Joanne M Uppendahl's E-Mail Address: grizwiz@aol.com

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Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Joanne M Uppendahl	Critique Date
Pole in Hand	Claire H. Currier	Claire: I love fishing stories, and used to go fishing with my family while growing up, so I especially enjoyed this poem. I usually did not fish myself, as I never mastered the squeamishness I felt about unhooking the live fish and then watching a grown-up dispatch the blow to the head. As an adult I've really enjoyed deep sea fishing, mainly because it is so refreshing to get out there on ocean with the swift winds and motion of the boat. Your poem is rich with nostalgia and humor, as well as a painful memory. It's funny how even those are valuable in retrospect. "The roads not taken." It can't rain Lord Not now, not today I'm going fishing With my dad Your eagerness to go fishing your father is so keen, as you begin the poem with a prayer to the Creator to banish the rain. I gathered my little pole My bucket and my worms Dad had the rest of our gear Off to the lake we went Worms! Another thing I never mastered, hooking those worms. Other kinds of bait were always preferable. I can so clearly see you with your little pole and your bucket of worms with a little soil clinging to them. Nothing like the smell of earthworms with a little dirt adhering (I like this smell)! Mom and my sister came too We were going to picnic later After we caught some fish Maybe Friday nights dinner It sounds delicious. We always took other food, just in case, which tasted disappointingly ordinary, compared to the fishfry we craved. How proud I was Standing just like my dad I threw back my pole Casting off my lure This shows your father as a nurturing man, someone you admired and emulated. You show your pride by your straight posture, even stretching to get a little taller, approaching your dad's height as closely as you could. The moment of throwing back the pole is a good segue into the next stanza... Oh no, something is wrong I'm caught, I'm caught I yelled to my dad Then I started to cry Oh, I can feel it, Claire. The hook in your tender ear! Ouch! For some reason I got hooks in my hand, awkwardly trying to pull the hook from the fish with a twisting jerk that somehow ended in the soft part of my palm. I hooked my ear (Ow~!_ My first time casting out Poor dad, his favorite lure Mom tried to get it out Simply stated, but we get the picture and the emotions. I can imagine your mother's sympathy and distress. Once when my son stepped on something sharp in a river and required stitches, the doctor gave the shot of novocaine directly into the cut and I swear I could feel it. (He screamed silently.) So I can imagine your mother wanting to take the pain from you, wanting you to stop hurting. Dad cut the line Off to the emergency room We went, my dad and I Dad yelling "save my lure" Have to smile at your dad's pragmatism. After all, it was his favorite lure, and he believed in you and your capabilities as able to withstand this small injury for the sake of fishing. The doctor started to laugh As he removed the lure Me, I got a tetanus shot And bandage on my ear The two men seemed to differ a great deal in their response, so different than your mother's and your own. So maybe the implied lesson is that our mothers teach us to be tender and our father's teach us to be courageous. I think a perfect balance, as an aside, is tenderness, toughness, compassion and courage from both parents. My dad got relief For he alone Got to take home His favorite lure Sounds like he was pretty much fixated on that lure, knowing you would be OK, and not fully understanding your feelings of defeat and unfairness. To this day I remember My standing by the lake Wishing I had gone Swimming instead Swimming sounds far preferable to a hook in the ear, to the doctor's laughter, and the sense that you were not able to carry it off, "standing just like my dad" this time. This vignette from your life is delightful and bittersweet. I enjoyed every word. I remember a time of feeling humiliated, though I did nothing at all. We (my parents, grandparents and I) were fishing of a city dock, in the bay. My father hooked something enormous, shouting for all of us to gather around. He slowly reeled in an enormous, frightening-looking crab. I must have been quite small, and I remember dissolving into tears at the frightening creature, who proceeded to walk directly towards me with those eyes on stalks and that relentless crab walk. I froze to the spot, beginning to screech. "Daddy!" But he, too, laughed. Of course all I had to do was move and the crab would continue his efforts to get away. In the end, he was thrown back in, and the family recounted my terror at this alien creature over many a fish fry. I finally learned to laugh about it, too. Thanks for bringing us this poem and triggering some of my own fishing memories! My very best always, Joanne	2005-08-20 11:14:55
Retrieval	Jason S. Moore	Jason: What great good fortune that you have graced us with one of your beautifully-crafted poems after this long interval. I hope I can do this one justice. Mythology is truly a fascinating subject, and with your unique perspective. I especially enjoy poems written from the first person point of view, as it is then possible to feel, at least vicariously, what the writer/protagonist experiences. Retrieval – I like this title, as it suggests salvaging of something, repossession or reclamation. It is intriguing and I like the sounds of it. It proclaims ‘adventure’ to me. And I am keen for those. It doesn't give away the plot, but certainly implies the rescue of Persephone, and us, along the way. Within the bowels of the underworld I pass a lonely shade - Transparent, tired, yet still a man As his light begins to fade. Interestingly, the planet Pluto is thought to rule the underworld, corresponding to the Roman equivalent of Hades. In medical astrology, Pluto is thought to pertain to the bowels, as an aside. I am intrigued by this ‘lonely shade’ who is transparent, yet “still a man.” How many of us are exhausted by our lives, and feel transparent, feel our lights begin to fade? How many are lonely, isolated by a different point of view or perception that does not match that of those who focus ostensibly on consensus reality? I can’t seem to get away from my own asides today, perhaps I am proceeding a bit cautiously, as we are entering the realm of Hades! I have got to see what is causing this fading. Suddenly earthen walls resound Throughout the chasms here. Within my heart the chambers pound, Swept in an instant with fear. Now the speaker resonates to sounds from the earthen walls. Immediately I think of earthquakes I have experienced and feel a sympathetic, quickened heartbeat for the speaker. How quickly we recall our humanity when Nature asserts her forces, not under our control. But is the resounding of the walls a natural or supernatural event? We will not be kept in suspense for long, though, but long enough to have chills form, as we see what lies ahead. As the apparition turns his face Revealing sockets without eyes, I look away to wander deeper Not to run but to survive. It seems as though the speaker is not running on adrenaline, but at a spiritual crossroads, one which signifies survival or a life passage which must be met. One of those Plutonian events which is relentlessly present; though we may run, we cannot hide and so running, ipso facto, is pointless. The shadows follow at my speed… No footsteps but my own - Farther still into the caverns - Alert and not alone, What shadows of our own making, writer, follow us. You give me pause for reflection. I cannot help but think of the Dweller on the Threshold, that enigmatic being said to consist of all of the negative energy we have ever entertained, given a form. But you show us that the speaker is “not alone” so it cannot be the amalgamation of his own making which haunts him now. I come across a glistening stream That feeds a tempting pool - Fighting thirst for Lethe lays here Forgotten to weary fools. The speaker wants to drink the ‘waters of forgetfulness’ and you include an ironic pun -- “Forgotten to weary fools” for those who may have forgotten. Forgotten of the meaning of “Lethe” those waters of legend which if consumed, erase all memory of previous life(lives). White lightning with an extreme kickback. Struggling for strength, I find a map Lay hidden within my mind. Slowly the maze unravels itself With foreboding darkness divine. I love this stanza, because it suggests that we have ‘maps’ within, hidden in our own minds. No external authorities, nor books, nor universities can contain the wisdom of our own soul, our Inner Light, you seem to be showing us here. I especially love L4. “darkness divine” – that place which we most fear to enter. You lead us there, individually and collectively, to examine, along with the speaker, what contents reveal themselves for our consideration. My torchlight rises to guide the way. Then silhouettes appear Dancing wicked along the walls Around a massive throne austere. Great alliteration with “wicked/walls” and throughout the poem. The poetics are such that they give no distraction from the action which is taking place, but are noteworthy. Your rhyming, for example, has a mesmerizing tone, like a spell cast. I want to ‘see’ this throne! Or do I? I fear to and desire to all at once. No crown upon the Accuser's head. Demeter's daughter sits silent - congealed As if chance had granted her this day And Pandora's "hope" is revealed. Persephone sitting in silence. Pandora, in Greek mythology, was the first woman, if I recall. Was she sent by the gods for vengeance toward Prometheus’s theft of fire? I do not bow but greet his gaze With poise and guided hand As counsel to another cause And mother to every man. Who carries the title of “mother to every man” and is a messenger to Hades that his season is quickly drawing to a close? Do we know her, do we honor her? No cloak or dagger for Hades - Just a message with a simple request. He reads the words and laughs aloud Not in defiance or in jest. This husband , god of the underworld, conducts himself with typical all-powerful hubris. He forgets, just like we all do, as husbands sometimes do, the power of a simple request. "It cannot be," he thunders quickly, "It is not already time. The sun and moon still seek the chills Of winter's bitter clime." "Not so," I answer, boldly now, "The buds cry out to breathe. Artemis is dressed for battle With arrows and no reprieve." The Earth-Mother speaks, boldly now, and cannot be dissuaded for even Hades must yield to her. He waves a hand, "And so it goes… May time at once stand still So I may kiss my wife good-bye And man may plant and till." Persephone having spent her half of the year with Hades in the underworld, congealed, but will she rise again, this time to spend the other half on Earth with Demeter. How surprised is Hades! (Pluto) And it is so remarkable that we are surprised at the changing of seasons, the cyclical nature of our own existence. The small signs of fall which even now are apparent, the shorter days, all tell us that our time above the Earth is growing shorter, but we continue as if we know not what this means. Our lives continue at a fast pace, and yet we are surprised as the years pass, and at our accumulation of experiences and years, as if ‘no time’ had passed. Magnificent poem and a great read. Thank you for the privilege of commenting on this, and though I may have missed some cues, I’ve enjoyed this immensely. Best always, Joanne	2005-08-16 15:59:46
The Lost Poems of San Francisco	Gene Dixon	Gene: It’s a delight to find another of your poems once again. I especially enjoyed this poem as San Francisco is one of my favorite cities, as well as that of many friends. The lesson here is well-taken. The caveat to live less in our heads and more in our lives. The fantasy of love and romance can take over the reality of the present, and that caveat is well worth passing on and you have done so in your trademark "Gene" gentle style. I am struck by this one especially as I have missed many proximal or real-life situations due to my tendency to wool-gather and imagine rather than ‘living life’, for after all, these kinds of romances (the ones in our heads) are much safer than the face to face kind, where we risk heartbreak. It is only because we are so capable of love that we suffer, in my opinion. Sitting in a corner booth, Kerouac in hand, Cassady on my mind, A poem looked right into my eyes and I, in a fit of free verse, failed to see. Someone was there, who was not in the book, but living a poetic life in reality, and the poet, distracted by the ‘known’ poets, failed to see. This is very poignant. Crossing the street, two blocks down from City Lights, a taste of Ginsberg on my lips, Ferlinghetti phrases filling my head, a poem brushed close and I, in a swirl of imagery, ignored the touch. The touch was felt, but did not have the impact of Ginsberg or Ferlinghetti. The imagery captivated the speaker, but the potential lingering touch of the one ignored only brushed by. The internal landscape was more attractive than the potential lover. How many times do we pass by those who could replace our internal landscape with the reality of their being? Gathering in the park, old friends and literature, discussing commas and Corso, the value of rhyme and the freedom of reason, a poem passed by and I, deep in the stream of consciousness, barely felt the breeze. How we live in our rhymes and exalt in the freedom of our reason, when we have given up the freedom of our choices! And this serves as a reminder to readers that NOW will never come again, though we may repair to Corso at any time, for literature is static compared to relationship. Later, alone beneath a reading lamp, I searched yesterday's musings, looking for all those lost poems. With great poignancy, but without self-pity, the poet looks for “those lost poems” alone, reading again. Reflecting on the tenuous nature of contact and the disappointing results of ‘playing it safe’ when there is a world of possibilities passing us by. I don’t think that there are a finite number of people in the world to whom we are assigned nor whom are assigned to us to give and receive our love. In your poem, I realize that it is entirely possible to make of interior life a kind of prison, in which one may live, alone, in relative peace, all unaware of what has been missed. As always, your poetry excels in eliciting emotion, and a gentle reminder to remain awake and aware within one’s life for meaning which may be lost if not expressed. Magnificently done, once more, Gene. All my best, Joanne	2005-08-06 21:12:22
Beauty in the eyes of the beholder	Dellena Rovito	Dellena: This poem addresses the topic of personal beauty, but it also stirs thoughts in this reader’s head of ultimate beauty and what that means. As poets we contemplate the meaning or the personae representing this quality. As aptly stated, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This may be understood to mean that beauty itself is sensed subjectively by the person, and no two people are exactly alike. But your poem set me to thinking, this way: If we transform or evolve our ‘style’ of looking, then beauty will be revealed to us, and shine forth from what we see! It is a poet’s view, and artist’s view, and your poem addresses this in a subtle way. By focusing on the superficial aspect we are left wringing our metaphoric hands, wondering, “Who then, is truly beautiful! No, not I!” And then the idea begins to take shape about ‘beautification’ of our gazing, so that we may find or comprehend the hidden beauty not only of other people, but in ourselves and all that surrounds us. Our entire vision changes if we read your poem with understanding. “If I cut, shape, blow dry, curl, color, and braid my hair and perfume and rid myself of every natural body odor wearing only fashion threads, matching shoes and bag adorn myself with ribbons, lace, jewels, everywhere possible and pluck, cream, lipstick, mascara, and rouge, my face and keep thin, trimming down the calorie count and become educated, to blend into society as an asset... I'll then be baptized into the world of double standards and I'll be locked into the concept of getting approval.” When a woman has radiance, her person is filled with beauty. Cosmetics cannot create this, but it is a sense of presence. It is visible at certain times; I am sure you have seen it in others, and believe that you can see it in yourself. Sometimes a glimpse is all we will let ourselves absorb. For example, the light in an elderly person’s eyes in response to the love of a small child. The child’s expression when touching a soft, furry animal, such as a rabbit. The way a young couple glance at the ground when walking together, hand in hand, whether or not their physiognomy would fit by type in a magazine illustration. A mother’s expression as she picks up her baby – I could go on. “With elocution, tethered, poised, trained, and confident I'll vie for your attention and acceptance. If you like me, you'll stroke me with approval. Approval being the act of liking me, because I'm 'good'! Liking is 'fondness', a smaller description of love.” You’ve struck it rich in this poem, IMO, because you’ve discussed esthetic values and now lead into an awareness of love and its valuation. You have made it personal, so that it ‘feels’ personal for me as a reader. You show with irony how it is not possible to elicit other than temporary approval with structured behavior that does not reflect the inner being. “So actually, if I behave according to the plan, I'll be loved! I must, just follow the blueprints...” I think that here, splendidly, you show the inner critic, the self-criticism we subject ourselves to. The speaker says that if she follows the blueprints, she’ll be loved. That voice she hears denies her own beauty, her love of self. Shakespeare said, in Sonnet 1: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed’st thy lights flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. In summary, this is a exceptional, original poem which gives much food for thought on the nature of beauty itself, self-love and the universal yearning for the love of others. It does the work of instilling compassion in the reader, for one’s self and for others. Well done! Brava! My best always, Joanne	2005-08-06 15:07:07
