This Poem was Submitted By: Mark Andrew Hislop On Date: 2005-11-21 22:14:32 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Senex

It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know how much I loved you. It doesn’t matter that the boy you were lived with dead parents as if the crime were his and you, your memory shot,  your only witness. Or that you stepped, brave target, into the path of another’s Death, who knocked you flying,  dislocated your hip and gave the gravest pain to all your love-making. It doesn’t matter, I’d still have done what I have done: love wishes to be blind. For knowing now makes my love no jot more pure but only infinitely  more sad.

Copyright © November 2005 Mark Andrew Hislop

This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2005-11-26 11:26:19
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.82353
The arrows fly with poignant honesty. A verse worth sending to my seedling. tew

This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2005-11-22 16:19:21
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.42857
Mark, I don't know what Senex means.... I like the easy readability of this. It helps my weary head. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know how much I loved you.[this is true of alot of us. In retrospect, it all appears different. I broke up with the most special to me, sweetest boy, [in high school] I kicked myself ever after] It doesn’t matter that the boy you were lived with dead parents as if the crime were his and you, your memory shot, your only witness.[dead parents meaning:they were there but not? And as children we take verything personal] Or that you stepped, brave target, into the path of another’s Death, who knocked you flying, dislocated your hip and gave the gravest pain to all your love-making.[this is real heroism. wow] It doesn’t matter, I’d still have done what I have done: love wishes to be blind.[yes, love s blind.] For knowing now makes my love no jot[jot? perhaps joy?] more pure but only infinitely more sad. [believe it or not, loving another makes love 'more'] You gave of yourself, and would again. You were rewarded by gaining more respect of yourself, and more of an appreciation of life. And I'm sue there's other benefits. We, as growing people, must have earth shaking experiences to advance in our process of being. Why should life most precious, be wasted on pleasure only, where nothing expands the consciousness. In the school of hard knocks, comes some very honorable people. Will you be one? dellena
This Poem was Critiqued By: marilyn terwilleger On Date: 2005-11-22 16:05:21
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.83333
Hi Mark, This poem has such a sad quality to it but I was compelled to read it several times. Sometimes we never know how much love we have for another until they are gone, either gone from this world or their essence is gone and they no longer exist as the person we knew. The person you speak of here apparently was damaged by mistake...an errant bullet or vehicle...and he stepped into the death meant for another. You have some wonderful phrases here which are filled with pathos and it is clearly felt by me. You are so right...love does wish to be blind but that in itself makes it more pure. Without love we would all just shrink up, waste away, and die. My list, for this month, mostly consists of your poetry...so how am I suppose to handle that when the voting begins? Oh me or my, what a cruel world!! As ever....Mazza
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2005-11-22 14:44:50
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.93333
Mark: This isn't going to be a very articulate comment, but I need to make one. After reading a poem a certain number of times, and especially if it effects me emotionally, I believe I owe at least some response to the author. This poem is "infinitely more sad." Compassion and taking responsibility for actions which may not be undone are heartfelt, clearly. The poem rippled in my memory for quite a while after the first reading. And I reflected on how many poems I have written for people no longer living, or people whom I love who are living, but who will never read my words, either because I won't read or give the poem to them, either out of protectiveness towards them or myself, or my not wanting to be misunderstood. Poets perhaps have a tendency to express a lot of things in poems and less directly than more extroverted types. Of course there is no 'pure' type, IMO, as we are all a mixture of both, or variable depending on many other things. Another reflection which your poem prompted for me is the letters I have written or thought. Sometimes there are no second chances to tell people how much we value them. Maybe they know by our behavior, maybe not. I am thinking now specifically of someone, a friend whom I valued immensely, who was killed by a gunman, stalking someone else, at the college where he taught. I hadn't stayed in touch as planned when one day on the news I heard there had been a shooting and I knew instantly that it was him. I wrote a poem about the event and posted it here, but it did no good as far as telling him anything. It relieved only a small part of my sorrow. I would have liked to have told him that I knew he would have taken the bullet for the woman for whom it was intended were he given the option to do so. Whatever the forces that operate, whether random or synchronous, his fate was completed that day. I had no more chances to tell him anything, exchange hugs, express more about my appreciation for his playing the piano for my mother's memorial or anything else. So your poem does this for me - it's a reminder that it is permissible to tell people know, while I can, what they mean to me and why. So thank you for this, once more. My best to you, Joanne
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2005-11-22 14:23:19
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.80000
MAH, Very personal stuff coming from you, mate. And you're a veritable Vesuvius this month. Some of my favorite lines: "you, your memory shot, your only witness." and "into the path of another’s Death" The honest emotion, examination, passing through the crucible of your poetry was worth the trip. As always. One down. One to go. At least you make it easy, mate. In at least one sense. MSS
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