This Poem was Submitted By: Brandon Gene Petit On Date: 2006-02-09 21:31:56 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
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Clove Cemetery The evening winds converse with the dead
Ignoring the dormant abodes of the living
Bird-less trees reply with a rustle
The language of loneliness fondles their leaves
I wander among the dew-coated headstones
Contemplating each legacy laid
My name not found among the assortment
I’m somewhat dwarfed among the alliance
“Conklin, Edwards, Allen, Schultz ….”
The names read off like a tepid parade
The resonance of their distinctive tones
Pounds like a catalyst soon to awaken
The epitaphs scold with a look of importance
Victorian elegance cynically carved
I exit the lot with a trace of naivety,
Leaving the dead to their sober retreat
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Copyright © February 2006 Brandon Gene Petit
Additional Notes:
Appears in Brandon Petit's new poetry collection "Intrinsic Desires" (available at most online retailers)
ISBN: 1420891995
This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas H. Smihula On Date: 2006-03-06 10:34:56
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.28571
Brandon I enjoy your poetry as you know and this one I think is one of the best. I actually felt as if I were walking looking at the headstones and like how you retreated leaving them to rest. You had a very nice structure and flow within this piece also combined with a thought. Well done.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Melanie Sue Worley On Date: 2006-02-21 11:38:21
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
A wonderment in death! Loneliness and isolation with a change or redemption. Very nostalgic.
This Poem was Critiqued By: DeniMari Z. On Date: 2006-02-12 19:36:48
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Dear Brandon,
Reading this poem, just happened to coincide, with the day I took my son to see Final Destination 3 - so,
it's subject of death intrigues me today, more so than any other day might. Staring at the face of death, is never an easy venture, and this walk through the cemetary gave me shivers.
You've used wonderful descriptives in this. First two lines, pulled me into the poem - and I found the rest of it to be very, very good. Any poem, that tells me something, makes me feel something I never have before,
is a good poem.
Another good line: The names read off like a tepid parade - epitaphs scold, again imagery points the reader into a well defined area, to fully absorb each verse in it's poetic display.
I enjoyed this Brandon, it's a clear, comfortable flowing poem.
Sincerely,
Denimari
This Poem was Critiqued By: James C. Horak On Date: 2006-02-11 14:32:06
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
We wrestle with finality all our lives, half-alert always to
preparing to die, toying with notions of alternatives, preyed
upon by charlatans laying claim to reservations for our ticket
to heaven. A realization making import with your, "trace of naivety"
and why we harbor even the graves of our dead with such an embraced,
"Leaving the dead to their sober retreat", binds us all into a
common fascination to entertain not all of anyone dies.
Your first two lines juxtapose the dead conversing with the wind,
with "dormant abodes of the living". Along with dormant late fall
or winter, your setting adds to a play upon life and its sometimes
dormancy, to death with its feet still in the world.
One might suppose your attitude in, "My name not found among the
assortment" to be somewhat disdainful of life, in conjunction with
the afore considerations and to wonder at what this, "catalyst soon
to awaken" might express. Life after death?
Tracing meaning with this interpretation gives your line, "I'm
somewhat dwarfed among the allinace" a more clearly understood
meaning, that perhaps life achieves more readily in death sometimes,
than in life. Sadly, too often the plight of poet and artist.
Your reader is left with thoughtful contexts for revisiting the past
and its fallen without the modlin applied, and without the usual
overdone similes labored to cliche'.
Polished, tight verse structure, no more homage to rhyme than is
needed (that might otherwise distract from the somber tone,) and
a sustained imagery that parallels death with season, resignation,
and one's view of life. Publishable poetry.
JCH
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