My Faults	Joyce P. Hale	Joyce: What a great way to start my day - this light-hearted poem of yours, which admits faults, but shows a tolerance for self and others. We can let ourselves off the hook from serious scrutiny, and see our own failings with compassion, at times like these. Reading your poem, I identified with some of your 'failings'; IMO, this piece calls for my own answering one, so, with your kind permission: I won't tell anyone, but since you've published this, I fear that there are no secrets hidden from our view, my dear. I'm listening with interest, in that all you say and do reflects on me and my faults, it seems, as much as you. Your membership in Imperfection Club's assured in what you wrote! What an uphill battle, fighting other's habits--you have my vote! Discombobulation being what it is, no wonder you feel in a tizzy, considering all that he does or does not do that makes you dizzy. Like cottage cheese, your innards curd to find each bit of clutter-- perhaps he even leaves (aghast!) dark toast crumbs on the butter. Clothes, cup and paper, so easily discarded, then they disappear! What if a reminder sign were taped on all offenses which appear? A lasting union speaks of tolerance, balance, loyalty and love. It seems that when Cupid's arrows (Eros) descended from above, you each were chosen for each other, with corresponding needs. May you continue to be blessed by his careless, manly deeds. For living with a perfect mate, I think, would be more tiring than one who 'is what he is' is surely no grounds for firing! ---------------------------------------------------------- Enjoyed this poem thoroughly, Joyce. I think that when we forget how to have fun, we forget how to live and how to write poetry. Thank you for the perfect antidote to both of those conditions! My best always, Joanne	2005-08-06 07:12:05
From Down Umbra, Inflecting	Thomas Edward Wright	Tom: This worthy poem is worthy of a more insightful critique than I can ever give. You lost me in the periphrastics again. But thanks for explaining and I will add this to my encyclopedic knowledge of nothing-at-all. Umbras are nice, but umbrellas are better for Bumbershoot in Seattle. In Texas, where no shade appears, "Yet not all I could/Nor only thought/I did think" would be as confusing as in Portland, where Powell's City of books would post it prominently on the outside readerboard, and pay the parking ticket of anyone who quoted it. I shall keep trying. In the meantime, imagine that I'm handing you the gold cup for Best Garbled Grammar Award, which I received one year, with the ecomium, "Noble Effort." Pay no attention to me, I have been listening to Poseidon again. Tousen taks, Joanne	2005-08-05 20:44:45
West of the Sun	Thomas Edward Wright	Tom: I, too, admire the protagonist of this poem. In a different sense, of course. I especially love the line: "Gods were invoked, goddesses spoke." We never know who might sidle up to us on the edge of an abyss, do we? It almost makes the abyss worthwhile. I caught a lot of your TEWian punning here, and sense many references that are beyond my ken. Which is exactly where they should remain. Discrete and wonderful. Joanne	2005-08-03 17:05:47
Sigh	marilyn terwilleger	MT: I see why this one got gobbled up and also why it is so high in the ratings! Sigh! It could have been written by any one of us at times (or currently) in our lives. It speaks to the romantic in all of us. The sounds are as soft as a sigh, as a caress. This one speaks to my own "melancholy soul" and makes me remember with another 'Sigh!' the caresses I have given or received. The poem itself is a verbal caress. Sigh!Why is it that we never seem to tire of caresses and the memory of them? Sigh! OK, I've got to stop as I am sighing too much and it sounds breathy in here. LOL! I love it, MT. Besides that, it's an exquisite cinquain. You do good work, Madame Romantic Poet! Applause and a dozen red roses tossed, Joanne	2005-08-02 10:00:35
Upon Her Leaving	Rick Barnes	Rick, ... Joanne	2005-08-02 08:29:01
The Red Hat	Mell W. Morris	MellO, To find a poem by you is one of the main reasons I am still here. It gives me a deeply felt joy to read anything you write. You thank us in your notes, but do you know how you have shaped the poetic vision here on TPL? Do you have any idea how you have affected my writing? I will tell you much more in an email. You teach me, you reach me, you make me cry and laugh. Your writing about poetry, your poetry-crafting skills, your humility about your own writing – what an example and privilege to read your thoughts! I am getting way too wordy here and will have to write more to you offline. I must speak to the poem. A poet is compelled to write his vision of the world, to remake things the way he wants. He cannot leave the world alone...he has tried more than once. I love it! “remake things” – yes, a thousand light-years of yeses. In the first stanza I am already feeling as if I have completed the course, eaten the five-course banquet, run the race, accepted the gold and handed it to you. (It’s yours, my poetess laureate.) How poets cannot leave the world alone! You even show how addictive and compelling and compulsive this art is, how it drives those who may attempt to suppress it, restrain it or even encompass it. (Why are you so driven? Ask a poet. Why else am I alive? How else to be, why breathe?) To understand a poet and his work is proprium for those interested and not an easy task. A poet I describe always keeps his enchiridion at hand Here you do another thing that you have heard plenty about and which always thrills me. You respect your reader’s intelligence and give words which open up new synapses for some of us. I want to learn every word there is, but am too lazy, and then you give them in the context of your poetry, enlarging the meaning of the word, you “cannot leave the world alone.” I find this as ‘syllogism or paradox’ - a wonderfully, wordfully delicious mouthful of language. Now I am flipping through my handbook for “enchiridion” as I want to possess this word, too. (Laughing, for I know in advance that you will smile at this remark.) and I wonder if it helps him hear hues of purple lilacs and taste the sound of blues Coltrane wails from his sax. When poet completes a poem and sets Now you give the gift of synesthesia which is one of your trademarks. I feel right now that I don’t need any more poetry, that I am satiated with this stanza above. I am stuck right here for now. And it may be a long time before I move along. Hearing Coltrane wails, seeing the purple/blues…don’t want to go anywhere. These tastes and sounds, so replete, and yet you wisely show, just below how we must return, time and again. To the vast creative life that calls us. You show me here that we were created to be creators. Meant to evoke and serve beauty, in its many forms, always. So liberating, your understanding of this return, return, return. Your recognition of the “inability to leave things alone” is like being let out of jail. Cannot, to save my soul, or anything else, do it. Nor can the greats, and thank god they could not. Thank goddess you can not. Did not. it aside, he finds himself returning time and again to make small changes. Part of his inability to leave matters alone. Nothing ever is final in vast, intricate metaphysical realms where I long to reside. Moving slowly inch by inch...to the other side. In these last two lines, I must hear you. And it is very, very hard. But since you have brought me all this way, I am along for the entirety of the journey. How you weave our souls together, all of us who read this and who love you. That you have written “Nothing is ever final” gives me the hope I need to survive, to live the life I have been called to live, to believe in your continuing presence with me always, no matter where our physical bodies will sojourn. As always I have written too many words and not gotten to the point. It doesn’t matter – “It is all good.” All. Good. This is a personal response and yet, so much less than I am experiencing within. I am out of words and cannot play the sax. But I am listening. Always, always Joanne	2005-07-29 22:30:04
Poetry Distilled	Paul R Lindenmeyer	Paul: You do an amazing job of distillation here. I am reminded of John High's revision of some of my earlier poems -- cut, cut, cut until one has reached the bone. Wrong metaphor, I realize, but I think you have accomplished something here by simplifying yet leaving the beating 'heart' of this poem as more visible and palpable. Aren't we all -- "In Search/Of All/Others" -- ? I also think that the capitalization works very well here, especially "All." This is one to contemplate. I want to try this on some poems of mine - to see what may happen. Anything can happen, couldn't it? As poetry is so much more than shifting words around. This is a fine demonstration of that principle. Grace-ful!! Peace, Joanne	2005-07-26 16:26:11
Bless Me, Father	Joan M Whiteman	Joan: I have not seen a poem of yours for a very long time – not since “Doppler Effect” or maybe “There is an Absence in You Mother.” This one is equally passionate, intense and probes right into the darker places in which we all live at one time or another. Your gift, if I may say so, is emotional honesty, along with superb crafting that calls no attention to itself but allows your theme and tone to fully enter the reader’s consciousness with no resistance. This one hits me, right in the solar plexus. It's your poem, but you bring me into it, for several reasons, some of which I won’t address in these comments to you today. Having experienced the confessional, or Act of Contrition, I am aware of the title’s general meaning or reference to that rite. And yet, the poem is addressed to a ‘father’ – one who cannot, does not absolve himself nor accept forgiveness from the one ‘sinned’ against and thereby continues to wound. But he is depicted as suffering far more than the speaker, having entered an unrelenting purgatory of remorse and regret. This calls to mind a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, “My Own Heart Let Me More Have Pity On” My own heart let me more have pity on; let Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, Charitable; not live this tormented mind With this tormented mind tormenting yet. I cast for comfort I can no more get By groping round my comfortless, than blind Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find Thirst's all-in-all in all a world of wet. But to your poem: You wear your past like penance painting contrition on your breast in so many scarlet letters. This imagery is so vivid, and you add to its impact with plosives in ‘penance/painting/breast” - like breast beating. Telling no one your sins, you beg forgiveness from passing strangers. He cannot speak them, but asks, with his eyes, for all to forgive him. He may be jovial or saturnine, but nevertheless cannot portray his true emotions because he has ‘damned’ them (dammed them) up. Try as you might, you cannot strike sparks from the ashes of absolution, you cannot wring tears from the empty wells of your eyes. To the extent that he cannot grieve the loss, cannot accept warmth, is isolated in a self-made prison, from which there is no parole or pardon. Still, you drink brine, trying to slake your bitter thirst ignoring all you were ever taught. He drinks tears, but ‘brine’ suggests wine, as well. He rejects his own former faith or beliefs in favor of self-flagellation or scourging. No one could punish him as sufficiently as he is able to do. No deity, IMO, would do so. Turn away from the wind that whips your past. You speak to him with great compassion here. It is his one chance for life, for connection and grace. My sense is that he will not hear. This poem breaks my heart. It is poignant without being sentimental – as I said, you gift for emotional honesty and penetrating insight is so very evident. Ego te absolvo! This is the saddest, most moving line. Because you allow us as readers to hear your unheard plea, your own pain, which is likely as intense as his. Though he is unaware of any chance of reprieve – you are. I wish I could offer hope (in fact, I feel it) and peace. And reconciliation, for that is what we all need most. Incredibly powerful. Magnificent in all respects. My best always, (Peace) Joanne	2005-07-24 16:58:15
Motel Dreaming	John Dean	John: Hello again! I remember you poem from earlier this year, in spring, I think: “Close Separation.” So I was prepared to enjoy this poem, as well. It is always fun to enjoy language used by poetic souls, especially to seek out the metaphor the poet happens to be listening to or singing. I like this poem for its unexpected turns. And hope I am not going to saw off the limb I am at this moment crawling out upon. It’s a bit risky, but here goes! Your title alerts me to the frequent ‘purpose’ or use of motels for rendezvous. Probably not as much as in previous decades, but the association lingers. She asked me to light a barbeque Didn't she realise there was no fuel One can hardly imagine a barbecue as available in such quarters, so I take it as a metaphor. One thinks of passion’s fires, sometimes not so easily lit. The couple seem comfortable with one another, with humor overriding any initial obstacles, if you will. Her expectations were visible as she made them so, and her potential suitor took action, whilst entertaining some misgivings. Of course a nearby beach suggested a possible solution, beaches often being trysting places. Get some rocks, and arrange them on a ‘bed of sand’ – nicely put. The rocks can symbolize something that ‘rocks’ as verb, or something symbolically strong. The pebbles could be reminders not to have unrealistic hopes. Coupling suggests itself to this reader with the words “bed” and “laid” having that connotation. She cried with laughter at my ineptitude One wonders if it is humor, frustration, empathy, or a combination of all of those in a comfortable relationship. Couples who know one another well will often laugh at inopportune moments or situations which would drive uneasy partners quickly into terminal embarrassment. I don’t know if I am even at the correct address, but it doesn’t matter. The poem is itself. Flowers grew from the stones where her tears fell Somehow with the ease of humor and cherishing her tears, something delicate and loving, something which unfailingly perpetuates itself – that thing, love itself, the situation righted itself, so to speak. This is my gift to you A rock garden A lovely rock garden! What a pleasant and discerningly written denouement for the temporary ‘lack of fuel’ with which the poem began. Things are only as difficult or easy as we allow them to be, I think you are showing us. This graceful couple knew (knows) how to make the best of a stressful situation by applying tolerance and warmth. Delightful read, and thank you once again. My best to you, Joanne	2005-07-10 20:53:00
The Back Side of the Moon	Mell W. Morris	Mello: You have included my loves in this poem. Stars, birds, the ocean, hope, euphony, your words and their music. Your psalm, this is. Your verbs and their passionate energy. “Gash/grab/caress/dash/perch/sway/crawl/fling” – the kinetics are amazing. The images you generate of your desires and wants to do these things brings you palpably closer. Boldly singing your songs of praise and longing. Your colors are quintessentially ‘Mell’ -- I think you could only be captured in iridescent hues. As you are soaring and flying imaginatively in sky and seascape, you are brought back to present time and space, “back to muse” (the double meaning here is not missed by me). Nor is the melancholy of “paired doves” and the metaphor. And yet, the “bright yolk of light” which brings you back allows this expression of your courage; your poetic voice is as strongly vibrant, as luminous as I’ve ever heard it. Perhaps with an extra current of voltage. Neither time nor tide has mended my wing Rendered unspeaking by pain of the thing. These rhymed- and metered couplets seem to supersede language, supplant it with spirit. You give an infusion of joy in the midst of your recollection of the feel of soaring, despite your unmended wing, and “pain of the thing.” Your unwillingness to yield strengthens my own resolve for healing. (Yours, for all who read, my own, too.) You reach in and reach out of yourself, with your “reels of word rays” and I reel. This radiant poem speaks to with me with the intensity of “Starry Night.” And yours. What a gift it is to find this poem. And to know you as my friend. Brava! A basket (woven by Mary Kiona) of Reine des Violettes roses, heaped, and ribboned with yellow silk garlands. Another basket of seashells. Always, LL Em (Joanne)	2005-07-10 19:58:56
The Rain Upon the Heather	Sean Donaghy	Sean: Welcome back! I haven’t seen you on the link since “Sweet Marie.” It’s a pleasure to see another of your poems. First of all, I am very partial to Irish-anything, as it is a part of my own heritage. Then, I do love lyrical poems like this, with gentle meter and soft rhymes. I cannot help but hear it sung in with an Irish brogue. Which is a long way around to say that you had my attention just beginning with your title. Sooner or later I will get around to commenting on the poem itself. :) Beginning with the title. It’s lovely, giving the reader a foretaste of the poem’s theme and tone. Soft sounds in ‘rain/heather’ and very soft plosive in ‘upon.’ The rain upon the heather makes for deeper thought cascading as it does from out dark clouds. It tells us what we do isn't always what we ought but rain can cleanse the dirtiest of shrouds. I think you are showing us here that no matter the regret for past actions, but no one and no action is beyond redemption, no matter how we term it according to our own beliefs. Often dwelling in the past yields little but darker images, but you give us motion with the meter to look on into S2: Where does the sunshine go when the sky's so wet? They say it hides behind the wren's soft call. Now, who'd believe the tiny wren could shield the sun and, yet, some mighty things are done by birds so small. Wonderful imagery with “wren’s soft call.” The wren seems a metaphor for a spiritual messenger, who may, I understand, come in many forms. The auditory images of the rain’s sound and the call of the wren are so charming and engaging that I think the weariest soul could be called out of the glooms by these. The rivulets of rain run down the hillside and course like widow's tears into the earth reminding us of all the things we must abide and just how much one simple life is worth. The key thought in the stanza above, at least for this reader, seems to be the value of “one simple life” which each reader possesses. The reminder of innate value, and the parallel of the ‘rivulets of rain’ with ‘widow’s tears’ suggest that both add to the moisture and suppleness of earth. A reminder that all experience is worthwhile. Many thanks for this refreshing work! I enjoyed it immensely. Please favor us with more. My best to you, Joanne God bless the rain and all of those it comes (upon.) God bless the earth when ere the rain does fall Let your soul be washed by rain 'til all your sins are gone. You'll find the sun behind the wren's soft call. The thought of surrender to cleansing rain (or tears), to allow preoccupation with past errors or shortfalls to dissipate or dissolve seems very inviting here. Nothing to hold one back like being stuck in reviewing one’s considered failings! The final line’s advice to listen to the voice of the wren (the inner voice?) and look (be curious about) for the sun, and future is heartening and inspiring.	2005-07-08 18:55:16
