05:58
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Wow, Mark, I really like what you've done here. That "hourglass's hermitage" reminds us that inspiration can't be confined to a time or place, and is also fleeting. But the poet is ever conscious of mortality and time. The visit of the hound is beautifully depicted ... what striking imagery! Chill, sensitively as the lightless ice-fall, A hound’s snout brushes stem, bud; Its nostrils enable an advance, that this instant And again this, and this, and this Stamps tidy impressions upon the ice Amongst the bushes, and guardedly a limping Silhouette slips past tree-trunk and cave "Lightless ice-fall" is a treat for the ear. The stem and bud suggest developing growth, an awakening of the mind. The images of gloom, cavern, cave, hermitage could be taken as metaphors for the skull's interior where the brain crouches, waiting. Through its window-eyes, the stars swim past when we're fortunate enough to perceive them. If not, we write of darkness. Hughes, I think, knew more than his share of shadows. Who knows what beast may slouch out of the woods and pursue the poet's imagination? Sometimes, we may fear to face such a one. This is superb writing; you've done Hughes proud. Kudos! Brenda

This Poem was Critiqued By: Mandie J Overocker On Date: 2005-06-19 18:27:04
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Wow Mark... Once again your writing has touched me ever so deeply. What a beautiful way you have captured the essence of writing and with such a powerful metaphor as the hound. I had to reread this several times to be sure it wasn't about a real blood hound that is how well you have employed the imagery here. I love the constellationless windowpane, and the 'parchment' which detains your hand. eloquently written. Thanks for sharing this !!! Mandie

This Poem was Critiqued By: marilyn terwilleger On Date: 2005-06-14 15:50:42
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.77778
Hi Mark, I continue to be amazed by your poetics...the words you use to express feelings are exquisite and seem to flow from your brain to your pen with ease. It is my feeling that this poem was spawned out of the frustration all writers feel when ideas just won't jump up and hit us in the face....and this empty parchment which detains my hand...how many times have I felt this way? Nearing the hourglass's hermitage...is a brilliant line. And then in the second stanza...yet more internal to the gloom is going inside the hermitage...pulls the thought together very effectively....Chill, sensitively as the lightless ice-fall...is a line I will always remember and wish I had written it! If my assessment is correct you overcame your frustration in a hurry! Your poem if full of rich images and ideas that excite me.. ..guardedly a limping silhouette slips past tree-trunk and cave of a presence that is fearless to approach... ..I liken this to a symphony where cymbals crash and drumb beats build into a frenzy in sound and emotion. A broadening intensifying life..gleaming indistractably intent upon its own purpose...until in an abrupt clawed searing reek of hound...here the cymbals crash loudly and fiercely making a deafening sound...it bounds into the lightless cavern of the brain. The windowpane yet withholds its constellations; the hourglass runs, the parchment is inscribed. Thank heavens...I am getting all worked up here!! I am sorry that I am not familar with Ted Hughes...maybe you will enlighten me. But whoever he is he would be exhilarated over this piece. I love classical music and when playing the piano I find myself always playing those pieces first. In fact can't most things in life be set to music? Love, good emotions and bad ones too, fear, sorrow, glee, remorse, and on and on. I have probably completely fractured this wonderful write but it speaks to me in this manner and will stay with me for a long time to come as I feel your words pounding to music in my chest. Peace.....Marilyn

This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2005-06-13 08:17:28
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mark: Though I am not familiar with much of Ted Hughes’ work, this poem felt like an ars poetica to me, or at least, a heavy flirtation with the muse. Thus called out, what true Muse could keep her distance from such ardent courting as this? Reading through several times, I found myself enthralled with your poetic voice, your artistry, your facility with our shared language. Some poems are pure pleasure to read, and this is definitely of that class. The idea-hound Title evokes both a hound, and a kind of truffle-snuffling beast within the speaker’s mind. I fantasise this night-noon instant’s wood: Another being is breathing Nearing the hourglass’s hermitage And this empty parchment which detains my hand. “night-noon instant’s wood” is so rich with the sensation of time having no identifiable quality when one is searching the ‘wood’ for ideas, carrying one’s “empty parchment” in one’s hand. The windowpane shows me no constellations: A being closer by Yet more internal to the gloom Is going inside the hermitage: Even the spread of heaven across the sky holds no intrigue when one is as insistently focused within. When within, “a being closer by” is casting about for what is sensed “inside the heritage.” I hear this pronounced as the ‘Hermitage’ where the final Czar of Russia made his retreats. The speaker doesn’t seem timorous about entering that gloom in order to sort out or discover its contents. We enter into the darkest planes within in order to give form to ideas. A rich root cellar. Chill, sensitively as the lightless ice-fall, A hound’s snout brushes stem, bud; Its nostrils enable an advance, that this instant And again this, and this, and this This is what I meant in my beginning comments about the sheer pleasure of reading the heightened intensity of your poetic language. The first line with its liquid doubled ‘l’ sounds, the assonance of “lightless/ice-fall” and then the intrusive “hound’s snout” approaching the seeking with abundant plosives: “brushes/bud” – but the best part for me is your bringing readers (me) into “this instant” and repeating “this, and this, and this.” Falling into and over the words and gathering them like wildflowers. (truffles would not delight this reader as much) Stamps tidy impressions upon the ice Amongst the bushes, and guardedly a limping Silhouette slips past tree-trunk and cave Of a presence that’s fearless to approach The poetic vision restored, a certain giddiness, though “guardedly” the being “slips past tree-trunk and cave” as if surreptitiously moving, so that what is near, the ‘almost grasp’ does not slip away. Negotiating open spaces, a sense, A broadening intensifying life Gleamingly, indistractably, Intent upon its own purpose Yes! That sure knowledge, the heat of the palpating brain, the influx of that heavenly substance …the relentless pursuit and capture …how beautifully written! Until, in an abrupt clawed searing reek of hound It bounds into the lightless cavern of the brain. The windowpane yet withholds its constellations; the hourglass runs, The parchment is inscribed. Capture! That sensation beats just about anything (just about) of which I am aware. The poet isn’t looking to the windows for arcane inspiration from the distant constellations. His inner universe is lit, as “the hourglass runs” and time again makes is stealthy movements. Best line: “The parchment is inscribed.” Akin to “the baby is born” or “Hallelujah, I am free!” Many thanks for the opportunity to roam among your words, once more. Best always, Jo

This Poem was Critiqued By: DeniMari Z. On Date: 2005-06-11 14:53:58
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.50000
Dear Mark, I enjoyed reading your poem. You have a very clever imagination, the best thing a talented writer can be blessed with. It's really a story, in itself, and the imagery shows the reader everything that is transpiring from begining to end. This is very deep, and the message I get is someone not having any ideas of what to write - to something that could fill up a page. (Is that right?) - It bounds into the lightless cavern of the brain- your way of telling us that. I like your style of writing, you are very good at it. Thanks for posting. Sincerely, DeniMari

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