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Below you will see ALL of the Critiques that Elaine Marie Phalen has given on The Poetic Link.
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Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Elaine Marie Phalen	Critique Date
Moon haiku #1	Joanne M Uppendahl	Hi Joanne, Wow, haiku even. This is lovely withs it vivid detail of a moonlit night. There seems an interesting message, too: the moon "tinsels" - what a great verb! - the land features, but offers something of tangible value only to the water. Tinsel is all glitter and no substance, although undeniably pretty. It temporari;y makes any surface look magical and new. Coins can be visually attractive but their true worth lies in the way they are used. One can hoard their shining discs for later benefit. Tinsel dulls with time; coins remain valuable, even just as artifacts. The "silver sickle" is a reaper's tool as well as a shape. It is also part of the Wiccan implement called a bolline, for harvesting and preparing herbs and assisting in other healing rituals. This suits the implicit lunar ideas of both femininity and transience. Mountains and trees pass away in time; the seas are eternal, although their boundaries will shift as the continents move. If I were the moon goddess I, too, would offer my treasure to the ocean and be less concerned with the land, except to briefly beautify it in passing. I may well be reading too deeply into a poem of imagery. But you will know whether or not I am doing that, and also whether or not what I've noted is actually true. : ) Brenda	2004-10-10 19:28:27
A Pocketful of Stones	Lynda G Smith	Lynda, I found this first on the voting finalists' list, really liked it, then today was delighted to have it appear on my personal 50-poem critiquing list. Unfortunately, I lack time this morning - have to put the horses out since it's finally clearing up - and in any case, I could not do your imagery full justice. I love the metaphorical language throughout this piece. The stones become so many things, while still remaining what they are. We cannot remove their weight, but can make of it something creative, or therapeutic, or at least signifiacnt. They are evidence of our existence, with all its griefs and darknesses. This poem seems to be three spearate entities. Those first seven lines could stand on their own. The longing for release from burdens is evident, and beautifully expressed. Then the POV shifts to third person, and the "lady" as main character is observed in her sorrows. There are so many superb images here! "Tethered agony" speaks once more of inescapable heaviness. Thoughts flash through fingers weak and wistful; in a polished avalanche of glimpsed reverie. How is it they can float except perhaps upon steel stems of sheer determination? The thoughts and stones appear to be parallel, associated with the speaker's mental state. Neither can rise to the surface, yet each bears the potential for transformation. The stones become stemmed blssoms; the thoughts themselves are pebbles. Wonderful passage! "Fate stood upon decision" opens the third section, with another shift in perspective and also, after "determination" [above], a change in verb tense. Present has become past and remains so for the duration of the poem. Now, the speaker now seems to be addressing some larger force, the workings of destiny that are moving this other party toward her choices. Resignation or survival? Acquiescene to the Fates, or resistance against them? How long would it take to filter and sort them, braille each one, lift it to the light of day or in these dark tumbled times allow the polishing of the pain to remove both blemish and beauty leaving something or someone… smaller and less significant to remain in trust.[?] Ay, there's the rub. If we smooth our losses and regrets, we also lose something of the texture that makes our lives multi-dimensional. Without the darker aspect, how can we recognize the highlights when they come? A polished stone is lovely but it is also somewhat sterile. It offers no further possibilities. Will you explain to them what it signifies, this dust unto dust.[?] I do suggest question marks where appropriate, including the poem's ending, since the speaker is asking rather than stating. But whom is she asing? Who is the "you" suddenly appearing for yet another POV change? I am taking it to mean the larger purpose which drives us. The force that moves stones, polishes or batters our lives, and decides how we will finish whatever we have begun - this seems one interpretation. The other is that the speaker is talking to her friend, the bearer of these stones; this other person is also "the lady", who must come to some course of action. In the final analysis, I sense a "human shipwreck" idea, the lady sinking beneath her own ballast, down into the waters that have grown too cold and turbulent to swim. When we make our exit, do we truly lay aside our stones? Or do they accompany us, in spirit, to wherever we go next? Is there a karmic principle which insists that we carry past obstacles, for later expiation and release? Does the dust reassemble into old shapes, new mountains, similar rocks? And can we ever fully empty or spiritual pockets, at all? This is a poem that raises many issues, and tantalizing reflections radiate from it, like the limbs of a starfish. I'm glad to see its position in the top group this month and hope it remains there, as it is most deserving of such recognition. Brenda	2004-10-05 09:39:18
Moving On	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, this isn't a critique; I'm weary tonight and my words would become oatmeal. But this little poem - #50 on my list! - lured me to read it before sleep. It's delightful, and strikes me as being about something other than the two absent frogs. I think it is an oblique reference to your anticipated loss of the familiar. It reveals your sudden awareness that even small things can change, go away, be missed for what they have been or meant to us. Yet flux is a part of the universe. So is shaking off the trappings of the past - the dead plants from summer - so that all can be tidied and set in readiness for the next incarnation of blooms and tiny beasts. For me, this happens when the magnificently large spiders vanish after the first frosts. Their egg cases are scattered over my exterior siding and under the roof's overhang, abandoned by their departed parents in the hope of a new birth. There's a certain pathos in this; the adults can never see their own children, or even know whether they've succeeded in creating another generation. But I always end up with several fat, confident spiders clinging to my bedroom ceiling, with their webs stretched in the corners. There's one above my computer desk, in fact, just sort of hanging out. I never try to disturb them. They alone will make it into the warmer weather again, and might even live to see their children (which for all I know, they might find particularly tasty!). I know you're seriously contemplating a move to another area. Yet you have been rooted and grounded in your home, presumably for some years, so perhaps this poem is a bit of an advance letting-go. It is not the frogs who are moving on (or have done so); it is the speaker/poet, about to depart her comfortable territory and begin again to establish familiarity. She must set her pots in a new place and wait for the appropriate tenants to appear. How exciting! How terrifying! You will have your own egg cases to carry with you, and secure in a safe spot where they will re-establish your family unit in this new place. The absence of toads is a foretaste of grief, and also an acceptance that nothing can stay the same for long. I wiah you the very best of luck in finding that perfect home to which you can transfer your allegiance and hopes. You surely deserve it! Now you can tell me I'm way off the mark and should flop under my covers so my brain will rejuvenate! Brenda	2004-10-04 21:38:17
Deep In My Heart Is A Song	Mell W. Morris	Mell, this one isn't on my list but I have to comment nonetheless. You sculpt language like a tangible art form, and then color it according to its shape and texture. Your characteristic internal rhyme is nowhere finer than in this piece. There is a hopping-back-and-forth energy to the cadenced stanzas, nicely augmented by enjambment, which leads to the "accelerated inspiration" that you describe in S1, and which is most obvious when the poem is spoken. You write, I think, to be read orally, not pinned to a page. In that sense, your poems are like Shakespearean drama, wonderful when quietly studied but even more splendid when translated into sound. A medulary moment, close To the bone, a luminous event to dispel The lassitude and languor I've lazily Allowed to accumulate. This speaks of a journey intended, perhaps not yet begun but near at hand, as the speaker is moved to change her position and embark on her spiritual quest. Inertia's a killer, isn't it? We have such trouble shaking ourselves into full awareness! On the other hand, we must also guard against the sort of rootless wandering that never allows us to rest or feel content. It takes determination to root this ashy-blue Weed and soon I have a surround of feathery Blue blending with the lavender hue of my Lilac saplings. These are exquisite visuals. I think for some odd reason of VanGogh's irises, an "ashy-blue/bleed" of a painting. Your color choices betoken peace and inner sight - blue for the intellect, purple for the soul. These hues appear self-generated, as if the speaker is in charge of her own portrait and can craft the setting it most needs. Yet this is also a translation into the purest form, the body of light which offers both freedom and joy. I feel flooded with peace And grace like the stream which brought me Here. Rivulets, freshets, all waters bring Me to my knees in a prayerful attitude Here is the union with divinity, and the gift of grace is offered to all who dwell herein. Is this a Heaven, or some earthly realm where all are welcomed and accepted? The cleansing effect of the water restates the theme of S1. Regardless of one's sorrows and burdens, there is purifcation available through spiritual insight. In the end, "belonging" is everyone's desire, I think, whether it be within the kingdom of God, or as a part of the natural universe. I note that you bring no religious tenets into this poem, so it is relevant to all readers. I tend to believe that everyone who reads and creates poetry is, in fact, a seeker of enlightenment. Language, in all its beauty, is one way to achieve this, as you are doing with your writing and describing in this poem. One other absolutely cool thing is the title itself, which is also a line from the Sons of the Pioneers' classic, "Drifting along with the Tumbling Tumbleweed". I love that song! Considering the direct referemce to a tumbleweed in S4, I'm sure this is a deliberate link. The SOP's song speaks of a "new world" that will be born with dawn, much as the speaker of this poem is envisioning. Kudos to you, Mell. This is fine, fine work. Brenda	2004-10-04 21:17:06
Big Catch	Claire H. Currier	Wow, Claire, this is a fun fish story! It has so many small details that it must be true, right? You've nicely adopted the youthful diction of your childhood self, and I like the way the sequence of events is unfolded, from gathering worms to the final decision that brings the pair back to shore. I can easily imagine the whole scene, because you've given so many visual images. I get a chuckle out of the excerpt from The Night before Christmas: "when what to my wondering eyes should appear", which any child would find familiar. When the eyes and head appear, though, I'm puzzled by what the heck it is!! A sea turtle, I think. I've never really seen one up close, except in captivity, but the shell and the neck are the giveaways. That must have been terrifying for a little girl, face to face with such a "monster" when she's only expecting a fish. Couple of typos: staring and it's for "it is", as in L11. No biggies. I enjoyed reading this one. Narrative poetry is a favorite of mine and the story has to be good or I don't get drawn into it. Yours held me till the end. Take Care, Brenda	2004-10-04 18:32:58