These Eyes	Donna Carter Soles	Donna: This despairing poem is easy to read. And I think you speak to your own experience, and likely to the experience of all of us, if we are honest. For it is a universal human trait, I feel, to find that we are at times in ‘blind alleys’ if you will, or undergoing a ‘dark night of the soul’ at times. You have used sound effectively to convey emotion in this work, for example, with long vowels of “silence/cry/lie/mind/soul/lies” and especially “lifeless/blind/eyes.” These suggest intensity of emotions, whether pain or joy. Your soft, yielding w’s in “whisper/wail” evoke a sense of one having yielded to the encompassing sense of hopelessness. I truly hope that the ‘blind eyes’ are a metaphor for not having ‘seen’ something which is referred to in L3 of S1 and not literal (as I believe is the case). I also enjoyed your use of sibilance all through the poem. It is effective in stimulating emotions. What I longed for at the end was some hope of relief. But this poem is what it is, and it is unabashedly an outcry. I've enjoyed reading and commenting on this work and thank you for the opportunity to do so. Brava! My very best, Joanne	2005-07-06 09:52:36
I Cried for You Today	Mandie J Overocker	Dear Mandie: It is very difficult to respond to this poem for your children. The loss of a child is likely the most tragic event we can bear as humans. Tragically, your twins, abducted at birth and subjected to experiments seems almost too painful to contemplate. I can’t analyze this piece for poetics as I would ordinarily do. It is so evocative, so deeply anguished that I can only respond as another mother who has lost a child. The circumstances are different, but in grief there is a universal language of the heart. So recognizable in your poem. The high point in the poem, for me, is the speaker (you) now able to release tears for David and Julienne. It marks a turning point, as you show us in this poem. What I took from it is that as the speaker is able to release the tears, her children feel it, feel a sense of healing in their hearts. The speaker buries the “cards of memory” in effect setting free the grieving which has been central to her existence these thirteen years. I am especially moved by this stanza below, as you lift your children to another ‘deepness’ of the heavens, and pray for them to sleep “on angel wings.” It is so difficult to read this and write to you. I can only imagine the difficulty of writing the poem. I lifted you up to the universe the heavens and skies so deep And prayed you’d be softly laid On angel wings to sleep And as I knelt before your tomb My eyes began to fill The tears that I’ve held back for years Finally began to spill Finally, after years of silent ‘held’ tears, the speaker (you) allow the tears to spill. This rhymed poem is well-crafted, though its message is far beyond any ‘techniques’ and such, because it tells your story of survival and overcoming. It is beyond the scope of the experiences of most people, and so enlarges our understanding of what can be endured by strength, love and endurance. Here is hope, because few of us are called upon for such courage as you show in your response to the tragic deaths of your children, and your willingness to ‘go there’ with us now. And so I cried for you today As my feet tread lightly on the earth Carried my body, heart and soul I found solace about your births May the solace found continue to comfort you, Mandie, in the years ahead. This is a heartbreaking poem, but yet one which ends on a hopeful note. We can carry one another’s burdens to the extent to which we are able to listen to their stories, and you have honored us by trusting us with yours. Brava! My prayers and thoughts are with you and your children. My best always, Joanne	2005-07-06 08:42:48
For You I Waited	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: This is such a poignant poem. It is so pictorial, and evocative, of every feeling that passes between lovers, especially those separated by time and mortality. You show the eternal bond between those who are truly ‘as one’ in soul, but no longer in body. You express as a poet and one in mourning. Your soul’s ears are listening for his voice, and so you tune your readers’ ears as well, to listen for the subtle sound of beloved others who have gone ahead of us. I waited in the grass, and spied moonlight ooze in a marbled sky of bice and bone. The moonlight here almost takes on a deathly glow. Instead of inspiring lovers to kiss, it gleams “ooze” and the sky takes on the appearance of “bice and bone.” Remarkably affecting. I waited beside the lake, till dawn cast a shroud of chilled mist that kissed indifferent water. And the all-night waiting. We know that night is the hardest time in grief. It seems to pass second by second, “till dawn.” The “shroud” of “chilled mist” is funereal. The kiss it gives to “indifferent water” is bereft of passion’s warmth. For you I waited I waited along the shoreline, and watched the sun sear the sea in hues of heliotrope and carnelian. Here is where the poem turns. The speaker sees the surreal colors visible to lovers. Things are intensified, you show, when we love. You take in the sunrise as an embrace from the missing beloved. The colors you use are ecstatic. I waited in the stillness and the din. I waited in the yesterday and all tomorrows. This is the most moving stanza in a poem that is filled with heart-startling ones. The waiting takes up all time. Projects ahead into the future. This is exquisite writing, Marilyn. I am spent. In wind I hear your voice, in fog I feel your breath. And still I wait. You show us the beloved as present, ethereally. In yourself, as your perceptions are keenly attuned. You hear his voice and feel his breath. And he stands nearby, placing his arms around you, urging your patience, wanting your happiness. I am so moved by this poem that I cannot say more. Long-stemmed pink roses extended. Brava! As tender and moving a poem as I have ever read. My best always, Joanne	2005-07-04 08:20:49
Yoked	Dellena Rovito	Dellena: This is a heavy poem – and it feels as it sounds, from the title through the end. Except, the ending is sometimes used in lighter conversation, the equivalent of trailing off at the end of a sentence. You have done an incredible job of conveying an emotion in this poem -- not only feelings, but the physical sensations, as well. I admire your ability to get to the feeling, to express it in its fullness. When I want to write ‘bleak’ I tend to find myself, at times, softening it a bit for readers. Mistake. We hide this way. It is far better, I now know to go there, and take the reader with you. In this way, you respect the reader as well as yourself. Getting to the truth of our experience with others, and in turn, they get to theirs with us. This, I believe, is the work of poetry. And yes, it’s work. And so from the title through your closing line, I am laboring with you. Not as I have the same or similar situation, though we must all eventually face debilitation of the body unless we die suddenly at the peak of our youth and good health – that perhaps a worse tragedy. But I digress. Your poem evokes this kind of reflection. The sound of the word “yoked” itself has a feeling of pull-stuck. The yielding ‘y’ gives way to the plosive ‘k/d’ ending. Nothing more final sounding than a ‘d’ I think. The hefty yoke of greatest sorrow presses the day cheerless with the weight of a thousand tons of heavy metal lead. Here I felt that one noun could be omitted – either ‘metal’ or ‘lead’ perhaps. But the idea you want to get across is the weight of it, the impermeability. How it does not give. I might try ‘thousand tons of lead’ but on the other hand there is something right about what you have, as well. The harness is laden upon my shoulders with my drooping neck hung low from the extreme excess burden of deep emotion. I really like the repetitive quality of the final line above, because “extreme excess burden” and “deep” take me there. Lets your reader experience it to the core. And so with this, I think “heavy metal lead” should stay. Bound securely with a brutal force like a draft horse living in subjugation. Gripped in servitude to misery's implement The rhythm of the L1-2 above is almost rap-like, almost a relief from the relentlessness of the poem’s tone. Except, for the meaning of the words, which is crystal clear. You use of the heavy plosive ‘b’ and ‘d’ sound again show us how immense the burden is. I like the internal rhyme of “force/horse” as it emphasizes the sense of being bound. Strangle held, I'm gasping for life sustaining air. Every turn proves to tighten the harness's hold. Desperation slices time's redemption with its knife. Painfully, the poem concludes with an inescapable sense of the imprisonment by circumstances of the speaker. Who now sounds resigned to what IS. L3 above with its long ‘i’ sound like a cry, suggests pain – especially “slice/knife.” I wish there were some way I could relief the suffering of the one who speaks. I hope that the writing of this work and the reflections given by readers may lighten the burden somewhat. And so it goes… (And you are heard!) My prayers always, Joanne	2005-07-03 19:23:12
Contentment	Debbie Spicer	Debbie: First, I cannot advise you on something as important as this, your medication. It is a double-sided coin. On the one hand, ideally, no one ‘should’ need medication. If we all could hold one another through our travails and sorrows, through our ups and downs, maybe they would not be necessary. As a therapist, many people I saw with depression got better with medication, many also improved without. I couldn’t prescribe anything, only use conversation and sometimes play or art therapy. It all depends on whether the cause is trauma-based, whether there is genetic predisposition, what supports are available to each individual. There have been situations which I observed in which medication seemed to save the life of someone in deep despair. I don’t know if other means would have worked as well. It is possible that the caring attention of those in the individual’s life might have made the difference alone. I don’t have any definite answers on this question. One thing I used to say to people in my care was this: “If you are feeling better, keep doing what you are doing, keep making the changes you are making. And if you feel worse, that may be part of the process of healing, but let’s stop and look at what is really going on.” So this critique becomes not so much a critique as a friend reaching out to friend with her own observations based on experience. But now I will get to the poem: After years of sadness I have finally found peace Wondering if depression would ever cease. Thrilled beyond anything experienced before Each day before seemed as if chore. Finding peace within has to be one of the greatest of life’s experiences. I love how you have rhymed this poem – your crafting has always been outstanding. Finding a new med which worked so well Good-bye despair, to it farewell. Suddenly the sign, which told me to quit Came upon me so fast I couldn’t admit. As someone pointed out to me recently, I look for signs. But not this type, really. This seems a medical sign, and one not to be ignored. Do we know the difference between a signal from heaven or a sign from our own body? How to tell? I do not know. Asking others is a good start – see thy trusted physician! You probably have looked up side effects on the Net. I needed to stop and go back to the past Oh now why with happiness unsurpassed. Tell me the rash is something mild Let me be happy to not be riled. Maybe it can be something that will replace your current medication, and perhaps this will not be a full-blown revisit to the past, but a re-examination based on your growth to this point. These are all very big ‘maybe’ thoughts. I don’t want to stop no matter what But it can be fatal, don’t let the doors shut. I finally found pleasure with life looking good, Do I take the chance and be understood? If it can be fatal, Debbie, friends will not say to you that you must keep taking it, “take that chance” whatever the cost. Again, see your doctor and find out what can be done and what your alternatives are. ASAP! We are here to support you in your poetry and in your health and healing. Feel free to write to me offsite as I am here. You are very definitely in my prayers and meditations, my friend. With love, Joanne	2005-07-02 12:35:20
Sole to Soul	Timothy Holyoake	Timothy: This poem gets right down to the important stuff in life. Your form is flawless. The message is what blows me away. You get to it immediately. Beginning with your title, you pull the reader in, inexorably, to face what is often ignored to denied or repressed. The ugliness of human behavior towards our fellow beings. It is a vision from the standpoint of someone who has nothing left to lose. And yet, with a small act, we could, with little effort, extend a bit of dignity and kindness to him and others in like situations. Easily, with reversals in fortunes, or unexpected illness any of us could trade places with this man. We keep that thought back in our minds, as it is, IMO, the reason we avoid contact. Perhaps we know how close we may be to living as he does. Perhaps there is even a sense of contagion in the recognition of this fellow being’s estate. That’s why I think that this poem does important work. If only a few are moved to look with different eyes, with an expression that does not give the impression that we have ‘stepped in dog shit’ much good can be accomplished. Simply from the writing and the reading of your words. Compassion is the one thing that costs nothing and means everything. You don’t know my name, but you know where to find me. I could tell you why I sit upon the street, a shadow of the life I left behind me, An example of the well-written poem above. Metered, rhymed, the pace exactly right. Formatting such that each line is easily read with one breath. Dialogue words authentic. The question posed to the reader – would you, reader, wish to know the name of this man? Would you listen to a fragment of his story? It is in the telling and the listening to one another’s stories that healing is to be found, IMO. You allow us to pause here and consider. So small a moment to spare. “I am ever so slightly broken.” So poignant and evocatively stated! Understatement makes this all the more powerful. But you’ll never know if I’ll mend, as we have never spoken. It'll be hard for readers to walk along as oblivious as before. Not that we are hard-hearted, but we surround ourselves with a bubble, semi-transparent, placed there for protection. Maybe not much gets in or out, but it is our bubble. You show us that it might be better to let the bubble drift away, and look at what is before us. Perhaps another being, feeling as keenly as we feel about our needs, but none of his are met. On days with the strength to only mutter Got any spare change, brother? I speak to the wingtips, the pumps and the loafers. on and on you march so close to the gutter. The specificity of the three kinds of shoes gives this stanza an extra punch. Which of those shoes do we wear? Or are they running shoes, with which we can more quickly outpace our fallen brother? I defy anyone to read this and not be moved. regardless of the shoes worn this day or others. I am your father, I am your son, Care for me for I am you. Love me for I am. You completely pull out all of the stops in these last lines, by showing us the identity of the man. You ask nothing, but everything. All that is truly important, is here in those last four lines. We needed the preparation of the entire poem to arrive, at last, at where we need to be, always. Magnificently done. Bravo!! Kudos for a heart-filled work of significance, once more. Great stuff! All my best, Joanne	2005-07-01 15:20:56
