This Poem was Submitted By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2014-11-16 20:33:45 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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The Oarsman

                                                                                                     The poems come out of a dead plenitude                                                                                                    that only seems alive for motion. An oarsman,                                                                                                    with words his wood, his life made oars,                                                                                                    reaches back for strength, then down,                                                                                                    and breaks the water. It is not                                                                                                    what was seen on the river,                                                                                                     nor any village ahead, nor any such notion                                                                                                    that drives him on towards the ocean.                                                                                                    It is mere motion, the spray from the blades                                                                                                    his mask of achievement, the regular rhythm                                                                                                    an evasion through order: these things                                                                                                   defer acquaintance, escape                                                                                                    by his agile hands what he would not allow,                                                                                                   what will come in its time and without him,                                                                                                   which will fix him, and bolt him down,                                                                                                   with the rocks and their roots in the land. 

Copyright © November 2014 Mark Steven Scheffer


This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2014-11-28 10:10:57
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Sir, were I to characterize the moment, an autobiographical indices, it would take the oarsman too damn long to find the fishing grounds, and come to the conclusion that to splay on the rocks is an inveterate response. I guess, the use of dead plenitude was as apropos as inaccurate. But who can tell, right? The poetry aside, this took me immediately to the “old man and the sea”, really the only Hemingway piece that moved me to passion. BTW, of Hemingway, he wrote poetry but was obviously not a poet. It could never survive the cut throat assessments of on line poetry experts. Back to my, (by the way, I sit in the back of the boat watching the oarsman, not planning on taking a turn, although out of politeness I offer, always hoping he says no. I do hate rowing a boat though I’ve done a lot of it), inane comments. I wondered in reading what the writer believes of those times when rowing was unnecessary. For most time, I think that is more the answer than the times of fighting the current for motion in life. If the current is correct, only lowering the oar as a steer is necessary, well forgive my idiotic forbearance. I liked this piece a lot. It made me think of you, me, life, hemingway’s masterpiece, and the rocks and roots of my journey (land). Well done sir; in a nautically organic manner.


This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2014-11-21 14:52:08
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Quite an interesting take on writing poetry. The oarsman, the writer, his words the wood, reaching ( The past) back for strength. The boat the poem. Nicely done
This Poem was Critiqued By: Medard Louis Lefevre Jr. On Date: 2014-11-18 02:44:32
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Or carry through into his hands, whether or not he perceives them. Sorry, my pedestrian attempt to further your poem, though it needed none. Simply, I like this poem, because it is simple, easily understandable, yet sophisticatedly composed to appeal to anyone. Very well done. Mark or Medard
This Poem was Critiqued By: Marcia L McCaslin On Date: 2014-11-17 15:38:17
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
I’m looking at this poem as more of a strong and brightly-hued painting. Of course in a painting, there is no motion, except implied (i.e. of a horse running), but words allow us more motion to give the idea of it. Nonetheless, my ear does like rhyme now and again, and the notion, ocean, motion not only satisfies my ear, but happens to be a rocking two syllables. Also you mention “regular rhythm” and my imagination takes that as if you meant it—right there. “mask of achievement” interests me. It’s the mask-part b/c it is the look we wear (sort of on purpose) when we have just achieved something, but also a mask b/c a broom straw can break our bubble and the mask of achievement falls away. “what will come in its time and without him”—well, I guess that’s everybody. Not sure what “fixes” him and bolts him with the rocks unless it’s the eternal ‘now’. Anyway, strong—good choice of strong words and I do see color in this, although none is listed. Thanks for posting.
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