Seattle	Michael J. Cluff	Michael, how are you? Lovely to see a poem of yours on my list. :) This is a true situation?? I hadn't heard about it but it sounds pretty appalling. You mean it is illegal to take photos of closed caskets occupied by deceased service personnel, shipped home from Iraq? Those first two stanzas offer a detached reflection on the state of the body after its death. It has no will, no feelings. It can end up in an anatomy class or a veterans' cemetery with equal indifference. "Being blanketed warm" seems almost paradoxical, considering the coldness of both corpse and earth. The separation of that single word, "war", signals a shift from theoretical to actual and from the speaker's musing to his reporting of a current event. "You can't fire a newspaper/only people". Yes. Likewise, it is people who lie in caskets, but their humanness has been stripped away by death and now they are cellular collections awaiting interment. The personalities, the spiritual elements, are imprinted into survivors' memories and, one would hope, also translated into another dimension. Why is it, then, so offensive to photograph a box, and a flag, neither of which is unclean, mortal or even animate? So the issue must be because these coffins are tangible evidence of American casualties in a war that was supposed to have been over some time ago. They suggest that the US presence is less than effective. Soldiers on the winning side don't die when the war is finished. So ... it's not finished. Heaven forbid we should be allowed to think that way! Your closing word, "disagreement", is very apt. The forces of war and government hate awkward questioning. Of course, it's only awkward from their perspective; everyone else just needs some answers. Unfortunately for the military, opposing opinions have a way of snowballing and suddenly there's a full-scale investigation. A challenge to its authority, in a word. Unthinkable! Got a link to the story? I do watch CNN but obviously missed it. Thanks for posting this informative poem, which is well-written, very clear and evokes the precise questions that some might wish to avoid! Cheers, Brenda	2004-10-04 18:01:58
Creating and Dating	Mandie J Overocker	Hi Amanda, The poem's sonic elements truly make it original and effective. Your use of rhyme is just delightful! whispers in my ear whiskers tickle me shivers fickle be. Even the slant rhyme of whispers/whiskers/shivers is beautifully incorporated. "Tickle me/fickle be" is great! Thge whol epoem is superbly playful and those very short lines add to the effect (usually, I'm not a fan of such brevity, so for me to appreciate it here is a huge compliment, believe it or not). One last chance one last dance grooving beat "Gee, they sound neat" on their feet his hands are dancing as I am glancing round once again. There's tremendous energy in your writing. It spills enthusiastically from line to line like a kitchen party full of fiddle music. The guy with the dancing hands could be lover or writer, embracing or typing. In the end, good art arises from our own passions. The exuberance of the dance lends itself well to the act of artistic creation. That final "spark" is like the Genesis idea, the beginning of an amazing new entity. In the old days, when a couple were courting it was called "sparking", so that word adds another level to the idea of "dating". The writer courts his/her Muse and then is committed to what s/he does. Love the poem ... great fun, and very insightful. Brenda	2004-10-03 12:44:18
When Trees Begin to Spill Their Color	Joanne M Uppendahl	Hi Joanne, I confess: I skipped ahead. The imagery in this is just delightful! I love the symbiosis you suggest in S1, as the pond "needs" its complement of ducks and quail in order to fulfil its purpose. The color and visual beauty are worth little, without a use. In S2, the visual focus is the tail, with its diagonal line. This weekend, I've seen countless pheasants! They must have enjoyed a summer of plenty, and are everywhere - beside the road, in the fields, under apple trees. Their "gilded" tails are just as you describe. I love watching them run as if their legs are little, oiled wheels. In S3, you open the view to embrace opposites: the microcosm of the bird worl is also an imitation of our larger society, in which members can be either retiring and withdrawn, or bold and assertive. The latter attitude seems to yield the most seeds (profit). My favorites are the hummingbirds. I didn't know you had ruby-throats out there; that species is our only one. I'd love to see some of the others, though. "Undaunted jewels" is an interesting description because jewels normally don't have personal attributes, but in the mystical realm, gemstones possess their own qualities. I'd call a hummingbird an emerald/ruby combination; sure enough, emerals betoken strength (the Holy Grail was supposed to have been cut from an emerald that fell to earth from Satan's headpiece). And rubies protect against evil, as well as being the queens - Ratna Raj - of all gemstones. So who would be daunted by any challenge, if compared to such powerful jewels? I appreciate the wordplay in that last strophe, since the olive warbler is also a species, found in Arizona. In cold months, migration to that state would sound very enticing! Some Townsend's warblers do migrate to southeastern Arizona, which makes the pun doubly appropriate. Your scansion is, of course, syllabic rather than strictly accentual, since many of the stresses fall on varying syllables depending on the line itself. The rhyme is a treat. Closing with a rhymed couplet rather than the alternating ABAB is, I think, a wise choice. In the end, the microcosm's population shifts with the onset of winter. We have our own changing demographics; many retirees head for milder climates, much as birds do. Perhaps we're not so different, after all. Totally off-topic: are you getting an fallout from Mount St. Helen's, in terms of ash? I've been following the eruption with something close to awe; even a minor one inspires wonder at the powers unleashed from the earth. Gaia continues to breathe and mature, doesn't she? Hope all's well! Brenda	2004-10-02 20:33:23
Canvas of Life	Jana Buck Hanks	Wow, Jana, this separation really sets off the poem, placing it into its own beautiful frame. I love it! Of course, you already know what I thought of the original, and the textured language is as rich and splendid as ever. It's not common to find poems that appeal to so many senses, especially smell. But the passage describing the bed is a potpourri of Nature's finest scents, and the allusion to "willow wand", while not meant mystically, still suggests the spiritual dimensions of Earth and Her wisdom. Purple is a color of profound spirituality, also. It is the hue of the enlightened soul. The speaker's journey into a shared dream can also be read as a quest for insight, and communion with the higher self. The person with whom she is sleeping is clearly a physical companion, yet on another level, he can also be a Guide embodied in flesh, who is willing to assist her search. The visual structure of the piece imitates what it is describing, too - the pouring-dripping-dancing-caressing effect that moves back and forth, vertically, horizontally and diagonally. This is a piece imbued with energy, even though it's about something relaxed and peaceful. Anyway, I can't nitpick. You've edited perfectly and the poem stands as further testament to your skill at weaving a word-picture that is sensual, all-embracing and a delight to read/envision/enter. On my voting list it goes! Brenda	2004-09-22 12:07:58
Imperfection	Robert Wyma	Hi Robert, How lovely to see you back! This is a gentle, peaceable poem. It opens with a lot of softness in the "s" sounds. It is soothing, almost like a mantra for living in tune with oneself. Toe "coalesce" suggests giving shape to the intangible, and making of dreams something that can be actively experienced out there in the "real world". But reality is just that: we must know ourselves. in the wake of inner being [as well as following afterwards, "wake" also implies "awakening" into a new alive and true awareness of self and soul] to who I am often not fearless harmless and selfless [most especially, we are not this, I think!] Ah yes, such an admission of fraily is the beginning of enlightenment. Yet if we exhibit a lack of these qualities, then that's also what we must come to terms with. Perfection is for gods and we are not these. But we can aspire, and recognize the truest of ideals - there is a process of at-one-ment at work here. Through sacrifice (not only ours, but also that of the One who has given us Himself) we are permitted to rise "through the radiant heart". as I become we and us The individual is absorbed into a greater spiritual whole. The poem closes with an affirmation of unity with the divine. A Christian would immediately identify this as acceptance into Christ's fold, with His forgiveness and remission of sins. A Buddhist would see it as absolute enlightenment, release from the karmic wheel into Nirvana. There will be no separation between soul and Source. I very much like what you're saying here. This may not be an easy process to grasp and pursue, but it is readily available to anyone who wishes to change and overcome his or her mortal barriers. These are self-built, and thus, can be dismantled so they no longer stand in the way of our union with the Higher Force, the divine. Nicely done! Brenda	2004-09-21 10:09:30
The Hand that Fills Your Cup	Joanne M Uppendahl	I love this one, too! L4 is amazing, both sonically and in terms of the imagery used. All creatures - most especially the sparrow, so beloved of God that He will never overlook its fall - praise the author of their being and universe. They may not identify a "god" per se but they intuit that something exists that is greater than they. It's interesting that they exult in this knowledge, rather than fearing it. We could learn much from a sparrow. The parenthetical reaction shows how absorbed the speaker has become in the bird's actions and how she shares its perspective. Steller’s jay, you rasp remarks [the alliteration and onomatopeia combine to imitate his prattle] from tall pine‘s peak, and pause to scan [more very pleasant alliteration, plosive like the jay's voice] bird-feeder’s banquet then swoop down to scoop your split of sunflower seeds. [Lots of sibilance here, and I get the feeling that the jay thinks he's being stealthy] The term "grace notes" has dual levels; the embellished song, and the idea of divine grace working through a bird's melody. As he utters them, we are blessed to receive the sounds. I used grace notes in that poem I wrote about the white-throated sparrow, caught by the shrike. Birds, in particular, seem to have a more direct access to the spiritual dimension than so the more sophisticated humans who assume they're superior. Bt because we are able to feed such small entities doesn't mean that we are their sole source of nourishment and nurture. In turn, we must also be fed by Something higher up the chain. And I have a suspicion that the Something expects us to celebrate His generosity, not complain about it or use it as an excuse to fight over it. In the end, the speaker is aware that she is governed by the same cosmic order that directs the lives of the birds and other living things. Her cup, too, has been topped off. The cup is such a potent symbol of the sacred, from the Grail to the cup that runneth over to bless the Psalmist. The end result is a sort of small epiphany that enlarges her consciousness of the divine order, and understands her place within it. Again, an eloquent and profound treatment of this theme. It's one I appreciate and your speaker's viewpoint is also similar to mine. What a pleasure to read this tonight ... Brenda	2004-09-07 23:09:40