I'll Call Him Bob	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: Amazing poem, written with heart, a trademark of your work. Giving your subject a name tells so much about you. He is not a face, a patient, a disease, but a person, dignified with a name of sorts. He may or may not remember your specific face or voice as he travels down his road to the end of his illness. But within his soul, he will remember your tenderness. The kindness of strangers is one of the glues which holds us together as a human race. Without that quality, we should all perish. When I think of those strangers who gave in the lives of my loved ones who are now gone on, I thank them inwardly for the grace they gave. We can do no less for others. At every turn, displaying love, perhaps impersonally, but no less real, no less felt, no less generously given. He was wheeled in on a gurney to wait his turn. I gave him orange juice and steadied his hand. I asked him where it was and he said. "In my brain stem, it looks like a noodle and they tell me I am dying." The conversation is direct and to the point. This makes it all the more poignant, because many steps have led each of you to this point. No wasted words on ‘safe’ pleasantries, but immediate contact on a real basis. Life and death. Orange juice and a hand to steady it. With tears stinging my eyes I held his hand, smoothed his brow, and let him talk. He is 59 years old, has a masters degree in theology, is a Pastor of a church, does counseling, and volunteers at a homeless shelter. He whose life seems to be about giving to others, now having to receive. His need to tell his story paramount to you. You, listening. Listening to one another’s stories anywhere, IMO is a healing enterprise. On this website, in the oncology center, in the grocery store. We are present to the extent that we are willing to listen. This opens two doors. A string extends from one heart to the other. Like the old ‘tin-can’ telephones of long ago. He had trouble focusing his wandering eyes, his left hand and arm were useless. I asked him if he had undergone surgery and he said. "It is inoperable but I am going to beat it...you see, my dream is to travel to France and I must do that before I die." He holds up his dream to view, for you and for himself. Your signature, “If you can dream it, you can do it” seems most apropos here. You allow for the dreams of others as well as your own, to become symbolic holders for the two ingredient without which we cannot survive: Love and hope. The radiation oncology tech came for him and as he was wheeled into the treatment room he asked. "When will I see you again?" The contact was made, a bond created. A friendly face and sincere mien, with tenderness extended. It must hurt to know that he will not survive long, but be very gratifying to realize that he takes comfort in your kindness, without which he would have less. A better medicine than the radiation, IMO. "Next Wednesday"...I said..."I promise I will see you then." I didn't even get his name. I'll call him Bob. I hear so much sadness in the promise. For you will be there, but will he? Your willingness to share this exchange with Bob is deeply touching, and serves as a reminder that our intentions are only as good as our actions. Put your heart where your money is! A better gift. Wonderful poem, wonderful gift of this reminder to be aware of those around us who could use our aid if only we offer it, freely and without strings. My best always, (with admiration) Joanne	2005-07-01 14:59:07
Pablo’s daughter	Mark Andrew Hislop	Mark: Once again, I find treasure in your words. Not all of them decipherable to me. As both fathers were named “Pablo” even the title intertwines these two with the daughter of whom you speak. There is a mixture each Pablo, the daughter and the poet throughout this piece, so that the synergy of these and of each reader’s perception makes a new experience. I love the way poetry can bend time, to make those once living, live again. The way art captures on canvas certain moments and perceptions. That you join these arts together for readers and braid your own perceptions into the work seems a timeless thing, as well, for the future readers, who become writers, like ripples in a pond, will influence others. This is truly a superb poem to accompany the body of your works to date and the literature of the site. Some poems are forgettable; this is not one of those. “Was he The man whose fingers made her ---highly sensual From the words her beauty --- wonderful enjambment Ripped from the throat of his pen?” “Or the man whose eyes made an image Rush like incense from a temple curtain ---WOW! Ripped to reveal her figure’s modesty?” I do not know for certain which of Neruda’s poems yours may refer. It would be helpful to have that reference. But then again, as readers, we do not really need to know. It is just me, wanting to synthesize the image and words. Was it Sonnet XXXIV (You are the daughter of the sea)? “And somehow could show the world His only other.” Simply exquisite The image-man would make her “From the outside in, a treacherous journey Walking blind in a darkened land “ ---my favorite lines in this poem “Where she is everyone’s other Yet somehow only his, stolen and Forced to lie forever splayed upon his canvas.” These lines are incredibly evocative. Was this “Farmer and Nude, Surrounded by Hens” ? I may be completely wrong here. It doesn’t matter. "Though both slip, ungripping Their daughter’s entire truth." Do we ever know the truth of another, you show here the complexity of every learning the “entire truth” of anyone. "To see her mystery broken and trapped, Splintered in a list of artists’ qualities, When all I can ever care is that She remains entire, that she remains My one, my indecipherable, Open secret." You have left her mystery intact. Not deciding, you leave the possibilities open for yourself and readers. This poem adds to the literature on fine art and poetry. It also opens my eyes to the often conflicting views of critics, historians and individuals. You show how we must integrate all art into the whole of our experience, as “that is best for my heart” and ours, as well. Let the mystery, the poem, the painting, be what it is, an “indecipherable” and “open secret.” Kudos! Superbly written in every way, Mark. My best always, Joanne	2005-07-01 10:07:38
Rungs	Mell W. Morris	Dearest Mell-O (Nekk): If only it were possible to send you that rainbow, it would be there already. And grant the rose in your cheek. You are tender-voiced here, and yet there is your piquant humor which I have always loved. I wonder if there is a symbol in each stanza for each one of us? I found mine, I think, in “someone is listening nights.” Or maybe, “foreign rites” for I have never been averse to using any means available. I love this poem, and even more, your posting of it, a sign I want to see as you. Back. Here. With us. Here you will always be, in my heart. But the joy I feel in this moment is hearing your poetic voice, as strong and vibrant as it has always been. “It must be grand to be healthy” It is, but it doesn’t stop misimosity. Does not perturb didickerousness. Your image of the rose recalls your poem in which you have a rose behind your ear. The ‘ch’ of “cheek/cherry” serves as bit of a bite of a bipple. Goes with with “rain-bow/blue.” “And with ease I would cede wealthy” Ah, what is more important than health? Wealth can be gained, enough to buy all the Lady Polish in existence. We could shop endlessly on eBay. I could buy all of the CD’s I crave and books, too. We could go to Ireland together with your health, with wealth even ceded. You could read your poetry and I could read palms or something on the ship. :) ** “I wish I were a tall birch tree” Nice, “ch” chewy sound in “birch.” Those lovely trees. So Robert Frostian. ;) Makes me want swing in them. You know, pull one down to the ground and then, have it launch me up, up and away. To be as tall and lithe as a birch would be lovely. Ta! Alas, we cannot do it. I would probably be a scrub pine, if translated into tree form. You know, those trees on the Pacific coast so sturdy and supplicating to the ocean winds. They won’t blow over easily. I don’t think you will, either. Strongly rooted, are we. "and all who see me smile widely, My scars sparce, scabrous and lovely tended by the sun's majesty." There is the sardonic humor, widely treasured, smiled at and sometimes ducked. But what is better than a true-arrow friend who will not bullshit you? I mean, *me*. ;) I cringe to think of your scars and wish them no more. But know they are there and am glad that you take them as external, not dimming your moonlight. They hide none of your beauty. I don't know about the sun, as I prefer the moon. But I understand the reference to the sun's rays. And the need for hats. ** “The answer lies in wisdom old While someone is listening nights.” Smile. Many of us are listening. Now, hearing the voice we crave. Many mani’s said for you, rosaries, too. No one in my 3D life escapes without hearing of my friend Mell. You are often asked about, and I say what I know. It’s not much at times, but always said with hope and love. ** "Lift me from my soft bed - no talk, Give me your hand and I will walk." ** This is the part where I fail you. I will give you my hand, always. But “no talk” will require a splendiferous effort for me. I am so about talk, about answers I wish I had. If my prayers and meditations are answered, you will walk, with my hand in yours. Though the ending of the poem makes LL Em sad, to the highest degree misimose, it is your truth, and you always tell it. Remember the song-poem I sent you. I am still singing it. With love for my Red Hat, in da poiple Joanne	2005-06-30 19:21:19
Unknowing	Dellena Rovito	Dellena: This is a fascinating poem. It is like a mirror one can hold up to the self/Self. The little self and the bigger self. And who among us really knows the other. The poem reveals some compelling questions. How can others know us if we do not know ourselves? How can we know ourselves without feedback from others based on their knowledge of us? How, in our solitary cubicles of cyberspace, do we know anyone at all whom we have not seen, nor spent face-time with? These are all questions that came to my mind as I read your deeply thoughtful work. There is a strong tone to the piece of melancholy. How well we can, if we choose to do so, hide within our words, as a friend pointed out to me. Your title, “Unknowing” made me think of cosmic things. The great unknowable All. It is interesting that you choose that title, instead of, for example, “Unknowable” or “Unknown.” “Unknowing” implies a continuing process. On both sides of the screen. I really enjoy the exchange here, as you pull the reader into to this poem to dialogue. I'm not sharing... My mouth is full of words unspoken I am full up, of emotions untold. Behind my eyes lay layers of hidden thoughts. Thoughts that occur to me, reading this stanza above: we each need to connect with others to fulfill part of our nature as social beings. We do not know the hidden thoughts of others. Truly, you show us, the ‘eyes are the windows of the soul’ for looking into the eyes of the speaker brings the mystery closer. The irony (well-taken) of the very first line is that you say you are “not sharing” but at the same time, you are. I really like this seeming conundrum. Though you are ‘sharing’ you are holding back much. That restraint makes the poem all the more intriguing to this reader. You think you know me, but you can't. If I don’t know myself, (then) how could you? Do I know you? I am positive not. Wow, that kind of sets me back a pace or two. How much can we be known in this environment and how much do we really want to be known, as our 3-D selves? Yet, we can and do feel emotions for one another – for example, one of our members is ill, and we feel it, worry, offer consolation and prayers. These things are real, but what do we actually perceive about the other’s suffering. There is an onscreen persona that it is difficult to see past, IMO. How much we are hiding or revealing probably connects to our feelings of safety and trust. Many have been hurt, no doubt, by past extensions of trust on the Net. How can we measure sincerity and good intent? How do we offer part of ourselves for knowing with a feeling of safety? Glimpses into the midst of all that obscurity will only tell what is allowed to show. If we won't say, opportunity goes. Reading between the lines, it feels to me as if the speaker has hoped for someone to be more forthcoming and has been disappointed in the result. Maybe many some ones. This poem is a chance to stop and think about responsibility in communication and how much or little we want to share about our private lives. And how those decisions may effect others. "I surely must know someone …anyone…" The speaker looks around for an other who is known and willing to know her. That hollow feeling at the core strikes me here. To feel alone in a 'crowd' while being surrounded with others. Very evocatively stated! A very thoughtful and well-written poem, Dellena. It is taking off the mask of pretense, and asking the reader to do the same. I will be thinking about the questions you raise for some time to come! Bravo!! My best always, Joanne	2005-06-30 15:24:39
Listen to the Animals	Claire H. Currier	Hi Claire: This looks like a royal treat, and that you wrote it is proof that you were safe from the storm. It would be good if we listened to the animals as their senses are not dulled by many of the things which preoccupy us, and IMO their purity keeps them ‘tuned-in’ in a way that we can never be. I love this because it gives me a glimpse of your life and of your sensitivity to ‘all creatures’. It has great auditory imagery and I can smell and feel the portents of the coming storm. Pretty Girl was inside her house Snowball was hiding somewhere on the porch Big Jake strutted right into his coup They waited........... As you observed in you additional notes, animals get quiet when a storm is approaching. It is eerie here when the birds stop chirping and the frogs stop singing. Once before a major earthquake that happened, and my cats were frantically running around as if they could feel the imminence of something. What a vivid picture of Big Jake! And from the last poem, I can really visualize Pretty Girl, snug inside her house, and Snowball anxiously awaiting the ‘worst case’ scenario. Rain drops began to fall A gentle tapping at first Just to let you know the storm was here In the blink of an eye the sky turned green The winds howled bending forth limbs with such fury Even I ran for cover Oh! You know I just love that “gentle tapping” sound. I will fling open the windows to hear it. But a green sky! Scary – have never seen one of those. Those bending limbs are ominous and give us a clear picture of the ‘fury’ the wind is foretelling. The power went out as lightening struck the transformer Sitting high on the pole across from the house You heard the sizzle of the impact Saw the flash of light WOW! Must have been quit a sight and sound! That sizzling sound and the flash, then, darkness. Did you sleep? Or were you worried about more lightning and fire? Someone my father knew was nearly electrocuted, repairing lines after a storm like that one. But he recovered, having had what would now be called a NDE or near death experience. From that time forward he could see swirling colors around people and give them information about things in their lives that he seemed able to ‘see’ following his shocking experience. Never met him, but it was interesting to think about. As our brain and hearts give electrical signals, it makes me wonder what untapped abilities could be present in all of us. But I am getting off topic. Do you keep a kerosene lantern? We always had at least on in the house when I was growing up. Such lightning storms were a frequent occurrence. It was fun then, as my mother would play her concertina and sing old love songs (one of the beginnings of my romanticism, probably). I still know the words to many of those love songs, BTW, and just sang one as I worked around the kitchen. It was hot, humid, no oxygen to be found..... Called Mass Electric one more time Indicated I was still without All alone here in the woods of Tully They said they were working on it Be patient.......so I was I waited till nine o’clock before calling again Smothery humid, huh? And no power, no light. Not much air. Wow, you show us the whole spectrum of your experience here. You make it so real I want to look outdoors and see if anything is brewing! (It’s perfectly calm, right now, not even raining.) Have you gone down cellar to check the breakers? Lady, I can’t do stairs, no I have not..... If I did they would find me there waiting to be rescued To be honest she said you are the only one Reporting an outage on your road Somehow they almost made you feel it was your fault! “Lady, you’re the only one on this line Well, that answers that but I certainly did not feel special.......” It certainly seems as if you had someone or something looking out after you. It also sounds as if you didn’t realize that you were the only one on the line. “The lights came on as my son drove into the yard.....” Quite a coincidence that your son seemed to bring the light with him. Sonlight? Praise the Lord.... Bless the men who work extra hard to help us in times of trouble Bless our children who respond to our calls for help Where would we all be without one another? The last part of this poem sounds almost like a psalm. It is good when we have those who will be aware of our needs for help at times like these. “All’s Well that Ends Well” as the Bard wrote. I am so glad that you weren’t injured during this storm, and turned the experience into grist for your creative mill. Kudos for a well-done narrative poem! I enjoyed it as much as the one about Snowball’s misadventure! A lot! My best always, Joanne	2005-06-30 14:57:01
Thunder	marilyn terwilleger	MT: How I missed this I will never know, but I found it by looking to the bottom of my list of poems to be critiqued. I am so surprised that I didn’t see it when you first posted it. You could have written this for me! It has so many elements I especially love. But let’s get write to it. (pun intended) "Thunder" You got me right there with the title. I have always loved thunder, even as a small child when it frightened me. Deliciously scary, it was. ;) Huddled upon my softened bed Hearkened thunder crashed about Lightening flashes made me dread Trees nude of bark gave doubt You start right out with sounds I love, especially the soft ‘f’, ‘h’ and ‘th’ sounds. And you rhyme! LOL! I love that and your meter. It varies a little so as not to be sing-songy. But best of all, next to the sonics, the imagery! There is your wit underlying it. I can just see you smiling as you write. For example, in the line “trees nude of bark gave doubt.” I am so visual. I can’t help seeing these trees cross their legs at their ‘tree knees’ in embarrassment. After all, the lightning is spotlighting them, right there in their nudeness. LOL! And then, (forgive me) I reversed the word order when I first read this line and got “Trees nude of doubt gave bark” and I heard them baying at the lightning. LOL! Angel-spirit of rain rang out Skittered and scattered overtop Filled and spilled a waterspout Starlit raindrops went slip-slop Here you are at your best, really on a roll – the first line just rings, and the second one skitters, and you use onomatopoeia delightfully and skillfully. “filled and spilled a waterspout” is so auditory, and is the entire stanza. As an aside, when it rains, I open windows, to hear the rain feathering the roof, and the sound of the raindrops on my wooden deck will send me into reverie. Not only that, you put starlight on the raindrops! Pure magic, MT-style. The long night was dark and wet Soon heaven's light went out Daylight shone and dawn was set Flowers yawn and mountains shout More humor, with the first line above. You ought to live here in the PNW, near Seattle where all it does is rain, rain, rain. And the weirdest thing is, I love it. Must be adaptation. I am reminded of a certain line from that inevitable yearly contest, the Bulwer-Lytton, – you know the one: "It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness." Even grasses smile therein Sinews of thunder calm throughout Bright my lamp-less room within And gone moon’s melancholy pout Ta! You made the grasses smile. I am almost (well truthfully I am) jealous. I love the way you write “lamp-less” in L2. And the way you depicted the Moon without her “melancholy pout.” Heck, I just love the entire poem!!! This is a welcome treat for this lamp-less, at times melancholy, moon-loving reader. You got me in every favorite category. Now if you’d just throw in some nice music in a minor key, I’d be in heaven. Great stuff!! My best always, Joanne	2005-06-28 12:59:53
