This Poem was Submitted By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2012-12-04 00:29:16 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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At the Library

                                                              Too poor for purchase, you wrote them out.                                                               What kind of love is that, here? Your scribe’s                                                               Labor, lacking an object fit for such a task,                                                               Dwindled without condign reward.                                                                The distance between you and the Word,                                                               Far beyond their instruments of measurement,                                                               Is bridged by such a charity as consigns                                                                Hope to dust: there is no faith where things                                                               That die descend forever in the waves.                                                                 But you loved anyway. So on your lines                                                               They come to climb, high on the ripples                                                               Of your words, borne where the sting of life                                                               Is lessened, though the grave, still hard,                                                               Is only made deeper. No bells, no sound,                                                               Just quiet in a darkening room; a contact                                                               That will never feel to touch; a multitude                                                               Of ghosts that might have been.                                                                These crowd the doorways, where you walk,                                                               Where impoverished urchins see you as they dream. 

Copyright © December 2012 Mark Steven Scheffer


This Poem was Critiqued By: cheyenne smyth On Date: 2013-01-07 15:13:53
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hi Mark, This is a marvelous poem and one I enjoyed from the first line to the last. Your use of poetic devices is admirable to say the least. I must admit I had to look up the meaning of 'condign' and I am glad I'm not too old to learn something new. I have failed at picking a favorite line as I like each one. You have chosen expressive words that flow down the page with ease. Well done. Best wishes, cheyenne


This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2012-12-15 09:35:35
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Frankly MSS, I should be impressed (as if I never was). Never having seen or used, (though familiar with the term) condign used in context, or at all in writing- I guess; with sympathetic exhilaration- I was impressed. So nix all said above. Those images of stored knowledge and passion, visited when they are visited and the analogy itself is a transference to the reader. The library was opened, even if in obscured reading. I cannot think that the alliteration of (I’s) was accidental. I do not recall such an up front pattern from you before. –scribes, consigns, condign, die climb- it all adds mystery to a code in the piece that only a regular visitor to the –library- might be aware. But the term is stressed in –I-, first person and can easily allude to the purpose of the verse, that of personal repository, not of the knowledge of the world, but of the knowledge within, and the sharing of such for those astute enough to recognize it. I am a library person. I go twice or three times a week for many reasons. Mostly there is a focus found, and this piece seems focused. I looked to find a seminarians view of this piece and failed. What I did find was me – both in actualization, and when knowledge hade the opportunity to change the urchin- to dream, regardless of all else. I find the latent and the hidden in this treatise. Of course, It is all out there to read.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2012-12-05 17:44:50
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
I must say this is such a beatifully sad poem. Brillent in the images you bring forth. There are so many good lines it is hard to single out just one. I will say however the last two are the ones that really stick out. This work reminds me at bit of Edgar Allen Poe style. I see no boo boos. This piece flows exceptionally well. I to read it more then once to take in all the flavors your poem offers. Thanks so much for posting this
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