INSOMNIA	Jana Buck Hanks	Damn, this is great!! I love the partallel of inner frog to acid reflux rumblings. You take an introductory whiff of romance and then shift to underarm smells, nighttime kudzu eyebrow hairs (terrific image!) and then the "tendrils" on his chest - also like vines. Nice connection there. Counting nose hairs: now, THERE'S a truly passionate act! The "ribbettt" with three t's sounds like a protracted snore. The next one is shorter, more of a snort. But the speaker isn't asleep, so this probably reflects both her desired state and the sounds of her partner. As well as the gut noises. The ending is just too funny for words. Having been party to a partner with the illness, and the Zantac, I well know whereof you speak. I can't find anything to nitpick here (or nose-hair-pick, either). Well, OK, maybe the title. Too prosaic for such a gritty-whimsical read. Maybe "Close-Up" (which might also imply toothpaste or blemish cream to go witht he deodorant images)? "Unsleeping Beauty"? "Bottom of the Pond"? I dunno ... you're creative; you can make up something zippy. Enjoyed the poem immensely! It reveals your wicked sense of humor and that's wonderful to behold. Brenda	2004-09-07 12:54:47
Lavender Luminance	Mell W. Morris	Wow, Mell, this one is now high on my list - at last! Not a minute too soon, either. I'd probably have jumped ahead for it, but that's no longer necessary. The god of poetry is kind this morning. By nature humans have restive minds, produce Flawed words, stubborn sounds, and paradoxes. We call a portion of our written words poetry Or the supreme fiction. Hmmm, in S1 you are conveying to the reader a sense of the difficulties that beset writers, in search of perfection and confronted instead with the resistant power of their language. L2 nicely summarizes several of the proeblems we face. Then comes the ironic "poetry/or the supreme fiction". Do we in fact deceive ourselves that what we "call" our work is even what it is? Perhaps the supreme fiction is the author's own perception of his/her success? We write eccentric notions of our fate as Obscure clouds of hyacinth haze on the horizon. We have developed an alphabet of discontent In that one writes in order to erase. There's much truth here, too. "Eccentric notions" sounds a tad tongue-in-cheek. Ordinary souls view the furture pragmatically and work toward it without many questions; poets embellish the road, and focus even on the pebbles they pass en route. I love the breathy "h" alliteration in L2. It sounds mighty like a long sigh of resignation to the poor quality of our soothsaying. "Alphabet of discontent", yes; indeed it is. If we were happy with the status quo, we'd not feel moved to write much, I'm thinking. I draw upon my strongest emotions when I'm furthest down. Yet you've offered us the irony, of writing to erase. We try to cancel pain, remove obstacles, talk away complications. We transfer ourselves into the lines that take shape apart from us. Maybe this makes destiny more bearable. I'd rather imagine what's in those clouds than walk up and actually see for myself. Crucial for the continuation of poetry as an art Form is the acknowledgement of adumbrated Voices, helping establish them as de rigueuer, [de rigueur] And hailing their vatic, vigorous commentary. Here, you offer approval of form, which for many modernists has become the hallmark of those "old-fashioned" writers who refuse to throw all convention into the sky. Poetic form is what differentiates it - like this poem itself - from a prose narrative, an ad or a telephone directory. We suggest meaning through our words but their shape also plays a role in the outcome. The critical reader assesses how well a poem's structure operates to support its message, and determines the worth of format. Each new wave of critics has its own sense of what's hot and what's not. For instance, the classicism of a sonnet is not to today's general tastes, although there may be a resurgence of formalism, to judge by the numbers of competitions that are offered in that area. Readers partially determine the way we must write if we are to be read at all. Critics shape the style of what we do, even if we feel they shouldn't. Nobody wants to languish on the back shelf. Thus poetry will ensue as a transcendent form And be set free of erased, tedious verse. After all, so much depends on pallid fowls, [not sure of "fowls" - interesting substitute for "vowels", methinks] Valid yet voiceless consonants, and [effective use of fricatives here, to suggest the actual topic] On spondees of purple pain in the manner [plosives add a note of energy here, in contrast to the previous line's softness] That brave winter pansies stay Standing in the rain. [the a assonance proves the importance of vowel combinations] Regardless of form, sound will always remain a vital component of any good poem. Styles and genres change, but without an appeal to the ear, what will make a poem more likely to be read than, say, a magazine article about dieting? Your own work is always rich in those sonic elements that offer pleasure to the reader, especially one who speaks the words aloud. I believe that reflects the Celtic influence, which I also honor. There is a growing process, always. But those who are sure of their own worth will persevere, adapt like Joanne's pansies, and withstand whatever discouragement may befall them. Lovely, lyrical writing. What a joy to read this. Brenda	2004-09-07 09:58:47
Search	Edwin John Krizek	Lovely minimalist piece. The drop is a microcosm, in which the speaker sees something pefect and perhaps unattainable. That it is joy, arising from longing, suggests that we can realize wonder despite great pain. Without the latter, how would we recognize the former? It is interesting that this description reverses the mystical flow of kundalini energies which begin at the lower spine/gonads and then work upward. The droplet parallels the descent of enlightenment or a kind of psychic pentecost, with a small-p. "Senses on high" implies heightened attunement, a readiness for discovery. I like the strength of the "p" consonance towards the end. It imitates the sound of a falling droplet and also closes with a determined effect. This makes me think of Diogenes with his lantern, seeking one honest man. But the lantern, in this case, is the speaker's own soul, illuminating from within. Brenda	2004-09-06 10:46:05
First Visit	Edwin John Krizek	Whew! The speaker's constant reassurance that he's happy is the clue to a state of increasing chaos. This narrative offers such a vivid sense of place - and time, because in those days place WAS time. I've know way too many people like this guy. But imbalances come from many sources and I'd say the father kicked in his contribution. My father was a disturbed construction worker, [disturbed from the son's POV, and maybe in reality too] who once chase[d] a general contractor around his desk to get the money he was owed, and who covered the worn balls of his fingers with adhesive tape so that he could lay cinder block [what a striking, bleak image!] in the winter’s rain, and who fell to his death from a ten foot high scaffold, down a fifteen foot hole to the building’s cellar and broke his neck when I was a teenager,[;] gave me a good start in life. [interesting irony here!] The father's personality is made remarkably clear in these few lines. He has an aggression that the son may have inherited, but it is used for a purpose. He's grim, gutsy, and doomed never to rest from his harsh labors. The son's rebellion against such a life is understandable. In S2, that "good start in life" doesn't pan out, but it's the speaker's personal choice that deflects it. Again, I knew too many of these people. For awhile, I was sort-of one myself. The ending is appropriately frightening as control slips and slips. In S4 the mental instability is revealed like crumbling brickwork. The insanity is made manifest, and the reader reacts with a gasp. The poem ends on a note of menace. Now, unfortunately, there's another person involved, so the possibilities extend to and threaten his safety. It's not just the psychotic ex-hippie anymore. This could stand as a metaphor for the whole turbulent period through which the speaker manages to survive, although not without damage. So, I think, did many others. The wounds are invisible in our youth because we have the physical stamina to mask them. Now that we're older and more physically unfit, the cracks widen. "What ye reap, so shall ye sow." Probably that has a lot of truth! You pulled me right into the narrative and that's the first thing I always want to happen when I read this sort of poetry. It's a strong and realistic story, right to the end. Brenda	2004-09-06 10:03:10
Customized Love	Jana Buck Hanks	OHMIGOSH!! This condensed version is absolutely awesome. Jana, it reads so well, and moves forward with such a strong pace - only to be dissipated with that gentle breath, the edges of wind. Like a dream itself, really; a dream's such anenergetic thing, yet in the end it dissolves into an after-image, half remembered if we're lucky. "Accustomed" works too. Everything works, as far as I'm concenred. I love it when a poet is open to suggestions and then retains her own voice and words, but also absorbs what she wants from others' ideas. I'm always leery of giving crits that include revision possibilities but you're the dream writer who accepts these in the spirit intended. Love the softness in S1 of all those s/f/w consonants. Hmmm: "marred" is an interesting choice because of the implications - that the wedding bands somehow constitute a barrier as well as a signal of union. One might read into this, that the couple's waking life is somewhat conflicted; but on the verge of sleep, all stresses roll away. Or it could just be literal; the gold bands break the smooth lines of the clasping hands. Lovely work, Jana. This one really shines. Brenda	2004-09-06 09:44:48
Conception	G. Donald Cribbs	Hi Don, What a poem! Those last two lines are remarkable, without a doubt among the most memorable I've read recently. So is the whole piece ... your line break after "coming" is to die for. The many uses of "wet" imagery work on multiple levels, to suggest the original act of divine creation and to imply the physical initiation of this new human life. Then there's the evolutionary parallel, the crawling-up onto land of animals abandoning the sea and acquiring limbs, much as embryos in the amniotic ocean develop from tiny gilled beings to fully-formed babies. We are reliving the embrace that charged us to the water's edge, giddy, desire welling up like laughter, our tongues gasping at the shore of our mouths. Long drenched before coming to our senses, we climb back up the shoreline away from risen tide. This passage is superbly enjambed and the imagery recreates, for me, the primal beginnings, with great use of an orgasmic sort of diction. The aftermath of desire is the title word. Congrats on your news and its implications for your growing family. This poem is so fresh and vital! No wonder you wanted to share it with us on this momentous occasion. My very best wishes. Brenda	2004-09-05 22:26:52