I AM . . .	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial: Your writing never fails to move me. I felt a lot of turmoil and power beneath the writing of this poem. Though I have not experienced many of the things of which you write, I still am a keen observer of the changes (or lack thereof) during the turbulent 60’s and beyond. It seemed as though during Dr. King’s day that things were changing, would continue to change, would bring peace and healing to a divided nation. And yet, the more things change, the more they seem to stay the same. I love the rhythm of this work, and every time I read it I read it aloud. For this is, without doubt, a performance piece. And could not be read just anywhere! The title and the two first words in each couplet threw me for a split-second as I am accustomed to “I AM” as recounted in Exodus, in the Bible. "And God spoke all these words, saying: 'I am the LORD your God…” That makes it a very powerful statement, indeed. I think that “I am” is the strongest proclamation that we can make as individuals. And you make it, abundantly. With such great force and syncopated rhythm. I am somebody, on my way to somewhere I am she who interrogates those who stare I am too much for this wayward world to digest With pen and paper, I paint pictures with frankness The opening and closing two couplets just stand there and declare! Reader, take caution, because “I am she who interrogates those who stare.” And the poem can be stared at, because it dares to declare its right to do and be what it (the poet) is. Outspoken, angry, compassionate, alive, full of energy, memory, suffering, hope, music (most of all music!) and aliveness that sizzles and glows. I am the pages, I am the pens What whiteness begins, my blackness ends I am the black man's rage, the black woman's stage If you care to recognize, just turn the page As someone outside of your heritage, I appreciate an inside view, one like this which bars no holds, pulls no punches. Why not ‘tell it like it is’ poet? What do any of us have to loss by forthrightly speaking our own truths? We could be criticized by some for being too bold, but then, are we really bold if these feelings are smolder inside of us, just waiting to be spoken, to be aired and declared. (See your style is infections as laughter.) I am the journey, the memory of yesterdays I am the plight, the result of evil ways I am Jesus Christ crucified, They hang me high and stretch me wide Oh, this one’s tough! I know of your deep faith, from our discussions and reading your books. I hear the identification with Christ’s suffering as not sacrilegious but as identification with suffering. How many hangings have happened simply because of the color of the victim’s skin? I am the ears that hear the cries of the deaf I am fingers picking up those pieces left I am the hands that write the words I am the one who flies with the birds Power, energy, determination, boldness … all here! Not one to sit around complacently, writer. You declare yourself as one who acts. I am the music that bears the beat I am the stranded one enduring the heat I am the parent who lives with the shame Of a child who steps outside the family name Definitely the music! And of the child and the parent, you speak with such condensed accuracy. I won’t go into details, but you cover so much territory here. I am the rape victim turned inside out I am the child abused, without a doubt I have to deal with this couplet singly. This was my life’s work until recently. Until I felt that burn-out was taking away some of my ability to be the most effective therapist I could be, because of my own emotions in response to years of coping and addressing the extreme traumata of children and rape victims. A family member was a rape victim, which is what I think launched me in this direction. Anyhow, the visual images of the first line simply send me back into secondary post-traumatic stress, but only for the moment. That woman/man/child needs recognition for the reason that we so often turn our heads aside. And then again. If we are white, and the victim is black, some of us automatically feel guilt. But may not take it to the next step and become an advocate. This is one of the rewards of the work I did, as I went to the wall, so many times as such an advocate, and I will never regret having done so. Many were black -- perhaps as many as half. I am black America's complex I am white America's "What's next?" The dividing lines between the races are apparent here, and the unsettled business, the uncompleted tasks of the beginnings of the civil rights movement are summed up here in two nine-syllable lines! I am Dr. King's Dream, I am Malcolm's extreme I am the Catholic Pope's next big issue For every child politics leaves behind, I am the tissue You give a very broad, inclusive view above, for you speak of “every child” that politics leaves behind, so eloquently. And of the tissue – and the ocean of tears shed, compassion. The rhyming of the firs two shortened lines is simply stunning. Six syllables now – intensification. I am the dream dared, the broken repaired I am the truth challenged, the minority compared I am the arrival of hope, the departure of pain the explanation of turmoil, sanity for the insane You use bold plosive d’s, b’s and p’s to express the challenge in “dream dared” and “departure of pain” for example. The ingredient of hope appears, the energy to dare the dream. Sanity, so need. Explanations beginning to be seen. A welcome departure of pain. A reminder that the work is still to be done. Someone’s got to be the one(s) bold enough and strong enough and committed enough to do it. Reading this energizing poem may just get some people off the couch and on their feet, ready to march. I feel as though I have heard you and walked with you and maybe even not completely understood you, but I admire your boldness and courage and the willingness to step out there and be heard! And my hope is your hope, that there will be, one day, the realization of Dr. King’s dream. As powerful and compelling a work as I have read anywhere. And so completely filled with your music. Thank you for the opportunity to read and comment. My best always, Joanne	2005-06-28 12:14:45
unittled	Rachel F. Spinoza	Rachel: This example of haiku gives us a great model of the traditional haiku form. It is sparse, uses few (two) verbs, suggests a season, and is not personified. But much beyond that, it is delightful for its color (purple), tactile sensation (mud) and the wit of the word “California” taking up the entire third line’s syllabication. I can’t help but hear ‘The Terminator’ pronouncing it in his accent, which makes me also sense there is a political reference – something beautiful covering mud! What is in mud but bacteria, decay, and many other hidden things? I love to read anything you write! Best always, Joanne	2005-06-28 11:30:42
The Thief	Timothy Holyoake	Timothy: This is a challenging poem to read, for several reasons. You hide nothing, write with authenticity and deep feeling. And if the work of a poem is to make the reader feel, this poem excels. And I believe that it does on so many levels. But because of the traumatic nature of its subject, I had to read, (early, when you first posted this) and take several steps back. I was and am overwhelmed with the experience (yours?) of the speaker. Because the profession I chose, until recently was that of a therapist for children, primarily, I am very familiar with the effects of sexual victimization and the subsequent fall-out. What is needed is a greater understanding ‘in the world’ of the inner landscape created by such violation of trust and invasion of the very soul of the child. We hear accounts on television, for example, but some recountings are sensationalized (almost voyeuristic) and those who recount their torment are often in so much pain that we cannot take it in. Those things must be happening to ‘those other people out there somewhere’ the viewer may think. But the facts of the matter are different. I also realize from my own experiences with survivors, both in the work setting and within my family and friends, that it is much harder for males to speak openly of their abuse because of the expectation that boys or men will be ‘strong’ and not show their feelings, and a greater sense of shame that they (males) were not able to protect themselves. But in your poem, you allow us to take the time we need, to distance a bit or the experience the poem as immediate. The traumatic events are given with spare details – just enough so that we are informed. Your restraint in showing us these makes the poem all the more powerful, in my view. Your title seems most apropos, as what happened is that something was stolen from the speaker. His right to his personhood, especially as a child, to be looking at life without the knowledge was forced upon him by ‘the thief.’ Childhood’s ‘thief’ has taken the sense of safety that every child deserves from this boy. In your first stanza, you paint the bucolic setting of what is to take place. The overwhelming beauty of the setting contrasts with what is to come. Your foreshadowing, the train cutting through the green (young) hill, “like a finger tracing a scar” is powerfully effective writing. The daffodils which “stood guard” at play for the children seem so insignificantly powerful against the violence that is to take place. The delicacy of childhood is exemplified in the setting in S1. Simplicity = purity. What the thief steals. My name was called and I did go to the door I knew so well, and the promise of ice cream to cool the heat of our summer swell. Severing the bright beam of sunlight, he closes the door behind me, to reveal the familiar dark room both around and inside me. “Sit over there and I'll give you what you want.” Touching my bare knee - 'How are you today?' I stare at the glow of the Holy water font. The way the first line in S2 is worded gives a slight allusion to the child’s obedience, and perhaps, a sense that he participated by not refusing to go. But we know in fact that he could do no other. One of the greatest violations of a child in this situation is the overpowering of his will by another. Children are by definition powerless before adults. And in this instance, the perpetrator is no other than someone having great powers in his role as priest, the forgiveness of sins. But he is “The Thief” instead, needing forgiveness beyond my ability to feel compassion or comprehend. The way the priest severs “the bright beam of sunlight” is metaphor for how he cuts the light of the sun (Son?) – the most powerful luminary. Without the sun’s light and warmth, we die. His words imply that the child’s ‘want’ for ice cream makes him culpable. I apologize, Timothy, but there is no other way that I can respond to this poem but the long way. I must give you as many of my thoughts and feelings as I can. I believe in reciprocation, and you have given us (me) your story, which deserves intense respect and all that I as a critiquer can bring to bear. Large fingers awkwardly battle with the little buttons on my fly. Plastic belts bind my hands to a chair I can't move, I can't move, “It's ok, good boy” The feel of leather smarting the skin of my back seems to suspend sweet oblivion for a later day. My crying goes unheard and my voice too betrays me for it like my mind, has slipped away. This stanza simply breaks my heart. The littleness of the buttons in such contrast to the large fingers. That the child is bound to the chair and cannot move. This is the place when reading originally that I got up, walked outdoors and walked around for a while among my flowers. And may have shed a tear or so, because I was (and am) so deeply moved. The unfairness of the beating, the child’s complete innocence, vulnerability and full presence in his agony undoes me, once again. That no one hears his (your) crying makes it harder still to bear. The only consolation is that the child is able to slip away. For years I dealt with children who had learned this ability only too well, and needed time and help to learn to come back, at least partially. To feel safe again, to feel whole again. My hands are free as he brings my reward, I run to the door, fingers touching the screen. My shorts at my ankles impinge me, I fall to the floor, “Don't you want your ice cream?” “Come back, sit down, stay. Ssssh with the crying, a big boy like yourself. Whatever would people say?” Then, I am overtaken by anger – rage – once more! (This is hard to write, but your honesty calls forth my own.) The urge to kill this man who brings a “reward” to the child he has brutalized makes me see red. He takes every shred of dignity from the boy with his actions and words. You are recapturing the ability to stand up and face him with this poem. My outrage becomes pride, for your courage to tell this story in poetic form and take your stand. I hate that he addresses the child like a dog, with “sit down, stay” as if he were the child’s owner or master to a slave. Worst of all, his denial of the child’s right to his own tears! The suggestion alone that ‘big boys don’t cry’ has always infuriated me. Because of this I have always admired men who do cry. They have not allowed enculturation to repress their feelings. But this child, especially, is entitled to his tears. He'll probably have to cry a lifetime of them and still, there will be more. This poem is a way to turn a cry into creativity and thus toward the healing of the self and others who read, whose experiences are similar or who have close acquaintances or family members who have been similarly victimized. We must tell our stories or not be fully alive, I believe. You choose life by writing this and offering it here. (Bravo!) I run like I have never learned to walk, Get up, get out, get through the door. My sister playing alone looks up in wonder, I don't stop to her tears as she sees my blood pour. In the arms of mother and the scent of her comfort I stammer and stutter and scream. “There, there, its ok, you're a good boy.” She coos with the promise of ice cream. You have rhymed and formatted this poem flawlessly, and I need to acknowledge that. In the midst of my emotional reaction I need to tell you that I am aware of your poetic-crafting so meticulously attended to. The stanza above wrings me out, like a damp cloth. How clearly you show us the boy’s complete disorientation, his terrified responses, the acceptance of comfort from his mother, who appears so coolly detached. “you’re a good boy” as if his goodness has brought about the torturous experience! Again, I am inflamed. Why, why, oh why! What made her able to accept this near annihilation of her child? Had she had to endure similar experiences herself, so that she was ‘shut down’ into permanent shock and unable to consider or perceive that this was an avoidable tragedy? I still run and as I do, can only imagine the day, for it will come, when as a man I will revisit the darkness of that bright summer day. Here, hope is invoked. I can feel hope for the writer and the process of healing which you are facing and undertaking now. I cannot tell you how strongly I feel about your courage in telling this story. I am so proud, though we have never even exchanged a word. But I have identified so much within your poem, and see the strength of someone learning to run and to walk confidently towards life in all its fullness. Bravo!! Standing ovation! I am very much looking forward to your next poem. All my best, Joanne (P.S. I did go back. Poem will follow when my thought are sorted as to what transpired. Thanks very much for reading this.)	2005-06-28 11:05:09
Passion's Mercy	Cindy D. Clayton	Cindy: This is a delicately powerful erotic poem. It is restrained, which intensifies its impact. As adults in gendered bodies, I think most reading this will be able to identify with the sweetness of surrender, and times of conflicting thoughts in which ‘sin’ then “fades into emotion.” We are often of two minds about our wants, even in the best and safest of circumstances, and you show that duality beautifully here. Thinking of the first word of your title evokes a bit of that duality implied in this piece, as ‘passion’ derived from ‘passia’ or suffering is linked with both angst and sexuality. It seems to be so. In our western culture, human sexuality is often linked with the concept of ‘sin’ whether the two involved are in a sanctified relationship or not. The carry-over from indoctrination, Puritan legacies, et al, has left the impression that enjoyment of one’s erotic sensations is somehow tainted. And yet, we were endowed with these attributes by a loving Creator. Our tendencies toward ‘all or none’ thinking have made it difficult to perceive sexual embrace as part of our expression of love, in the best sense, because of distortions of these values. Modern culture with its over-the-top and throw-away values as can be seen on any TV channel would seem to contradict my statement, but in ‘real life’ it seems as if we are deeply entrenched with the idea of needing to ‘split’ our experiences into the compartments labeled ‘pure’ or ‘impure.’ Thus, sexuality becomes marred with the tainted label of ‘sin. "Passion's Mercy" The second word in your title evokes compassion, a great word to pair with the first. It seems that these two often walk hand-in-hand. Now to the poem: Eyes that pierce me as swords Lips surfacing passion from within Ears that listen, hearing all words Plosive p’s in “pierce/lips/passion/pulling/whispered” with their slightly bursting sounds add to the sensuality of the piece, image the increasing arousal of the speaker. I am especially struck by “ears that listen” for silence in the room becomes the background for this encounter. The smallest sounds from these lovers are cues, each to the other, of the dance that is love-making. The only music they will be able to hear for a while. Hands pulling me into my sin Intimate words whispered in ready ears Sweet rhythmic motion The somewhat muted emotions suggested by the short ‘i’ vowels in “pulling/into/sin/intimate/whispered/rhythmic/ridding/give” increase the impression that both in this poem are past emotions and thoughts and immersed completely in the experience of the physical NOW. Intense closeness ridding tears Sin fades to emotion "Give me my sin again." Tension heightens throughout this work; the poem turns on the first line above. Tears release some of the tension, but we see it build again in the final two lines. I can’t help but smile here. You reveal our universal human nature, perhaps in part still to be considered our so-called ‘animal nature’ to be such that we are at times helpless before it. The closeness of the two within this poem increases, as they seek union with their partner. It is at those times that we feel less alone and separated from ourselves, others and perhaps our very souls. Cindy you have given us a lyrical work and one with many implications. This is beautifully, sensitively written. In short, it is excellent and deserves an "A" from this reviewer. Brava! My best always, Joanne	2005-06-28 09:55:47
Cat Lovers.........HELP	Claire H. Currier	Claire: It’s so funny! You are a keen observer of feline nature, it’s clear. And your sense of humor delights. I love this poem narrated by Snowball! Sharp wit and sharp claws! "He put me in a black mesh bag" *The man of the house's first mistake! Ha! Next to me in her own house Sat the dog that is always out in the pen Never close to me before But now she sits right next to me In the back of this open truck you know *I can hear the cat thinking “yuk, yuk, and yuk” Down the road we went........seems like I did this last year Racking my brain I am trying to think where I am going – I see his thinking expression so well! I started to cry*, the dog was barking at the wind *Here you made this audible, especially for humans belonging to cats!! The man just kept the truck rolling and soon We were there, wherever that was First the dog got out and walked inside Me, I’m still in the black mesh bag *This is cracking me up – the indignity of it all Oh sure there is a lady in this picture too They are doing this awful deed together you know We sit and wait till our name is called Pretty Girl, oh that’s you dog Snowball, oh no..... that’s me *that “oh no” sinking feeling Together we go in this tiny little room A nice lady smiles at me then begins to poke *how they hate that, with good reason She said I weighed nine pounds, who is she kidding Look at all my fur *LOL! Soon the doctor came in He was nothing special *Tickles me. I’ve thought the same (sorry if doctors is reading) Shook hands with the Mr. and Mrs. Then he came after me Good grief his hands were cold as they dug into my gut (Ouch! Graphic, but accurate, makes me feel a bit guilty for those visits to the vet which I have subjected my cats to over the years!) He checked out my teeth, if only I could have...LOL!! Love this!!The left off cat swear word! Ears, eyes, nose and throat They talked about a bath and trim Can you imagine, right in front of me *As if cats can’t comprehend! I have a cat who ‘gets’ whatever it is that I am about to do next if it involves him. I don’t say certain words as he has his hiding places. :) Pretty Girl was already back inside her house We were going home At least I think we were The ordeal was over had to be I’m back inside the black mesh bag *Never used one of these – only carriers. It gives me a picture of Snowball peeking out, resentfully – his eyes are blue? With her white fur, and peeking through the mesh, he must have been quite colorfully contained. And outraged. But wait when we got home they set me free Took off the collar and leash I was on my own * I sense his readiness to leap Pretty Girl was free and came right after me Never before did I climb a tree....I did today **The pictures are amazing, too funny~~! I sat for over an hour trying to figure how in the world I was going to get back down again........ HELP I cried..... The man of the house walked by on his deck We were just about eye to eye He looked at me and I at him then he said What goes up goes down, your on your own.......... Once my cat Toto climbed a tree, for different reasons. He only did it once, because of the getting back down part, I think. Anyway, he was stuck up in one very tall fir tree and nothing could persuade him to come down. Someone’s yelping hound dog had come into our yard to bark at the raccoons, but he took it personally and went up the tree. By the second day I was really worried. The vet said he would just come down on his own. But he didn’t. Finally, I called the fire department and a tree topping service. The tree guy offered to come out right away, so I decided that would be less alarming to the cat. By the time he arrived, Toto had decided that he would just parachute down when I wasn’t looking. He landed OK, thankfully. He was very hungry and thirsty. It was a long drop so I took him to the vet, which made him wonder why he even bothered!! LOL! Anyway, all's well that ends well. I wish I had taken pictures as you wisely did. This is a great story poem, Claire. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Uh, but how did Snowball seem when he eventually got back down? And, what did your husband say then? Thanks for a light-hearted and delightful story poem, and for the pictures of Snowball. I loved every minute. My best always, Joanne	2005-06-27 20:54:06
Tonight	marilyn terwilleger	MT: This beautiful cinquain carries such emotional impact, that I am temporarily derailed. Spoken it is soft on the ears, sweet on the tongue. And brings tears to my eyes. As we have shared with one another, I believe I know the one to whom this is addressed, and nothing could be more beautiful or sadder. And yet, there is something very freeing about the poem, because of the ability of the poet to speak to the beloved with such tenderness and awareness. The speaker directly addresses her loved one, sensing presence in "sky and sea" and hearing the wind sing of (his) love. There are few lines, and words comprising those, in this piece, but the emotional tone of the work supercedes form, language and my ability to find the words I want in order to respond. This poem comes from the heart of a woman who has loved, and loves, deeply. And remembers the nuances of this love in such a way as to make it present for the reader (for me). It is both heartbreaking and uplifting. That love outlasts everything seems to be the message here. That we cannot truly ever be separated, except in outward ways, from those we love is most apparent. And this poem has me held fast to those beliefs. You write soulfully and with the truth of your experiences. Exquisitely lovely word pairings, such as "wind sings", "sky/sea" along with the infinitely soft "heart soars" could stand as metaphor for this couple, separated only by physical distance/mortality. But then, as we have discussed, we believe in immortality of the soul. Surely he hears this and knows how much you love him, and will forever. And returns your love. (You know that your poems make me weep.) Brava! My best always, Joanne	2005-06-27 17:15:52
The God in You	Mandie J Overocker	Mandie: I love this poem for a lot of reasons. There are so many that I will try to list them, but they could all come under the heading of ‘hope’ – because love and hope are all we require in life to be whole. I see this poem as a step towards wholeness which, as you have submitted it here for reading and comment, you offer to your readers as well. You see, this is how I think we accomplish healing – as a ‘family’ or community, based in mutual trust and the goals of poetry. Expression of these inner states is such a precious gift to readers and to yourself. But to the poem itself! My remarks to follow will reflect my own biases and experiences, but I hope they will give you some sense of how your poem has great impact for me, and I believe it will for other readers, as well. First, your title! WOW! The “God” in us! The spark of the divine, the emanation of the All in me feels this poem in every cell of my body. Do you know that when we take in a substance, it, by diffusion or other process, eventually inhabits all of our cells? I think a poem does this, too, in a different way. In my perception there is no real separation of mind/body/soul. So a poem is like good Medicine for healing And for joy. You begin this poem in the quietest, most subtle way: Quiet Night; Solitude Dreaming of waking life Surreal events that already (for some, perhaps dreaming of things are yet to be) Happened The long vowels of “quiet/night/life” are intense. The susurration of the word “surreal” suggests a deepening into sleep, but a startling awake in the next stanza. Pinch me Now I must be Dreaming; Are you not real? I can’t tell but think I hear you Screaming Sharply awake, with the rhyming but high-contrast words “dreaming/screaming”! Drama! Nightmares They are but don’t Forget reality It looms overhead, daring you To live To rise from sleep to nightmares, the theta dream state, I think, to full wakefulness and perceive reality looming overheard – a frightening ascent. And live You must lest you Cry; a lonely death you Will die unless you strive [for] to Survive I love the last line from the previous stanza “To live” emphasized with the first line above, “And live” as this is the goal. Again, you use the long, sharp ‘i’ as in “cry/die/survive” these sharp, intense emotion are projected well in this poem. I also appreciate the sounds of “lest/death/unless” as they enhance the poem’s theme with their somewhat muted, short vowel sounds. Your fricative v’s as in “live/strive/survive/everywhere/love” lend a kind of buzzing energy, if you will, and makes the words sink in with greater impact. The hell That is your life Right now, support surrounds You everywhere. Open your eyes To care This is my favorite stanza, above. “support surrounds you everywhere” and “Open your eyes/To care” contain the kernel of life support that is the key ingredient in this work. How can we receive, unless we are willing? Be answered unless we ask? I believe strongly that the Universe, All, God, by whatever designation, hears our pleas, and they do not go unnoticed. At times, the answers to our supplications come from those around us, extensions of ourselves and All-That-Is. We merely have to “open” our “eyes” as you show us here, to see, and you continue below. And see The ones who hold You close through thick and thin Who love you most, standing strong by Your side. You show that we are never alone, no matter how lonely we may feel. Reach out To those who em- Brace you in their loving Arms as they lift you up to God’s Strong hands I did say that S6 is my favorite. That just shows that it’s possible to have more than one. You show how we uplift one another. When you reach out to “those who embrace you” you embrace them and the connection is complete with you, with them, and with God by whatever name we chose to call our Creator. Mandie, I am uncertain about breaking a word as you have done – but it makes the word carry a double meaning. Those others with loving arms “embrace” and “Brace” you – they hold and they lift at once. I think it is effective and original, so I would leave it. I think the important thing here is that you trust your poetic voice. If you revise and decide to change it, that is your choice. If it speaks to you in this voice, you will hear. She’ll hold You close if you Allow, let in the love That you feel now. Trusting anew The God “She’ll” makes specific the person who embraces and holds you in her loving arms, lifting you up. But it is easily generalized to anyone. I can see my own benefactor lifting me in just such a way. Your emphasis on hope, love and especially trust makes this poem sing with vibrant energy. How do we have or accept love without trust? I think it impossible. “Trusting anew” implies a whole self who once trusted and stopped. Perhaps that self was shattered by events, but is now mending from within. Now, poet, you show how we need to trust the ‘without’ as well, in other faces and arms as well as “The God” we know and honor. I think it is wonderful how you lead from the last line of the stanza above directly to the first line of the one below. Showing the connection, the unity. The stanzas separate but connected. As are we as individuals and groups of like-minded people, for example here on TPL. In you. Who knows what’s best To heal your soul and mend Your broken heart before you reach the End goal Very apt internal rhyme of “mend/end” and those very strong words with emphasis as they end with the heavy plosive ‘d’ which has such finality in its music. Nightmare’s Reality Is true for you who hold Onto the past but only love Will last ”only love will last” sums up my entire philosophy of life. You give many gifts throughout this poem, but this is the highest truth, IMO. Holding onto the past makes continuous nightmare, you show us, as we allow fear to continue to rent space in our heads. So love My dear and hold Fast to the love you feel And trust anew the precious God In you. What wonderful words to “hold fast” Mandie! God without, God within, god All around. Never alone are we, not matter how intense the nightmares from the past may be. So far, this is my clearest favorite among your many poems this month. Brava! Well done! All my best, Joanne	2005-06-27 09:51:26
ASHES	Nancy Ann Hemsworth	Nancy: It seems almost a sacrilege to comment upon so sacred a poem as this. And yet I can do no other. It would be wrong to read it and experience its depths without offering something in return. It is one of the most moving elegies I have read, anywhere. And a statement of reclamation of the self after great loss. Reading it aloud as I have several times over, I am moved more with each repetition, as varying layers of the poem reveal themselves. In my estimation, this is the mark of great poetry, that it uncovers more to the reader over time. The first line alone, with its tender voice, and 3 soft ‘h’ sounds lifts me out of the ordinary realm of things. Then, with the second line, the poem could be complete as a couplet. Again, with the first three lines, and the first four as a stand alone quatrain. I never see this. With the fifth line, set apart below the first four, it is a poem that could really take any reader to profound depths. And feel finished. But you are not writing for the general reader, I believe, but for yourself, and for those who have said similar good-byes. The poem seems to turn early on, in L6. “But, no more my hero” Here is where I felt my heart rise again, after its moments of wrenching recognition. An ending to grieve, at least the acute part of it. A release of the heavy burden of continual mourning. Grief work. Called appropriately as such because it takes all of one’s concentration and energy as nothing else can do. Those who have not walked this way may not recognize the complete reality of which you write. The release, with the soft ‘h’ sound again, is reverently spoken. The softness of the r’s, the title given to the loved one (suggests someone who served in the military, as does the entire poem) honors the memory and yet reveals the speaker as someone who has decided to reclaim life. I do not wish to minimize this loss in any way. These ashes, gray Empty of spirit Heavy in memory Freed from my hand Finally shall lift, fly free To where your spirit soars A release of the ashes and a release of the one mourned, reclamation of one’s own self from the ashes is astonishing, compelling in image and in the powerful energy I sense here. “What remains, is dust” This evokes “Dust thou art, to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul” --HW Longfellow But it is the enjambment in the following lines which moved me to my core: ”But it; can not hold me Lovingly, I set you free” The ashes of the loved one can no longer hold the speaker in a loving embrace. She sets him free, lovingly, at last. To release this angst Inside of me Nancy, I am moved to tears. What does life hold before the speaker now? Freedom to release suffering, freedom to embrace the fullness of a life which lies before her. Magnificent in every way. Brava!! My best always, Joanne	2005-06-22 18:32:44