Becoming Acquainted With Bly	Mell W. Morris	Hi Mell, The conversational tone of this delightful monologue is well suited to such an accessible poet as Robert Bly, with Stevens shadowing him a few steps behind. I enjoyed your wry humor in S1, with its slightly facetious acknowledgement of the poet's reclusive sensitivity. The imagery befits his own style and subject matter; most of it is nature-related and all of it is wonderfully descriptive. S3 is my favorite passage. The speaker places herself in the triad with wind and cone, a part of the larger picture, for we are - or should be - integrated within the world around us. "The nicest gift you ever received" - the chervil sprig - links Bly to the speaker and her world. The wind is fervent music upon which I've laid the joists of my life, moving from plains to seas with [wind's] freedom to blow when or where it pleases [I please]. If I have a small suggestion here, it is to re-examine the repeated use of "wind" in some form (five times). For instance, in the above, you imply windiness with use of "freedom to blow", so I don't think you need to specify the wind as the source of the blowing. Just my take, of course. I absolutely love the fervent music, and "laid the joists of my life"! You musn't [mustn't] allow those aviary snubs to distract from your important work but I'll leave you with thirteen ways. This is another favorite. "Aviary snubs" is awesome! I subconsciously also think "apiary" which brings in the honey idea. And "thirteen ways" is such a clever link to Stevens! A handshake and I depart with the greatest gift of all. The life-long pleasure that awaits anyone eating the honey of Bly's words. In the last strophe, you shift POV. The direct communication with Bly is lost, as you objectify him with "Bly's" words, not "your" words. Of course, if you've left him, you can't be talking to him ... but I keep thinking, must you leave before the poem stops? How about ... A handshake, before I depart with the greatest gift of all: a life-long pleasure awaiting me, as I eat the honey of your words. Just one possibility. I think something like this will keep Bly in the picture and still signal the speaker's intent to take away what she's gained from his work. The allusion to the title is retained, albeit somewhat altered from "eating" to "eat"; readers will still get it, though. Anyway, your call to use or toss! I hope you don't mind this kind of feedback, since the poem itself is so strong to begin with. Anyhow, yes, there's a dearth of critiques and poems this month. I've posted only one piece, out of guilt at not doing more crits. I'm glad you were moved by Jo's comment to post this piece! It's well worth the read. Brenda	2004-08-29 21:52:25
The Helpmeet	G. Donald Cribbs	This is fascinating work! There's something rather pantheistic - with echoes of Adam - about the speaker's "shore" of ribs, his feeling of communion with the tired doe, his awareness of an aching earth that needs his touch to be worked and dressed in vegetation. The mother offering her breasts, ostensibly the doe, may in fact refer to the planet which the speaker/god now oversees, since Eden has moved beyond reach. She has "seed-like fur", a pelt of grass. The waiting fawn, ironically, comes from without, not from within. He imposes his will upon this mother, even as he understands and shares her birth pangs. He will be the First Man in this newness, and his water-breathing suggests the whole of evolution from single cell to full human. I like the way you've blended a Genesis theme with the idea of such development, sea to land. The breaking waves wash more than salt onto the shore. Your poems always delight me because they appeal both to imagination and intellect, while never abandoning an emotional element. The speaker's eagerness for partnership with the earth is an invigorating conclusion. The heart of the beast has given him its strength, much as an ancient hunter/warrior would receive courage from his prey and/or his strongest enemy. How wonderful, to read and work through the images toward a synthesis of these remarkable details! Brenda	2004-08-29 20:57:56
New Hope Shopping	DeniMari Z.	Hi DeniMari, You've led me on a dleightful walk through New Hope. The name of the place seems to parallel the subculture and I enjoyed your wordplay, with "tie dyed/that's died and been/born again". Quite the resurrection idea! The shoppers seem more interested in unmaterialistic things - candles, dreams, music, art - that takes them back to their youth. The "dark metal(s?) lanterns" illumine these aging-hippie faces, but only partially. The quirkiness of the visitors is probably best viewed through a soft and kind light, or a poem. Last Line, Sp: "its own breathless hymn" I very much enjoyed this, especially the way it can be read on two levels. The quest for those faded days of our younger selves is a never-ending but futile one. I well recall the excitement of the 'Sixties and, for me, it will not be recaptured no matter how many candles I burn. *Sigh* ... great evocation of a mood here. Brenda	2004-08-23 15:56:45
Virgin Snow	cheryl a kelley	Hi Cheryl, This is a vivid read; I can readily envision the little girls venturing out over snow, and cracking the icy surface. The making of an igloo is a wonderful childhood moment. The fantasized disappearance of their family home, behind its wall of snowdrifts and distance, works well to motivate them forward. The "first steps through breaking glass" is a great image to close. "I think to warn my sisters, so I turn back in time to see their feet descend and Snap though the glass-like surface, sending shards momentarily dancing summersaults [sp: somersaults] into the air. The shock of her landing throws my sister off balance and she sticks out her right hand to catch herself." Here, the shift in number threw me for a bit. The sisters are definitely plural, but suddenly they shrink to one. I think if you said "my younger sister" or "my older sister", it would clarify that you aren't missing the other one. The only other nit is "pale" for "pail" [sp] in L7. This generally reads like prose, and essentially shifts to prose in actual fact, with the paragraphs noted above; but it's always a treat to find good narrative writing, regardless of its form. Did the igloo ever get built? That's one thing I never tried. Made a couple snow forts, though! Much enjoyed. Brenda	2004-08-23 15:27:58
The Ephod	G. Donald Cribbs	Hi Don, You've used deer in both poems I've just read tonight. They seem to become metaphors for something pristine, innocent and somehow inadequate to withstand the coming of the "nest master", the human who can usurp their place and - should he choose - harm them. Yet he does not choose this, but spends his time in reflection as he gathers a sheaf of wheat and ponders its significance. The deer are his compatriots in this struggle for understanding; they, too, are "startled philosophers". The speaker views everything as being of a contemplative bent. The deer, the darkened trees, the sky and field, form a sacred circle in which this one man feels both alone and briefly awed. There's a sense here of oneness, a near-animistic perspective in which trees, deer, wheat and dark night embrace the man even as they retreat from him, and he from them. Has he truly reached an epiphany, or merely moved towards the hope of one? The concept of enlightenment in the literal darkness is both ironic and uplifting. If one can inherit the ephod from the sky and earth, then the Voice and Hand that have conferred it are invisible yet omnipresent, dwelling within everything. Possibly the deer are the emissaries, and the speaker recognizes them as such and respects their position. He does leave, after all. All of your work has levels like sedimentary rock, each preserving something hidden until one digs around a bit. My maiden name, by the way, is Levy; I've always felt a personal affinity with the Levites, for obvious reasons. Theirs has been an awkward blessing: to serve the priesthood but not to lead, as the Cohens do. Your speaker also serves but cannot dictate the course of events. He must wait for illumination to move him. Fine work! Brenda	2004-08-10 22:19:42
The Nightingale's Song	Robert L Tremblay	Hi Bob, I well recall this one, enjoyed it then and still appreciate its form and message. Florence Nightingale left a huge legacy. Every battlefield, every war-torn nation, every rehab ward, bears her imprint and hears her music. Offering "warmth" and "medication" are but two of the nurses' duties, albeit crucial ones. There's also the knowledge that is demanded, so a particular condition can be appropriately treated. There's the internal strength required - setting aside the "ego needs" you mention - that endures death and horror beyond human imagining. I'm not sure that any beginning nursing student can be fully prepared for the realities of pain, infection and dismemberment. However, those who are meant to follow the calling will persist and grow strong enough to meet the challenges. Your IP continues throughout, with the occasional reversed, triple or dropped foot to make it more interesting [e.g. L13, L17]. Alternating rhyme is also consistent. My only stumble came in the concluding stanza; i think these are just typos: Weep not for nightingale's song[,] for it's [its] sung In [Is?] revelation to the mind of men I'm glad to have another chance to read older pieces, since many of us tend to pull them and file them away, but a new influx of readers will find them "new" again. This is a great choice for such a resurrection. My Best, Brenda	2004-08-08 12:22:02
Tolerance	Andrea M. Taylor	Hi Andrea, Interesting chain of reasoning, that explores the definitions of ignorance/wisdom/tolerance, joining with links of both learning and blindness. The ignorant cannot distinguish between valid and invalid, so they accept everything (or at least, don't examine and question it). The wise learn all they can about whatever they're observing, then accept it from a firm base of knowledge. But by accepting or tolerating anything, we must have that "blind faith" that it won't come back to hurt us. In other words, what we tolerate must also tolerate US. The last line expands the perspective. If our faith is imbued by God's presence, then we will never face rejection, despite our short-sightedness. We will never stray into a minefield where everything blows up around us. God already knows where the problems lie and we can trust in His grace to defend us against our own folly. This is an exercise is both semantics and logic. "Tolerance" is a tough concept for most of us to define. We just don't think about it much. Logic says that we do need to know WHAT we're going to tolerate, not just what the word implies. But some ideas are too big for mere mortal understanding. Then we have to call in the Reinforcements, with a capital. I'll be mulling this over for awhile! It's not a simple process, arriving at a conclusion. I want to see how you got there, and whether I can, too. Take Care, Brenda	2004-08-08 12:09:42
Unspoken	Jana Buck Hanks	Hi Jana, This is heartbreakingly honest writing. The journey - the development of awareness, the recognition of factors that have shaped your psyche and even your spirit - has clearly been difficult and harsh by times. It takes courage to pursue it and to write about it as you've done here. Line breaks signal early on that the past is fragmented, and that the mind still struggles to impose some sort of order on it. This is an impossibility when past events have been stressful, and when experiences have followed an erratic course of highs and lows. I know that among abused children, memories come in clusters, like shards of broken glass - and sometimes the mind makes a frantic attempt to link the clusters, even by filling in details that aren't 100% accurate. It must be terrifying to face this! "I cannot be sure if they even belong to me" is a poignant comment on the whole process of remembering traumatic situations. There's a dissociative instinct, to protect the undefended self against a flood of pain. Perhaps, the mind reasons, if it removes itself from the cause, then it can escape the effects. Of course, this is not the case. The imprint of pain lingers a lifetime. It is how one manages to deal with it in later life that marks one's "success", or lack thereof, at achieving personal balance. The memories still come in bits and pieces. There is a strangeness in certain sounds, smells, colors, snatches of conversation and old photographs, which key vivid recollections, for an instant. Often, later in deep sleep, the remembrances of childhood so long ago, are knit together. This speaker is still trying to deal with the "bits and pieces"; the line breaks and spaces visually reflect this. Sleep permits the subconscious to emerge, sort the facts and connect them. Probably a dream is the closest to truth that memory can become, at least for a long time. It is also the only way the dreamer can accurately interpret her own history. Eventually, the waking person must learn to cope with these images. This can be true for anyone, not only victims of childhood abuse or members of dysfunctional families. Somewhere, among the billions of clichés, someone