Dignity	DeniMari Z.	Deni-Mari: You have picked an important topic for this poem. And your sub-theme is one that keeps coming up in my own life for review, so I could not pass by this chance to comment. I especially like the way you allow the reader’s eye to flow with your words down the page. It gives me the sense of progression, of fluidity, and at the end, hope. There is nothing more important than hope, except of course, love. You have given voice to your own soul’s purpose in this poem. Nothing could be a better topic for poetry. We all learn from reading one another’s poetry – not only how to obey our own poetic impulses, but to listen to that still, small voice that informs our daily walk through life. Dignity, self-love quality that defines my original design I am going to divide this up in order to comment on sets of thoughts. I see that you have left aside extra articles where possible. This adds to the movement of the piece. There is a lovely slant-rhyme in “defines/design” and also “dignity/quality” – a strong cohesive quality throughout the work. On a personal aside, self-love is something that has been brought to my attention by a friend. How to do this. From your critiques, poetry and replies, I believe you to be a person who loves others easily. You refer back to your ‘original design’ as perhaps a reflection of your awareness that your design is divine. But in the following lines, I see the struggle. Seeing your struggle and how you articulate and resolves it helps me with mine. Far worse now than you think I am Yet better than I can (perceive) It’s funny, isn’t it, how others seeing us from the outside think differently of us than we do of ourselves. We ‘clean up’ pretty good, know how to behave ourselves, walk with a certain dignity and friendliness. But even those closest to us may not be aware of our inner conflicts, self-criticisms. I love the way you place yourself in the middle between other’s unrealistic view of you (you say you are ‘worse’), your own view, and your awareness of a higher perception of view, perhaps from the One who made the “original design.” Forty plus of canvas tossed aside Still I must strive for a masterpiece The artist in you (in all of us) must continually create the ‘masterpiece’ that forms our lives. Like our Creator, we are creative beings in every sense. Given the canvases to paint. You’ve already painted “forty plus” of them, but realize that you cannot stop there. Nice slant-rhyme, again, of “aside/strive.” And allits in “still/strive.” Lots of ‘t’ sounds for emphasis of the act of striving. T’s strive. And your fricative v’s are effortful, as well. You do not look back to critique the paintings you have already completed. I am thinking now of Lot’s wife. The metaphor there is striking me just now. Faith the heavy blanket on a heart in lost and found It comes down to obedience of the heart. Is the blanket comforting, or weighing the heart down? If the heart has been in “lost and found” was it given away and dropped, or has it been inactive, waiting for someone or something to love or to receive love from? Faith my ever sustenance will lead me off life's misery go-round Again, attention to poetics is a refined quality of this poem, once more observable in “found/misery go-round” – WOW! One of those lines that could only make me happier if I had written it! Wonderful! Faith in one’s self, in one’s spiritual practice, in the One who gave the original design all sustain the speaker to regain her dignity. To dignity I salute breath stilled suspended in time You recognize your own dignity and honor it with reverence. Each reader may experience this along with you. I salute your dignity and my own. With gratitude. In honor of my masterpiece my original life design. Nothing deserves more honor, in my opinion, than the “original life design.” It is in perfection, already. The Designer has made it and assures us that it will always be so. We can toss aside canvases of the past and continue on our way with assurance that the “masterpiece” will be completed, as planned. I love this poem, Deni-Mari. It reminds me of where I am supposed to be right now. And it is so easily forgotten. Thank you for this splendid poem and your thoughtful exploration of your soul’s purpose. Sustained applause. Brava! My best always, Joanne	2005-06-22 13:20:16
I Wish	Mandie J Overocker	Mandie: Your poem reminds me that the most important reason for our exchanges here (in my opinion) is to hear one another's stories. Poetry is an artform that allows for healing and expansion of the soul. In the reading I was completely swept away by the intensity of your mourning. Writing this is accomplishing much for you, offering up your life experiences for healing and release. You open to the reader's interpretation and ability to listen to your words. You turn us each back to our own places of sorrow, regret and woundedness. You allow us to view your suffering, on the deepest level. The authenticity and emotional depth here asks a lot of readers, but you respect us and trust us with your soul's greatest anguish. This kind of respect calls for reciprocation. If readers do not write, they will have likely read, and have been changed by your willingness to share your experience. Nothing happens in a vacuum. This poem is now 'out there' to be what it is, to allow the changes which inevitably follow opening in this way to happen for you and for each of your readers and responders. I started to tell you my story But my wish got in the way Perhaps we'll try another day I am listening. My deepest sympathy for your loss. Don't stop trying to tell your story. It is worthy and important. It wants to speak through you. Keep writing. You are not alone. My best always, Joanne	2005-06-22 10:17:30
Pickin	Dellena Rovito	Dear Dellena: Wow! This poem is as dazzling as the thunderstorm with blue lightning that’s going on right outside my window!! I was going to sign off, but decided to be brave. I picked an apple from the tree. Or did the apple tree pick me? As I was passing by the tree did he reach out and touch on me? That subtle communication from one being to another- as plants are beings with different senses than those we possess - is touched upon here - lightly. "Light-ly" Your poem is your thought child. I join with those who have told you already that it is good, very very good. I love "did the apple tree pick me" - as we don't know in our exchanges with plant and animal life the ‘who’ or the ‘what’ that is expressing choice, will or super sentience with which the universe is filled. I think we talked lot about some of these ideas around Brian Swimme’s books. I may have it mixed up but this is my take. :) With attributes that I don't see did he communicate with me? Do you suppose that he can see that I'm aware that he told me? I love this! My daughter once said to me, "Mom, think of the senses we don't have!" "attributes that I don't see" honors the spirit creating the tree and the being that is the tree. The unconscious could have picked up on the tree telling you -- maybe that is what this poem is about. I think, along with Rick Barnes, that a poem IS. It has a right to its own existence. Doesn’t mean we can’t revise, since we give birth to it in the first place. The poem itself may be a doorway into a different type of understanding for you as well as the reader. Do you think he knows of me? Do you think a bee knows the tree? Also perhaps the bee knows me. Who else knows of my bee and tree? I wish I could remember who wrote this or where I read it, about the tree being 'one being' with insects and small animals around it. Very likely that the "bee knows the tree"! Dellena, this is a brilliant, thought- provoking poem. I love it. Do birds on high see as I see do they have rapport with my tree? Cats hug limbs from what I see. Everything seems to love my tree. We don't know what birds see - you show that clearly. In light verse, with a playful spirit. "Everything seems to love my tree." Everything, you show, seems to love everything else. Except perhaps at times, we humans. At our worst. The universe works together in vast love. My granddaughter Bea would adore this poem -- she sees everything this way. I am going to email it to her. I see birds and beast, bees and trees They are all exactly as me…… What a profound statement you make here. This is a spiritually uplifting and engaging poem. We are the same beings, are we not? You are the one who can write about all of us. I hold this poem and its author in highest esteem. I am especially fond of birds and bees, anyway, and of course, the trees. And cats. And apples. Speaking of apples, I have to take a berry pie out of the oven. Wish I could extend the olfactory imagery to you. Then, I have to wait for it to cool. Ah, patience! Hugs, Joanne	2005-06-21 16:14:15
Abyss	Jesus Manuel Lopez	Jesus: What a welcome treat to see another of your poems, once again! I hope I can do it justice in these remarks. Ignoring Nietzsche I brazenly gazed with addled eyes and finely fractured faith into the abyss Your poetics are fine-tuned here. In the tripled fricative z’s in “Nietzche/brazenly/gazed” for example. And “finely/fractured/faith” as well. So, the existentialist void, the “abyss” draws the speaker’s ‘brazen gaze’ and it returns his stare. This seems to me to be a frightening possibility, but not one that I can identify in my personal experiences. Nonetheless, I have known and know a number of individuals with this philosophy, living and dead. It is a deeply chilling thought. “We stared at each other” It’s easy for me to get de-railed here, if you will, at this moment of encounter. Humor along with this descent is palpable. At least to me, and I may be reading things into this that you never intended to imply. That is the beauty of poetry, IMO – it may supersede us. Takes over where we left off, if you will. with a deep understanding that barely scratched the brambly surface of Russell's secret of happiness that the world is horrible horrible horrible The repetition gives an emphasis that kind of cancels out the idea, makes it absurd. Recognition of the ‘horribleness’ of the world cancels idealism and thus disappointment. I love your word combinations of “barely scratched” and “brambly surface” – textured writing! Scratchy. I’m not certain I catch your meaning in the Russell reference. I am thinking of both Bertrand Russell and David O. Russell. I recall the ‘existentialist detectives’ in “I Heart Huckabees” as more quantum than existential. Please forgive my lack of sophistication here. It has been a few years since college. Then for a split-second Schopenhauer's observation that after your death you will be what you were before your birth answered all and none of my questions Schopenhauer’s rather severe views, with his prevalent ‘Weltanschauung’ leave me hanging with nothing to hold on to. I don’t pretend to have much knowledge of this school of thought. Probably closest would be some recent studies in Buddhism. (I have an eclectic mix of studies.) What occurs to me in the last few lines of your poem is that the speaker observes that we truly know nothing. It’s a very scary idea for me to face head-on. But my sense is that you write with utmost honesty. And that, too, is a scary idea! What if you're right? Nevertheless, I really enjoyed the poem, and a chance to revisit some of the philosophers and ideas from past explorations. Thank you for this poem, and for your respect for your readers’ intelligence. I hope I haven’t failed completely to catch your intent for the work. My best to you, Joanne	2005-06-21 11:23:53
Memorial of Innocence	Mandie J Overocker	Mandie: This is so incredibly heart-breaking, I cannot comment here. I will write to you off the link. This poem deserves my most concentrated attention. Your pain is so immense that it runs through each word and wrings me with grief. There may not be as many responses to this and other recent poems of yours, simply because we are overwhelmed with the enormity of your losses. I know that everyone who reads is feeling much, but perhaps a bit paralyzed with the impact. Keep writing for it is a healing art. Writing, reading and responding. There is a connection that runs from one person here to another (although at times we disagree on surface issues) which may make a circuit and elevate all of us to a level of understanding of what you have undergone, and teach us how to offer comfort and our real selves in the process. Learn of human suffering and respond. Offer our own, for release. All my thoughts and prays, and meditations. I will write to you. Best always, Joanne	2005-06-20 20:28:16
Wind At My Back	Mell W. Morris	Mell-O One: A thrill to see another of your creations. I believe you have revised, but I cannot pinpoint the changes you’ve made. All about this poem is soft, approachable, and layered with colors and sensory images. It is Mell W. Morris Classic. Words to savor. Essences to relish. Time, emotions, thoughts almost too deep for words, worded. Elegantly. Your way, as only you can write. Words like “zephyr, closely followed by “breeze.” A winding wind, “with no thought to intrude. So subtle that we do not feel ourselves awakened, but only in a thoughtful, musing state of mind. “A soft wind soothing my skin, perhaps formed before memory, likely a new vocabulary we may never know.” I love the tactile imagery, the layering of ideas, especially the idea of the wind “perhaps formed before memory.” That thought, a place to linger with considerations of what time is, what we are. What is poetry to the writer and the reader of it. I also love the imagery of the breeze “that pauses and inhales” as a sentient being, as an angelic being, perhaps. The Holy Spirit. The rising wail recalls for me images and sounds (imagined) of banshees, as spoken in story by my Irish grandmother. (Kept me from creeping out of my room at night for milk and cookies. I knew they were under my bed and would only grab my ankles if I left it for unworthy actions.) “In silence, I've endured a dividing wind, especially at a sunset hour when it's said that winds lessen or die.” The sense here is of the spirit, pulled, torn or detached from mooring, all the while the speaker waits in silence, especially at the “sunset hour.” The legends of the wind, as lessening or dying seems a powerful metaphor for our transformations and exhalations. Perhaps our deepest fears. It touches upon something un-namable. Do we welcome it, or resist? Is it only ‘imaginary’ or the part of us which knows, really knows, what wind it is that touches us. Your words, “winds lessen” also echo, for me, ‘wind’s lesson’ – what is the lesson aside from continuing the flow. Where the flow leads we may follow. “At setting sun, with susperious winds, there is a half hour which is the color of sadness, regret, and the hue- filled rhymes.” These lines above, with their coloration which appeals to the melancholy in me, pull me away and into the poem. Each rhyme with its own hues. You listening to the inner soul of yourself, reflecting back out again its process. The music of it allowing me to hear that refined –‘soul jazz’ if I may use that term. Yet nothing can keep out the darkness, away from illuminations that nurture a host of life forms. Amazing. I must have said that the first time I responded to this poem. I will say it again. You capture the manifest and unmanifest universe in these three lines. The life forms are swirling, the darkness noses in, seeking its unquestioned right to co-exist with light. And I? I live in the palm of His hand. Ah. Again, the final line delivers me. Seeing you there, sensing that life you live in that sanctuary. All-That-Is holding you, holding each of us with absolute surety. What else is there worth considering? I may have said this, too. Nobody gets into the very quiet places in my mind as you do. Sheer brilliance and handling of the language that is uniquely a MWM signature makes this one of my all-time favorites. Red, red roses extended, in a basket of spun silver. Always, your LL Em	2005-06-20 20:16:23
Falling From You	Rick Barnes	Hello, Rick Barnes! As always, your new poems are a major event for me. This one gives me the sensation of ‘falling’ down the page. And recalls for me times in my own life of separation or painful endings of relationships. Your poems are very engulfing, somehow, as if you are inviting the reader into a psychological/emotional space as inhabited by you but accessible to them. I cannot tell if it is me imagining I am experiencing your own experience or me experiencing my own. "Falling From You" The delicacy of the title aptly prepares the reader for a RB poem, one of romance and of intense ‘passia’ – as you we have discussed. It was you Who first said, “falling”. And reaching out To catch you In a loving embrace I found that I Was “falling” too. It interesting how that word captures the sensation of ‘falling in love’ which is a sort of freefall into a vortex that is irresistible. And at the time of the ‘falling’ we do not care. Crashing seems an impossible idea. Only relevant to those who do not understand the concept of “loving embrace.” (Fools!) Maybe it’s like the sensation one would have if individual consciousness could be joined with the All, with all other creatures, or truly, any other human. Sometimes not lasting, but often there comes that moment of equilibrium, which can either be maintained or not. I think love may truly be something supernatural. I held on Believing that we Were falling at the same pace. You let go, leaving me To fall alone From that embrace. Now it really is freefall. The shock of realization that there is no one there with you, but you are still falling. Scary as hell! The other person let go after you had placed your complete trust in them. Sometimes we are the one doing the letting go, trying not to look down to see if the parachute opened for the one who is falling downward at a faster rate than we are. Had you not First whispered “falling” I would still have Fallen through. But then I would have been Falling for, not Falling from, you. A moment of communication before the hands let go. Time to adjust one’s rate of speed, look for a soft place to land. Nevertheless, no place is soft enough. Letting go – the hardest thing we are ever called upon to do as humans, in my estimation. Either way – whether the speaker has "fallen through", whether “for” her, or falling “from” her, you here describe an exquisitely painful descent. Only you, Rick. Once again, amazing. Initiate of having fallen, Joanne	2005-06-15 09:42:52
I Don't Know	Kenneth R. Patton	Ken: By way of saying the effort is definitely worth it, splendid work. We can never go wrong, in my estimation, by appreciating our friends. This poem is lovely and I can still feel the lump in my throat from reading your additional notes. It was already very moving but that information reminds me of many things, not the least of which is that time is all we *really* have. You show wise use of it in this spare, deeply honoring poem for your friend. This is less of a critique than my acknowledgment of the wisdom in your words. May we all heed them and do likewise. Magnificent tribute. Kudos. Best always, Joanne	2005-06-14 17:17:59
The idea-hound	Mark Andrew Hislop	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	2005-06-13 08:17:28
Arnie	Latorial D. Faison	Latorial: This 'good turn' reminds me that I have many to return to others. I admire what you've written, as I agree completely that Arnie has a sweet soul which he shares unreservedly. Though sometimes sassy and curmudgeonly though he may be, underneath that is a heat of pure gold. I think that your poem addresses a basic issue (aside from Arnie's good qualities) and that is this: Above all, we want to be heard. When we write poetry, critiques, critique replies, even silly stuff on the Forum, we are listening, being listening to, and most times, valued. For the story which makes up our lives as we live them. There are poets here who have heard me in a way I never expected to be heard, ever. For this I cannot thank them enough. It is a gift to be given and received joyously. Thank for for setting a fine example of how to do this. My very best always, Joanne	2005-06-12 10:58:34
Depending on What Is Is	Mell W. Morris	Ma chéri: I have just had my glass of champagne, as promised in my reply to your critique. But it is flat. Seems fitting for the one- dimensional character within the piece. "Depending on What Is Is" There is something about the title that reminds me of something a renowned poet of TPL has been oft-quoted as saying: “A poem IS.” And so it is to the 'isness' of this poem that I descend or ascend. He likes a curvaceous woman, no stick figures like models. He places women in a category with peach cobbler: crusty on the outside, a sweet filling. To begin with, I cannot fault his taste. Peach cobbler is a very satisfying dish, made properly. Never being much of a stick myself, I can identify. As far as crusty is concerned, perhaps a bit of worldliness appeals. But unfortunately, women are not consumables. We are not for casual devouring. Perhaps sweet, but belonging only to ourselves. In my view, like goddesses. He objectifies women in a rather chauvinistic way. "Okay, Senator," he says, seeing the girl under his desk, checking her lipstick. His voice never changes the entire time. "Well, Senator, I believe we'll come together I thought of the girl and wondered who is really the ‘ho’ here! I’ve met many with this so-called title. Usually hard-pressed, or supporting a drug habit, or children, coming from a pattern of degradation. I have known a ‘true' ho or two, IMO: a ‘for sale’ psychologist, quite willing to give a diagnosis to the right buyer. (Sorry, my cynicism is showing!) or once, an attorney who was paid great sums of money to defend the extreme wealth of the state vs. a victimized child. But I digress. The corrupt politician, with his sly aside does not endear himself to this reader. on the issue," laughing at his pun as he hangs up the phone and slips a hundred- dollar bill in the girl's pocket. He has no further need for the aging senator He is so clever. Let us plan what sort of dismemberment he deserves. A user and a taker, one who sees nothing in anyone but their value to his purposes. and should focus on his plans as the end of his tenure nears. He has options but what he wants is power. No, not power... respect. No phony backslapping, no air- Surprising statement that he wants not power, but ‘respect’ which may be translated as worship, IMO. kisses with women and no gratis speeches. He wants respect in the manner Aretha demanded and then commanded. All he has to do is flash that come-back grin Again, wordplay on the word “come” in the form of “come-back” as if his deeds will ‘come’ back to haunt him. To have his pronoun "He" uttered in the same line with Aretha seems anathema. I think that this is exactly your point. He has no power like hers, deserves not the respect that she commanded. and...remember the definitions of small words. Perhaps the smallest, ‘if’ he had character, or most especially, if he understood “is”! This man could not define his way no matter how flashy the “come-back grin.” And so, I wish to infer from the poem that he meets Fate, perhaps in the form of self-undoing. The champagne has proved flat to taste, as flat as the two-dimensional being inhabiting a humanoid carcass. I have no sympathy for him, having observed the machinations of similar men. Men with no heart, no awareness of soul or human values. I may be completely off-base. It’s always a stellar treat to find a new poem of yours, even though I like its subject far less than, for example, a scorpion or the wasp upon which I sat once. It was quite amusing in the long run, makes a great story, but I digress. This ironic poem is sharp as a surgical tool. I think it is now time for LL Em to take the hot bath and cleanse off the effluvia of the grinning fool with so few definitions in his vocabulary. I don’t know the back-story but would be very interested in hearing it, ma cheri. As always I am delighted to comment on a poem of yours and hope I have not missed your intent. If so, I plead guilty to reactivity based on experience in behalf of woman in miserable circumstances. Best always and congratulations on a bold new theme! Her omni-ness, feeling a bit put-off by the slimy fellows who populate this poem, but not by its author, who reigns as brilliantly as ever. L & K, LL Em	2005-06-11 21:30:57
Mea Culpa	Dellena Rovito	Dellena: Cloudiness and tears and the unavailable peace dove give this piece a very melancholy feel. You show us with imagery how difficult it is to live (love) with anger. It spoils the brew. There's an old adage that the cook who stirs the broth stirs in his (or her) feelings. It is if anger lends a bitter taste to the soup. And Dellena, as always there is so much more to your poetry than a first glance reveals. The question you pose, I cannot answer. Sometimes resentment, I feel, is like burning embers which must burn themselves out and eventually turn to white ashes. Then we may poke around a while and consider what has been lost. My favorite lines in this poem are the closing ones: All grassy slopes connect to high ---simply lovely! and poignant and seasoned waters pass on by… Feeling in the valley. The “seasoned waters pass on by…” says so much and yet allows me to fill in with my own feelings of being ‘stuck’ many times, or left behind while I pondered, struggling with all my emotions. You bring us along with you, as much as is possible through written words. The sunlight required to live is something that, while you may not realize it, you give out … so continously. Hugs, Joanne	2005-06-11 14:52:57
Wet Ink	Debbie Spicer	Debbie: I am delighted to find this poem by you. Since you began writing here, I’ve observed a stronger voice emerging with each poem, and it has been a long time since you’re given us a new one to contemplate. So, a rare treat it is, and a privilege, to have a chance to comment on this one. First, I like your title. I bespeaks freshness and addresses life from a writer’s POV – we are always writing and when the ink is “wet” we are fresh from the translation of our experience/perceptions to the written form. We are in the process of birthing ourselves, yet again. Within the body of the poem, you give us an intensely powerful view of your journey towards that rebirth. Hues of green glimmer in the waters eye Sparkling bubbles rise as the boats go by. Waves come tossing as we all hold on Magnitudes of suns rays strike beyond. The speaker (you) open the work with a stanza that includes an enthralling image. I so love “the waters eye” as it is in the liquid pool of perception, the liquid symbol of emotions that we step when entering your poem. “green glimmer” is lovely, especially to this reader as it is my favorite color in all of its permutations. The action of the boats in the water cause bubbles to rise, much as life’s events and interactions cause our emotional waters to roil. And the waves! As they “coming tossing by” leave us vulnerable to the effects of life events, crises, upheavals of all kinds. So disarranged are we by these waves that “we all hold on.” I especially like this because it applies universally to all of us, at least certainly to this reader. Sometimes holding on for ‘dear life’ as a giant wave sweeps me out to sea, and throws me back on the beach at a later time, to reflect upon what has happened. Then you bring in the fiery element of the sun, which is often seen in metaphor as Spirit and often, as a masculine symbol. The enormity of what happens to us strikes “beyond” our most vivid imaginings. Trees so majestic stand on mountains high Birds dance on branches not to deny. Life’s marvelous chances are all around Dreams are never to be totally bound. The trees seem as sentries, guarding the soul of the speaker, observing the messengers (birds/angels) who continue in life’s dance, regardless of the circumstances – for they are aware of ‘life’s marvelous chances’ and realize that these chances are “all around” and that dreams, hopes, aspirations are *never* totally bound, despite the outer appearances of things. Many around us will paddle and play Some in the sun where they choose to lay. Outer skin tans with sun so fresh All to find anything warm to the flesh. Maybe a synonym or other rhyming word or phrase – ‘spend the day’ or other possibility – as ‘lay’ implies set, put down, or places something, as opposed to ‘lie’ which is to recline or lounge. It’s not a big thing, and I don’t want to disturb the work in any way (or its writer!). You show those who suntan as seeking warmth for their flesh, which implies a coldness or shivering which is felt subjectively. I interpret this as remoteness from life, from feeling alive and “warm to the flesh” of living life fully. All seem to laugh in the summer glee Some ache inside searching for “their” me. Lost long ago was a little girl Can she be found in the water’s swirl? Wonderful concept – those aching inside ---searching for “their” me -- ! Finding the inner core. The warmth of the spirit, the self which has remained unharmed by life’s outer circumstances, that spark of the divine which we all carry. You then transition to the ‘lost child’ within, wondering if she can “be found in the water’s swirl” – and herein is the hope within this poem. To consider that it may be possible to find ‘your’ Me, your inner self within the midst of emotional turmoil raises the level of this work to transformation. There is a reflection that stares at me Who is this person desiring to be free? Lost so young now knowing why Still searching for answers as time passes by. The speaker emerges in the midst of unraveling a sequence of events in which she became lost “so young” but “now knowing why.” My own heart beats faster with the momentum gained here, with the surety of her finding her answers “as time passes by.” This is why I love to read your poetry, Deb. It always leaves me somewhere other than where I began, as you include your reader in your soul’s journey to healing. Suddenly a splash sprays over my words Wet ink smears making it difficult to read. Life with known mysteries continues on As the ink soon dries the pain will be gone. I love the oxymoron of “known mysteries” as the speaker acknowledges that it is the very mysterious nature of life, and our awareness of same that makes it a magical, illuminating process. A more familiar term, such as “unknown mysteries” would bring this line to the higher level of luminous writing which it reaches, IMO. “unknown mysteries” is redundant, but “known mysteries” is exciting and breath-taking. The final line appropriately and powerfully closes this superb offering with the thought that we are really headed somewhere, not merely aimlessly passing time. Pain may be re-examined when the ink is wet again, but will lessen with each writing, drying, and rereading. The process will not end without the release of pain, and ultimately, understanding and healing. I should mention your crafting, which is finely done, as for example “suddenly splash sprays” with its sibilance, and vivid imagery. The metonymy of “splash” for the startling event or sudden insight which changes everything. Outstanding! Brava! A basket of sparkling seashells extended to you. Peace and joy, Joanne	2005-06-02 09:44:10
turn to me	Mark Andrew Hislop	Mark: Me, again. :) I can’t pass by the banquet of poems which you have presented this month, without tasting each dish. Some bitter, some sweet, some savory. I think this one has all three qualities, at least for me. The saying occurs to me, while rereading this – “anticipation exceeds realization” or similar words. Don’t know who said it. They ought to have their toe stomped on for being right. :) But the poem itself is exquisitely enjoyable. I especially enjoy your restraint, the contained passion, your cadence and imagery. Our Muse delivers, it seems, when our sensorium is acutely alert for whatever reasons. turn to me (soft imperative, spoken with eyes) a jazz of atoms adrift (the suggestion of soft jazz music, nice ‘z’, ‘f’ sounds) smoking in a state-change on a new horizon this restaurant, humid with the sweat of my desire i see you through it you feel something (elicits the whole range of perceived signals to-from others) you do not yet know The above stanza is truly electric with sensual tension. It holds everything in reserve, intensifying the subtle and not-so-subtle emotions of the speaker. This is palpable for readers, undoubtedly. turn to me. (evokes for me Stanley Kunitz's “Touch Me”) yeah there you stand and i think i could touch you as my hand sometimes thinks it could touch the sun. (well-placed irony) i had fever, you said to a friend, an infection your friend cares as she would if she would care to give small change to a tedious beggar (smile -- the speaker is an insightful observer of nuances) turn to me. sun plucked from space you leave a black vacuum gone, you extract my excited atoms’ energy your light your face is hidden (exquisite) my mass gone critical, you leave me sleepless splitting with my desire's prayer This stanza above, my favorite, because of its intensity. Lightning struck, the speaker longs with unbearable longing. Who among us, as adult sexual beings, has not felt this, though we do not often speak of such intimacies, even to close friends. We would reveal our vulnerabilities too much, even to ourselves. I find this to be some of your most remarkable writing, once again. I also find more than a hint throughout the piece of scientific acumen. I love the way L7 refers back to L3 above. Like an atom splitting, the speaker is. turn to me. after is much like before except that now it’s darker inside and out. what atoms remain turn in upon themselves, upon me my bubble-chambered heart witness to that nanosecond trajectory The hard part, the after. Not stuffed immediately back down into unawareness, but lingering in consciousness. The speaker allows the experience of the darkness “inside and out” to penetrate. I could feel the “bubble-chambered heart” and its stumbling pulse. Leaden. you turned to me. I feel as if I am in an existentialist dilemma. There is less than nothing left. How can nothingness decrease? Incredibly evocative work, Mark. You continue to amaze me. My best always, Joanne	2005-06-01 09:16:08
Sins of the Mother	Mark Andrew Hislop	Mark: This is going to be a tall assignment for me, requiring setting aside of my personal experience of motherhood and being mothered. As a poem it is like your other more recent works, compellingly powerful. Not easy reading for most, but gut-wrenchingly evocative. Your poem. I may not do it justice, but not from lack of intent. “Sins of the Mother” The title elicits “Sins of the father” and all of the associations. It is startling and begins the work with a fiery, consuming tone. My Other, I think From first, As if I were another One of your own Unrecallably obscene gestures, I knew to shrink, from you, where others Would rise to applause above their caws Of infant joy. That threw me, To this day. The speaker parallels himself with the mother, “My Other” in such a way as to give me the impression that he is roiling with self-loathing. At the moment what occurs to me is Martin Buber’s “I-Thou” as self/creator -- the otherness. This is quite at the opposite end of the spectrum. Nothing is redeeming in the relationship as shown in S1. I’m taking a very deep breath and plunging in – as the territory of this poem is like molten lead to my feet. Emotionally I’m wanting to change it, change the revealed subjective feelings of the speaker/poet. Can’t do that, can’t fix this. Not mine to do anything with whatsoever, except to bear with the poem. The speaker reveals the mother as like the Medussa of Greek mythology, a Gorgon who could turn to stone anyone who looked at her. You are looking at her, and not turned to stone. Nor have we. Who snaked into you (here is a Medussa reference again, as I feel it) To bear me? Heedless, you obliged And heaved, And writhed, and moaned While I listened, Suspended dumb, founded now Inside your bilious moat. Pretty tough-going, reading this. I have read it many times over and recoiled. The sheer intensity of it is like a heat-seeking missile. Still, it is excellent as a poem if the job of a poem is to elicit emotions in the reader. That it does for me. As you say, ‘in Spades.’ You did not smile, Eve, That evening I first Was. God had it so, And so marked me With your bloodiness. And so, instead of Perseus, who killed Medussa, we have Cain. The speaker feels his 'mark' -- irony in the words “so marked me” with your name, Mark. I would withdraw, again and again from such intensity but I cannot because I am in it, feeling it in my solar plexus. I draw closer to the speaker, sensing only deeply piercing wounds, and not the unclean. The poem itself seems like a purification, if you will, a release. Perhaps I am (as usual) ahead of myself. These are the Generations of Cain. Purely unclean, I need not speak. The righteous know me from a distance And they retreat. Not being one of the righteous, I have not retreated. I envy your ability to write with such passion, sparing nothing, none within range. This, your very personal statement, yet it can apply to those persons which we may each carry within that can easily consume us. Those (internalized) who have used us or betrayed our trust, whose sins are as identifiable to us as our own. The poem leads this reader down a very dark passage, like the birth canal. I think that as poets we ask this of one another and can do no less. Stay present. I hope I have not stepped too close to the fire’s embers. Extremely powerful, Mark. Peace, at last, Joanne	2005-05-30 12:15:04
Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Joanne M Uppendahl	Critique Date

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