said that children read between the lines and hear the unspoken. What they perceive is in fact, their reality. I do find this passage a bit "telly"; "read between the lines" is a rather expected cliche, as your lead-in suggests it will be, but I do like "hear the unspoken". I sense that a tumultuous childhood is very much affected by the voices and noises swirling around the family (more than by any written words). I wonder if you could cut the former, and maybe also "somewhere" because it's not really a matter of location. Among the billions of clichés, someone said that children hear the unspoken. What they perceive is in fact, their reality. [This, to me, is the telly part] To shift into metaphor, here's an illustration - not meant to be used, but by way of example: Shouts mold them into broken shapes, screams curl them out of reach, like snails. We still get that they're translating what they hear into what they understand, and attempt to hide from it or deny it or judge themselves by its effect on them. Of course, this is my own diction, not yours, but I've long admired your wonderful abilities at figurative language and right here, to me, you need to use all its power. This shifted "reality", even though others might question it, is the core of the poem. It is what takes so many years to change into something bearable. I believe you can give it a more dramatic punch. I like the references to the sepia photos, the conversations, the crazy quilt. The tunnel idea, with the light at the end, treads awfully close to cliche though. Could you maybe connect this part to looking at the old albums and so on? Maybe "I remember the parlor shadows, but stare toward a bright window"? Or something else suggestive of darkness/light/hope without spelling it out directly? I think I'd also omit "Adele Stephenson's famous quote", just give the direct quotation, and then reference it in a footnote. You don't want to divert the reader by including any personal name, because the poem is very much "I" and the first-person responses to her situation. The footnote would credit the author and avoid any interruption within the poem itself. These are only my personal takes on possible revisions. The poem's authenticity and power to move the reader are undeniable. I feel hesitant to suggest tinkering with it at all, but sometimes a poet is still searching for a "jell", for a few suggestions that will click. I know that you do edit, revise and welcome critical input. We've exchanged that often in times past. Congrats on the great response to "Atelier's Prayer", by the way! Good job. Brenda	2004-08-08 10:56:00
Another Battlefield	Wayne R. Leach	I love this! The magical metaphor of leprechaun parachutes - the mushroom caps that the speaker views as something entirely different - becomes an indictment of war in all its waste and horror. Our tendency toward violent confrontation colors our every act, even the mere joy of walking in the woods. The "mushroom" parachutes might even be further extended to imply the death clouds over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. "First phrase of day" - lovely! "Objective/abject" - great sonic combination! In S2, you make excellent use of rhetorical questions. There are, of course,no true answers; we're left, like the speaker, "not understanding" because the whole concept of deadly warfare seems so alien to our situation as created beings, capable of passion, spirituality and altruism. The ending, with its "empty paracutes/and wars", is almost unutterably poignant. The use of "another" in the title implies that battles will go on as long as there are warriors to fight them. But in the "braver war", the reality of armaments may be displaced by the playfulness of the combatants. In the end, perhaps, it is up to us to ensure that such parachutes need never be used to launch paratroopers toward a battleground. It is we who must limit our aggressions to small confrontations, like the competition of spores for growing room. Otherwise, "war" will always be the last word. Very, very nice work. Brenda	2004-08-07 22:43:44
Kaddish for Ginsberg	Rachel F. Spinoza	Whoa! Damn, this is a rich elixir. The imagery is woven from Ginsberg's own life and times and poetry. Even your title has dual meanings, both your own prayer for his soul and the title of one of A.G.'s books (yes, I'm pretty sure it's Allen ... ). He has "disappeared" into [his] poetry, yes, and into mine also, although he's a more recent influence. I did not grow up and cut my teeth on Ginsberg but discovered him later - we were far off the literary track in those days. The restroom walls and graffiti are the real deal, not the rarefied air of elegant readings and deckle-edged chapbooks. Great wordplay all through this piece, including "Newsweek. And time." "Finest blown minds." "Absolut reality". There's homoerotica, drugs, booze, celebration! The vision of a new generation "throwing themselves over cliffs of cant ..." is a terrifying one. The metonymy of "polished wing tips" is very apropos. Brave new poetry has been replaced by data, careful attention to correctness, e-culture. Ginsberg himself alluded to the best minds of HIS generation. "Howl" took a hard look at the way the world seemed to be at that time and I don't think it's really changed all that much. Except that now, those "best minds" have further deadened themselves, are afraid to shout and dance. All they can do is let machines do their thinking for them, and bail out when challenged. all data, Dada, datum disappearing in a blink and a whine Wow, what a great sequence! The shift through data-Dad-datum into the blink and whine (more whimper than bang) is right on. We lose ourselves when the system crashes. Whatever happened to the mind storehouse, the sheaf of genius scribbles? The imagination that leaps like an uncaged animal from the skull fontanels and grabs life by the throar? Ginsberg knew that one well, I think, but we want to quantify and sterilize everything. we might as well wrap ourselves in Jazz or k.d lang and howl with you Alan, like so many deserted deranged ,disheveled, angel coyotes [subtle connection to G's angelheaded hipsters] barking up all trees to find the right one and marking hydrants with hot streams of prose Oh my G-d, this is wonderful stuff! If we accept Ginsberg's substance and allow ourselves to embrace everything he cared about, we might find the right tree after all. I find much of modern prose rather tepid; we do need to be inhabited by an original Muse. The "great lover death" going down on the subject could be expanded to imply that the subject's own brilliance could descend onto us as well. The sexual metaphor translates also into a descent of the Spirit - the holy, holy, holy madness and bliss that might fire us up. "Mantra simmering in the animal soup of time." Whew, yes! Absolut-ly. This is a terrific poem. You and Mark deserve kudos for your complementary tributes, vastly different in style and content, yet both bold and memorable. As I said to Mark, it's a wonder I wasn't fired the year my English 12 kids read parts of "Howl" in class (they wanted to). I think a few of them probably went on to delve into some of the other Beats after that. One typo: continuum. My mind's not 100% ready to do the critiquing thing this month but I couldn't let it pass without trying. Take Care, Brenda	2004-08-07 10:54:36
Wick of Christ	G. Donald Cribbs	Oh, Don, this is intriguing, powerful, wrenching. The alternating strophes tell parallel but not identical stories. There are several images associated with Christian faith, from the baptismal creek bed and cloth over the face to the "tree" (crucifix?) where faith is aandoned before it's reaffirmed in adulthood. The opening strophe is unsettling because of the reaching-beneath-the-sheets idea. The Father may not do this, but the earthly small-f father apparently does. IN S2, there's an implied allusion to both dying and transfiguration into an angelic being, and the Icarus-Daeedalus myth. "I fall many times". What absolute sorrow lies in those four simple words. The "he" who almost suffocates this boy is indeterminate; your notes identify him as priest but he could also be biological father, again. In IV, the speaker qquestions the whole concept of paternity, both sacred and secular; it is more than a matter of genealogical record-keeping and lists of "begats". In V, the rejection takes place - I sense that both God and mortal parentage are for a time discarded. The son expresses exultation. The many-times-fallen sparow is on the wing now. But whose wings, as in SVI. Does one retain his mortal heritage or strive for something larger, more enduirng? The flesh father now becomes pitiable, worm-like; the son is about the transcend whatever this man has done, and fulfil his earlier dream of flight. In VII, the "father's grasp" is not of the earth. The sons are raised up by another power, reanimated, given new life. This might imply survival following a harrowing childhood, survival through reliance on a faith reborn. It may also suggest our eventual destinies as children of God. I have no suggestions for revision as this seems finished to me, and wonderfully written. Yours is a fine and rare gift. My Best, Brenda	2004-08-07 10:02:48
Winona, from the High Cliff	Thomas Edward Wright	Something in this reminds me of Gloster in King Lear. The images of eyes, beach, cliff-fall ... the hard choice being made. But the hair-washing of feet has another significance. This sacrifice is not only of this world, is it? It is a spiritual separation, from one culture to another. My daughter's middle name is Wenonah and her mother-in-law, ironically, is Winona. It's not a name heard often in any of its variants. It means first-born daughter, one who would be expected to feel loyalty to her people and their older ways. The eyes of the unnamed "he" and the eyes of the young woman are so different. This is splendid writing, as always. I'm not in a mental frame to critique well, but I did want you to know that the poem touches me. Brenda	2004-08-06 22:30:35
Atelier Prayer	Jana Buck Hanks	Hi Jana, I think there was an earlier version of this one posted many moons ago (?). It's a stunning poem, so rich in layers of imagery. Lack of punctuation gives it a "tumbling" effect as if the brush strokes are all blended together, but yet the whole is readily discerned. You also aren't afraid to use elevated language if the sound suits the intent. "Transparent paradox" is one example. Visual details are vivid and imaginative. Sonic elements, such as alliteration, are subtly used to enhance the theme itself. No apostrophe needed in "allusions", but otherwise, I can find little to nitpick. The poem has an ethereal effect, as the speaker seeks to be released from her karmic burden by means of artistic creation. Anyhow, I think it's a strong, brave piece. I'm not up to critiquing much right now owing to personal circumstances, but this spectacular poem deserves a line-by-line response. Take Care, Brenda	2004-08-01 21:42:00
The Perseids Are Coming	Joanne M Uppendahl	Hi Joanne, You must have posted this just for me. (Just kidding ... but it's actually at the top of my list, for a change, and I'm between hospital visits so I get to critique it). Life is good. This is, in many ways, an expository piece, because it explains exactly what we must look for, and the provenance of these meteors. Yet it isn't a "telly" poem because the imagery takes it into the show-and-marvel territory. We share everything, as vicarious witnesses to this event. The accentual pentameter adds an extra lilt to the lines. In S1, images that stand out include "pastel sprinkles", which offer us a candy-like brightness, and "shelf", which connects to the idea of sweet treats. "Mite-sized" (instead of "bite-sized") concludes the metaphor and also indicates relative size of these tiny fireballs, as well as adding a nice touch of alliteration. Then there's the near-oxymoron of "softly/scour" (great place for the enjambment, by the way); there's a certain delicacy to this idea. When the downpour peaks watchers may view myriad streaks per hour. Neat use of internal rhyme here. This is a fairly factual passage. Then you swing into a rhymed couplet with show/glow - a bit of a surprise - followed by the "filament" of dust which is a striking way of explaining it in light-bulb terms. This strand of sand, like all in Perseus’ patch, was begun in the Comet, bubbling free recently. Other mud in the cloud is millenniums older. Again, good use of internal rhyme, and "patch" nicely complements the "a" assonance in strand/sand. The double alliteration of s/p also lends a pleasant resonance to that first line. Free/recently tosses in some long-e blends. You never abandon your quest for greater musicality of language. The goal has, however, been reached already in all your work. For some reason, I wanted to see "millennia" than "milleniums". Maybe it's just the more usual plural so I expected it. BUT the "um" goes with "mu" in "mud". It also avoids an elided a/o which is a bit awkward to say. Finest viewing’s found in northern latitudes for Comet Swift-Tuttle’s orbit’s oblique; Again, this is straightforward exposition, except for the wonderful combo of "orbit's oblique". However, we need the details and there's no sense in "prettifying" them. In the next two lines, we get interesting slant rhyme with seen/meridian. The ensuing information is also very satisfying to us poor northerners who seem to miss the biggest celestial events. Lying on the ground’s best for gazing as shooting stars bound ‘cross the Milky Way. I like "bound" as a verb. It also implies direction, as in "bound for" ... horizontally rather than vertically. Tracing the flare-paths is such fun. Earthgrazers leap up from horizon’s line to burst summer’s night set ablaze. I know that "earthgrazers" refer to the close-passing objects, but I also see them as the watchers below, who must be content to live on the ground, drawing nourishment from their fixed planet, unlike the moveable feast that flies above their heads. I think of sheep, heads bent to pull at grass, who suddenly are moved to look upward and celebrate something larger than themselves. The last line becomes an epiphany of sorts; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed". [OK, so it's not Messiah, but that's sort of the idea]. The tied-to-earth are elevated to this other realm, and immersed in the blaze of a universe that is connected to everything else by the same original act of generation. There I go, getting all metaphysical. Then again, your poems almost always have that coloration, underpinning some of the passages that may seem merely - albeit wonderfully - descriptive. They never are, really, are they? There's always that hidden dimension. I read for this and am never disappointed. Take Care, Brenda	2004-06-29 09:34:27
Cartoons	Karen Ann Jacobs	Hi Karen, This poem is #50 on my list so unless I jump down, I'll never get to it! I'm amused by the light-hearted tone and pleased by the consistent meter in your two rhyming passages. Your technique is effective, since you shift from unrhymed verse to rhymed, from the adult perspective to the cartoons themselves. The diction in S1, 3, 5 is more mature and serious, as befits the parental outlook. Geez, aren't we a dull lot??! In S2 and 4, the vocabulary suggests the child's approach, with its energy and acceptance of foolish humor. You use several active words, like "boom", "splatters", "dancing", "squirmy", to convey this idea. I also appreciate the change of perspective, from our own watching days, to the times when we watch our children as they're absorbed in the TV, to the frowning attitude we adopt when we think childish play is no longer appropriate for us (I've never quite gotten to that point, thank heavens). Yet a lot of grownups secretly turn on The Simpsons. Some even do it openly. Our love of cartoons can't be entirely squelched. There's a serious message cleverly incorporated into this playful piece. We do need to lighten up and start laughing again. Kids aren't the only ones who should be finding some joy in the simpler activities that life has to offer. And we shouldn't resent their enjoyment, either! Take Care, Brenda	2004-06-28 11:30:56
We Dance	Jana Buck Hanks	Hi Jana, Great to see you posting again! I'm at work so this will be short but I wanted you to know I've read and appreciated this piece. It feels almost like two poems here - one, the immediate sensual experience; the other, the contemplation of how two souls interrelate over time. My favorite stanzas for the "first" theme are 2 and 4 - wonderful tactile imagery there! I love the stretching cat. For the other theme, I most enjoy 6, 10, 11. The language in these has so much energy, and several excellent sonic combinations. Alliteration is used very well (not crazy about "torrid tryst", as it reminds me of a bodice-ripper novel, but it does suit the tone). I can certainly imagine those "sweat soaked silks" - great use of "k" which isn't always a consonant one hears much in combination, especially with that soft and sensual "s". In the last line, do you need a possessive in "souls'"? I'm not sure of the intent in that line. A minion is either a royal favorite, or a servant. But I'm uncertain of what might constitute the minion of souls. Probably just my own misreading! You write with a rich and varied texture of images and are never afraid to layer them for greater impact. This is a lush, vivid poem. It's your hallmark style and I've missed this for way too long. Take Care, Brenda	2004-06-21 14:22:21
Hacking Chestnuts	G. Donald Cribbs	Hi Don, This is such a vivid depiction of that single scene and the implied allegory is equally fine. I don't even think you need the introductory passage from Matthew, because your opening quatrain and your last line [especially] both allude to its circumstances; in fact, the closing, for me at least, would have more impact without the quotation. The gathering of chestnuts, the dicing for a robe ... proof that one has bested his fellows for a dubious "honor" ... initiate youth into manhood across two millennia. But the sudden realization of such "future champions", that they are no closer to godliness for having drawn blood, is so pivotal to their self-awareness. Even the centurion became changed forever. His brief victory is small; his spiritual awakening may well sustain him through many dark hours and turn an "ordinary man" into a wariior for God. You write with such eloquence, yet the diction is accessible to almost any reader. Use of words that imply violence, such as stab, skewer, hacking, shatter, allows us to transfer them to the "other story" in all its horror. Even the colloquial terms can be more or less figured-out, or accepted without query. You also have an extraordinary feel for the perfect line break, the exact spot where enjambment would work best. Wonderful poem! Brenda	2004-06-11 09:42:03
The Color of Harmony	Mell W. Morris	Ah, Mell, your trademark internal rhyme is splendidly in evidence here. The cadence is lyrically lilting, and I'm picking up four beats per line, more or less. Enjambment sustains this rhythm throughout. You also have such a sure eye for line breaks! "I strive to save myself from me". Yes, that's how we must muddle between despair and ecstasy. Your poem embraces and acknowledges both. We all want those "droplets of happy" (lovely, and well suited to the champagne that is to come). We all want "no ails" (neat way of using a verb as a noun). But we can't always get what we think we must have. Coltrane's music is a step towards perfect resolution, though. Self-awareness and self-acceptance are the other parts of this triad. The physical model for harmony is music; the spiritual reflection of harmony is insight. Resonant as both tines of a tuning fork. [whoa Nellie! great stuff ...] Ah, there will be high C and champagne [this is a most happy combination: music and wine] Uncorked for all notes on the scale... [yes; opportunities for joy are always being offered] And especially abounding, The sound of me. What a great build to a superb finish! This is my favoprite passage, which is nice since it's the end and that's where you want the strongest impression. Leave 'em with a real punch! "The sound of me" definitely gives us that. I think I needed to read this piece tonight. I went to my retirement banquet last night, as one of 11 retirees. Afterwards, I sat in the car, while my son-in-law and daughter were in the front seat. I wondered what in hell I was doing there, why I was packing it in and how I'd ever manage to cope with the sudden cessation of my whole career. I was - and still am, to a degree - at a rather low ebb. Your poem gives me an affirmation that seems directed right at me. I do have to listen for "the sound of me" and magnify it all I can. Retirement and a new start are parts of the overall melody. Thank you so much for this gift of poetry. Brenda	2004-06-06 21:48:50
Of Flowers, Bees and Meteors	Joanne M Uppendahl	This isn't a critique, Joanne, but an expression of delight! The personification is so skilfully sustained. The speaker's own response to these flowers is integrated within each line, so it becomes almost an echo of a child's reaction to a happy, loving God. For some reason, I think of the laughing Buddha figurine. There's a beatific expression on his round face, as there is on these bright blossoms. He invites happiness rather than solemn worship, as do the posies themselves. But beneath the smiling exterior, we still know that a divinity is present. Perhaps this is a commentary on our human approach to the sacred; perhaps we need to lighten up and accept that a deity is as likely to appreciate humor and enjoyment as we are (after all, S/He created all this for our use and pleasure). Your sonic elements are, as always, wondrous, as here: .. sing hot coral hymns at noon, hum blue tunes at dusk. The assonance of the u, the alliterative h, the internal rhyme of "blue tunes", all blend into a splendid chorus. Then there's the imagery ... Ironically, there were small pots of geraniums at the tables for my retirement banquet last night (well, not just mine - there were 11 of us departees). Love this one! Brenda	2004-06-06 21:32:38
The Scar the Wing Leaves	G. Donald Cribbs	Hi Don, What a wonderful poem! It is so poignant, and the speaker so aware of the implications surroundinghis brother's absence. In many ways, "brother" could be expanded to include us all. We walk in many pairs of shoes that others have been forced to leave behind. The "heat released to our souls" is a wonderful metaphor for fate or destiny. The final line is unbelievable! When I read it, I shivered with that frisson that marks a truly rare gift. As "one who is not yet overwhelmed/by clouds", which you are and I am, this piece is as close to flight as it gets. Then again, the title itself is magnificent. I didn't have this poem on my list at all, but as soon as I saw it I had to take a look. I'm sorry I have inadequate time to critique it thoroughly but it will certainly go on my voting list! Just one small nitpick: in the penultimate line, "tread" is present tense, so you'd need "have trod" or else you could just omit "have" [tread]. i think I'd go with dropping "have". No biggie. Exceptional work. Brenda	2004-06-06 20:28:45
The Scar the Wing Leaves	G. Donald Cribbs	Hi Don, What a wonderful poem! It is so poignant, and the speaker so aware of the implications surroundinghis brother's absence. In many ways, "brother" could be expanded to include us all. We walk in many pairs of shoes that others have been forced to leave behind. The "heat released to our souls" is a wonderful metaphor for fate or destiny. The final line is unbelievable! When I read it, I shivered with that frisson that marks a truly rare gift. As "one who is not yet overwhelmed/by clouds", which you are and I am, this piece is as close to flight as it gets. Then again, the title itself is magnificent. I didn't have this poem on my list at all, but as soon as I saw it I had to take a look. I'm sorry I have inadequate time to critique it thoroughly but it will certainly go on my voting list! Just one small nitpick: in the penultimate line, "tread" is present tense, so you'd need "have trod" or else you could just omit "have" [tread]. i think I'd go with dropping "have". No biggie. Exceptional work. Brenda	2004-06-06 20:28:42
The Scar the Wing Leaves	G. Donald Cribbs	Hi Don, What a wonderful poem! It is so poignant, and the speaker so aware of the implications surroundinghis brother's absence. In many ways, "brother" could be expanded to include us all. We walk in many pairs of shoes that others have been forced to leave behind. The "heat released to our souls" is a wonderful metaphor for fate or destiny. The final line is unbelievable! When I read it, I shivered with that frisson that marks a truly rare gift. As "one who is not yet overwhelmed/by clouds", which you are and I am, this piece is as close to flight as it gets. Then again, the title itself is magnificent. I didn't have this poem on my list at all, but as soon as I saw it I had to take a look. I'm sorry I have inadequate time to critique it thoroughly but it will certainly go on my voting list! Just one small nitpick: in the penultimate line, "tread" is present tense, so you'd need "have trod" or else you could just omit "have" [tread]. i think I'd go with dropping "have". No biggie. Exceptional work. Brenda	2004-06-06 20:28:39
Above the Well	G. Donald Cribbs	Hi Don, I so much enjoy your work! There's in this one a strong sense of resistance to spiritual enlightenment. There are self-imposed barriers, as indicated by the metaphoric branch that crashes down, the tangles of it around the fence, and even something so innocuous as the waist-deep grass in S1. When the storm hits cold stones below my feet smell like wind stirring the water. [Wonderful!! - There is hope being offered here]. What pinches the switch of my soul? [pinches/switch - great sonics; vivid analogy, too] Such marks feed heat like hot scraps of desperation raging the storm. [effective contrast to the earlier "cold stone"] The branch comes crashing down, tangles itself in the fence. My hands hurry to build an earthen ladder from the remains, wrestle God against the open spaces, throw down language from a new Babel. The speaker will surmount the barricade through human effort; he seems bent on setting his own path. The "new Babel" will still bar him from communication with God, whom he apparently has confronted and walled-out. A dry thirst pulls up from the well an ocean, [interesting inversion here!] asking why I seek to sustain myself this way? If I spit, I choose faith to wash with. [Is faith sufficient? Does the speaker actually possess as much of this as he believes he has?] I climb an inner rope to sight, yet here I am clinging to the earth. Oh yes, the bondage is secure and also unresisted. This person chooses materialistic ties, even as he seeks a higher truth. He seems frustrated by the conflict between simple faith and individual ambition. The "inner rope to sight" must be frayed and tenuous from his repeated attempts to conquer it. What do I hope for in the depth of the well? [depths, perhaps? I think he is less concerned with the fact that it is deep, and more with its very enigmatic presence] Ah, crucial question. The speaker seems unable to identify what he's lacking. He needs healing but doesn't know it. There's a subtle baptismal connotation to the waters that rise up and curl over. He appears to want this water, washing him free of doubt. Yet still he mentally steps aside and the illuminationg moment slips away. Here, small crabs angry and clambering stomp back beneath the rocks away from light, new sight. The parallel between the crabs' behavior and the speaker's action - or lack of it - is well established and concludes the poem in a natural way. Yet we don't expect it, because he has earlier been bound to the land and the fields. It's appropriate that "new sight" concludes the piece, because this is probably what the speaker fully realizes he needs; yet he fears it, like the "small crabs angry and clambering" [what amazing sounds you combine here!] He has not yet learned that light is a friend, and hides himself away from it. Perhaps some of the crabs' anger has been transferred to them, from the speaker's own inner turmoil. This is splendid writing - subtle, intelligent and excellently crafted. My Best, Brenda	2004-06-03 21:29:12
Beside the Gate	Joanne M Uppendahl	Oh, Joanne, this is just wonderful. It's what I would call an "embracive" poem that accepts the here-and-now, makes for itself a secure haven, and harbors an expectation of further joy. Home is all the truth I know where cares turn to the pillow and marigolds sleep outside my door. I like the eye rhyme of know/pillow, and all the other "o" assonance incorporated here. The link between sleeping human, through the pillow metonymy, and sleeping marigold, guarding the dreamer within the house, is nicely explored. To me, the marigold suggests a miniature sun-image, and its radiating layers of patterns have a spiritual context. Even in a flower, the cosmos is replicated. Here the steaming cup warms my fingers, and books stand by in somber readiness. Use of "somber" is an interesting choice! The tangible study of words, as opposed to the unlimited vistas of the imagination, also contrasts the weight of mortality with an implied otherness. The steaming cup that warms the fingers might just be a metaphor for another type of insight. We learn more than is contained between the covers of any text. What we learn will lead us to the gate. The "readiness" of the books can prepare us for the journey, especially if they're words of wisdom from illuminati who will advise the seeker. Seasons grow about this house, like ivy blanketing an old tree. I am held in this space below the stars, above earth’s pumping heart. The natural imagery suits so well; the seasons compare beautifully to ivy! The "old tree" then becomes the speaker as well as her home. The home itself transforms into the planet's surface itself, as the speaker, as Shakespeare says, is "crawling between earth and heaven". The earth is personified as a being with a heart; I note that the stars and their realm are not given similar qualities. How, indeed, can we interpret the life-force of the out-of-reach? Home is the all the truth I know; it stays my longing for another place where beside the gate, a radiant angel waits. Lovely "a" assonance all through this final strophe!! The cadence is lilting and hopeful; the diction is simple and specific. "All the truth I know" is of necessity confined to what we have here, in our flesh-lives. But the final word, "waits", implies that we are destined for more than this. The radiant angel may well be your own son, noew an emissary from the larger Presence. It is worth commenting that the waiting process is mutual. Therefore, the angel must have a prior bond, or why would he wait only here, only for this one soul? This is a poem that reaches behind the reader's eyes and into the mind; from thence, it goes straight to the heart. My Best Always, Brenda	2004-06-02 11:54:16
A Tribute	Sherri L Smith	Hi Sherri, This is the ultimate Memorial Day poem. You tell it "like it is", with unmistakable pride. The Vietnam passage is the most poignant because these veterans have been treated with the least honor of any. That whole era is extremely painful to recall, now. There were so many losses, so many agonizing personal defeats. In the next-to-last strophe, you nicely defend those in the Middle East against biased journalism and media-generated controversy. The use of "Storm" also calls to mind Operation Desert Storm; the situation in this area seems to have been at the boiling point for a long time. Those who are serving in Iraq have assumed a burden of terrible responsibility, and no matter how they conduct themselves, there will always be those who criticize and condemn. You speak with honesty and conviction. What a fine tribute to the military of all generations! Take Care, Brenda	2004-05-31 22:19:17
New Chapter	Karen Ragan	Hi Karen, I wondered where you'd gone, and am so sorry for your loss. My mother is ill, also, and I'm steeling myself for what lies ahead. I think that in some ways, you've transmuted your grief into this lovely affirmation of the way life and family do continue. Perhaps by reflecting on what was, you have moved toward what will be. I can't possibly critique this in terms of suggesting revision! The heart has spoken and you are its messenger. That "closed chapter of his childhood" isn't actually gone, because any time you wish, you can reopen the book and look within. Your memories carry everything, don't they? I know mine do (my daughter got married last August, so I understand the feeling very well). In S2, you begin the theatrical metaphor, which is nicely sustained throughout the rest of the piece. I'm not sure your son would agree with your assessment of playing a "bit part", even though you aren't physically present in his daily routine as much, now. You are in everything he does and says, in the attitudes he holds, the skills he develops, the code by which he conducts his affairs. When he passes on this contribution to his own children in time, you will be in them, too. But you've moved from performer to playwright, helping with the unfolding script. I think that's a more satisfying role as the years pass. I just love that final stanza! The speaker admits she wants more than just a legal bond with this young woman who now shares her son's world. "Know as a daughter", indeed. My son-in-law is as much a son to me as if he'd been born from me. His Mom is my friend and so we share this gine young man between us. Same with my daughter; her mother-in-law had only boys and loves this new daughter. I believe that we don't lose, we only enlarge the circle. But there are those tears!! They are very real and your poem has expressed so clearly the ambivalence that every parent feels as the marriage takes place. "Never knowing final end" is a fitting way to close this. The script is being written continually, scene after scene. Actors arrive and depart; episodes begin and finish. But the play itself goes on. And remember, there's a "grand" in grandparent. That well may come next, and it sure sounds important in the overall narrative. I do like this, very much. It's filled with truth and love, beyond any uncertainties. May you find peace, joy and comfort in the months ahead. Great to have you back! Brenda	2004-05-22 22:19:59
Summer Rain	Edwin John Krizek	Hi Edwin, This is a lovely piece, with such rich and varied imagery. I appreciate the way you expand the microcosm of the wet dooryard into a commentary on the way humanity has assaulted and desecrated much of the natural world. The speaker's tribute to rain, as it nourishes the "sensual, sexual jungle" [very nice!!], links the water with flora and fauna, with fecundity and savagery, all interdependent. Only man seems oddly incongruous when placed amid such a symbiotic [and successful] environment. Like a curious spider, I invade this space. I do not belong here. But, if not here, where? The old trees know everything. They tell me [there is no more destructive animal than man.] I, too, am responsible for my brother’s mistakes. I love this passage! My only suggestion might be to drop the line in parentheses, as I don't think you need it and it is rather "telly". I believe you've already implied the negative impact of human existence by questioning your speaker's own place in this scene. "If not here, where?" I'm not sure, myself. Sometimes I think we've given up all claim to any place at all, and hold our ground only by virtue of superior force. The old trees know everything. They tell me I, too, am responsible for my brother’s mistakes. How does that read, to you? It's only an idea to take or toss. I think this is a superb poem on many levels, and one with which I can fully empathize. The last three lines are just perfect. Absolution may not be possible but we can, at least, seek it. The rain that brings forth Eden can also cleanse the souls of those who have lost their original Garden. Much enjoyed! Brenda	2004-05-22 21:48:47
Down to the river	Mark Andrew Hislop	Mark, this is a rare and moving poem. I can't really critique it because my mom - who has lived with me for almost 18 years - has just been hospitalized and I'm too weary to make much sense! But it's a worthy tribute to the legacies upon which we all draw, and then leave in our own turn: the children, the histories, the bonds with kin and clan and the land itself. The "sacred wish to leave all things behind" is almost like a desire to be reincarnated as other beings, spores into seedlings. The baptismal waters allow us to be remade, and the young shall lead us into new insight. Yes, we do become our own chains. Release is impossible unless it comes from within. But we can be led into it by those with fresher insights and more eager embrace of whatever may lie ahead. There's a Psalm-like cadence to the piece, and the diction complements it. The end result is one of eloquence and a resonant joy. This is an affirmation. If we learn, not only how to love but whom, we are the richer for it. Indeed, our children may well show us how to live more fully and gladly. They possess what we believe we have lost but can still imagine, still understand, and still recapture. The river flows through and around us all. It's a huge metaphor, not only for time and life but for the cleansing process that allows us to progress spiritually. This implies a karmic dimension that each new generation must accept, as the old go to seek renewal and enlightenment. "Uncircumcised tents" - great use of metonymy! [I think of Othello's "uncircumcised dog"]. It is as if the ancient ritual reaffirms our place in the chain that stretches from Abraham himself. "The air that cleans the stars" is amazing. "Unknowing, wise" is an oxymoron that so fittingly describes the human soul itself. Perhaps we do know more than we understand. Sorry this is so disjointed. I could not let the poem itself pass unacknowledged. Brenda	2004-05-07 20:30:55
Changing With The Changes	Marcia McCaslin	Oh, Marcia ... I almost missed this! I'm just getting ready to leave school but want to tell you that my eyes are prickling here. Wow, this is so very poignant; it speaks a huge truth, but a sad one. What a gently-told tale, and how almost-unbearable the thought that we each carry, the knowledge that we don't voice our feelings until it's too late. Your poem could describe practically anyone. He hadn’t realized he had a glass heart, and she hadn’t realized she had a failing one. Nobody can predict; that's just as well, or we'd go mad. So your message is to hug a loved one, breathe deeply of the air around us; live each day as if it's our last (because one day, it will be). I'm glad that you've made your characters such simple, hard-working people. They farm, eat baked beans, live in flower metaphors. Your opening stanza is fabulous! Any writer who can begin a poem like this is a A+ poet. It draws us into the piece and the rest lives up to this first promise. "She had been his unfolding, just as gently as he had been/ her unflowering". Wow, again. You have such a clear and insightful voice, whether speaking in first person or third. The POV is unusual in that the narrator appears to be omniscient, detached from the couple being described, yet in the end, the questions are filled with concern and urgency ... "wasn't it? Wasn't it?" It is almost as if this speaker is seeking personal reassurance, that perhaps s/he also fears the failure to express love. In the husband's forgetfulness, and the wife's sudden departure before it can be rectified, this speaker sees himself/herself reflected, and is consumed with doubt. This person will change, as the title implies, because others have undergone change and revealed a life lesson in the process. Excellent work in all respects. I'm so glad that I found it while there was still time to respond! Take Care, Brenda	2004-05-06 14:58:29
Blue Dragonfly - Revisited	Joanne M Uppendahl	Hi Joanne: This is exquisitely done. The dragonfly seems a spiritual emissary, a tiny entity of itself, surveyed by a yet "larger" being. The small soul is dwarfed by the bigger, more complex one, but that's not to say that it doesn't exist. I like the way you use this as a microcosmic reflection of our human relationship to God, which leads to the inevitable question: "But WHAT is watching God?" That way lies confusion, so I tend to steer clear of such metaphysical complexities. "Next to green" unites the creature with the symbolic background color that suggests an entire order of life, the earth itself. It is part of this, as are we all. "Mate or marauder" - nicely alliterative for emphasis - serve as metonymies for the dual passions of love and hate, and the balance we walk between family obligations and defence against those who would rob us of our rights. But the "sparkling adornment" makes of the dragonfly a jewel, which allows us to note the connection between form and function. Thus, bird species often possess bright plumage in order to attract mates; beautiful seashell coloration is also camouflage when the creature is underwater. The dragonfly's glitter attracts the eye - and perhaps another insect - yet, when motion is stilled, the little thing could be mistaken for a twig or grass blade. It is the movement that makes the flash. So it happens in our own species; those who seldom "move", in a metaphorical sense, aren't likely to garner much admiration or attention. Speaking of motion, I did stumble here: " in motionlessness hope". I'm thinking that "motionless" would be sufficient to modify hope, becuase by adding the "ness", it turns to a noun and "hope" is off-syntax. This is a tiny point, of course. The speaker's wish for this little being to linger might well replicate God's own thoughts, for we are frail and die so soon. What if God, too, becomes attached to a few of us, and wishes to see us for longer than our mortal allotment? Even as an entire race of animals, our time on earth is finite and in our turn, we will probably be replaced by others who are stronger, smarter or more adaptable to their changing environemnt (which we have probably polluted beyond our own survival). The dragonfly could also stand for a single individual, present all too briefly, whose visit the speaker wishes to prolong. Alas, we are not even masters of the threads that are woven into our own lives, let alone those belonging to another. The deity beyond us has control of these. Our wresting control of the dragonfly's destiny would probably destroy him. Children bring bugs home in glass jars because they're fascinated by the spots and shapes and wings, but the captives almost always die. We can be gratified most by allowing the creature its own space and fate. This also holds true among parents and children, spouses, friends ... anyone who might seek to bind or hold back another, even out of love. "Splendor hunger" makes me think of Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn". Truth is indeed beautiful, and beauty is truth. We hunger for the beautiful because we know it is a perfect form that reminds us of what is possible, even among the small and humble. The dragonfly's flicker of glory is like catching a glimpse into the space between the stars, before the darkness closes back in. I've just realized that this isn't much of a critique! Your poem was on the finalists' list and I wanted to respond to it but not necessarily to dissect it (if that makes any sense). It's superb work, as are all your poems. It touches something inside my skin that doesn't awaken often. My Best Always, Brenda	2004-05-06 14:38:03
The world is wet.	Jane A Day	Hi Jane, Love the imagery! What's especially interesting is that it's an immersion in the moment, done in sentence fragments, except for the very last line which is complete. Such is the nature of dreams - inconclusive, segmented. You shape the poem to your intent, rather than worrying about strictly syntactical concerns. Thus it becomes a single, focused impression and the title - another full sentence - is a part of that. The rain heavy enough to fill my bellybutton and run down my hips, This is an intensely tactile description of rain that incorporates the whole body in its sensations. It then segues into the speaker's imaginary evening of lying out in the wet, glimmering night. "Neighbors checking their windows for the seep" reveals that not everyone finds joy in rain. The speaker sees a magical quality in it, like a spiritual cleansing. "We all make wishes." Indeed. What a pleasure to read this. Brenda	2004-04-28 13:33:38
The waking tide	Mark Andrew Hislop	Such lovely language here, Mark! In S1, images such as "unsashed the dawn" and the oxymoronic "night's bright shadowland" introduce us to a poem of considerable power and beauty. The speaker's concern with night's end (L4) reminds me of Juliet on her wedding night, who desperately seeks to have the darkness linger so she can be with Romeo but an hour longer. However, the situation in this poem is one of quiet joy, not impending despair. Soft, too hard a word for your full softness, You rest and turn, your tide of breath .... yes, perfect! A balm and tincture clear ................ very nice!! To wash me clean in your deep soul’s Sweet longing. You make excellent use of consonant combinations here - very soft ones, like s/f/th, edged with the sharper c/t. The first three lines are especially fresh and striking; the last two are a bit more sentimental. I'm wondering if there's a metaphor that would work in place of "soul's sweet longing" since you're speaking of being washed "clean" in it. "Soul's deep currents", perhaps? It would pick up the water imagery of "tide of breath" used earlier. Your call, of course! No silk sheet, no cloud Drawn to keep the countless eyes of night From earth's modest breasts, This is a most wonderful passage. The couple on the train are being juxtaposed with a much wider setting, so the earth and sky restate the idea of the humans, peering through their sleeping-car window at the predawn "enervating hour". The dreamlike suspension of energy will cease with day. But the poet places us "in the moment", between the depths of sound sleep and the first rays of morning. It is fitting that the final word is "peace". Very nicely done, indeed. Brenda	2004-04-25 22:19:03
Majourney Well	Thomas Edward Wright	What an evocative poem about the "launching" of a beloved only child [or her relocation from one parent to another, but more on that later]!!! Your metaphors are colorful and so fresh - one never reads trite, tired imagery in your work. I always enjoy seeing what you'll be up to next. "The careful chord, the unicorn" - yes, and so used to being solo and a bit spoiled. Delicate, web-wove, womb-ish, One delights in her songs sung And hung above the cradle’s bow, She the wind, she the rudder. All those s/w consonants blend softly and wonderfully. The baby is the center of her own universe; everything from cradle on is provided for her appreciation: wind and rudder, alpha and omega. Here you begin the ship metaphor that will extend to the finish. I like the way "bow" can be used either as a ship's part or a ribbony flourish, such as we often use to decorate a little girl's nursery. "Fair thee well mama-door" - time to exit that early maternal nest and sail toward adulthood. Interesting use of "fair" as opposed to "fare", suggesting the weather and the future - both bright - as well as the daughter - now beautiful in her new maturity. Mine is graduating on May 21 with her first degree and then goes on to professional studies. It's always a wrench to think of the distance over which she's travelled from my own "mama-door" (love that!!). But it's a revolving door, I think. She'll be back; they always come back when they need us. Meanwhile, she's in good company. The poem could also involve a marital split, with the custodial parent (father, probably) taking his turn at parenting from the significantly "opposing" shore. However, I'm not reading it as such because of its relevance to my personal experience. Very timely piece at this time of spring convocations! Brenda	2004-04-21 10:14:13
Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Elaine Marie Phalen	Critique Date

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