Mell W. Morris's E-Mail Address: molamell@yahoo.com

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Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Mell W. Morris	Critique Date
Moon haiku #1	Joanne M Uppendahl	Great wall-lurking, quixotic queen: It's no surprise to see haiku from you as you have always had the takent of "writing down the bone" or paring till it's bare. You know how I dislike reviewing and I do not normally look at this form for several reasons. There's simply not enough into which I can sink my teeth. I'm so verbose, and seventeen syllables provide paucity for comment. Silver sickle moon is a beauteous phrase for we have all seen the crescent silver moon. In the metaphor of sickle, this is deep and elusive...especially for Japanese verse. A sickle scythes and your moon "sighs" and "moans" as the blade has "mown". This rich play with words leaves me looking aroung my room... like, am I on the same planet as this godess of verse? This silver, pale moon could be seen as anemic and that reminds of sickle-cell disease, also crescent-shaped cells. One with sickle-cell anemia would be gazing at the moon, held in high esteem by certain cultures and races. tinsels mountain peaks and trees A lovely, complex phrase telling the reader that this quicksilver decorates mountains and trees. I think of someone "peeking" at the peaks and capturing it (treed). We think of tinsel at Christmas and on Christmas trees so this is like tatted Alencon (sp) lace. The end line brought smiles to me: tosses coins to sea... tosses coigns to see. Heavenly daze, majesteic poetess...I do not know where else to go nor have I ever encountered such metaphoric beauty. You make every syllable count...whether whisper or shout. I find myself breathless at someone who can give such enormity of beauty in twelve words. Nothing to say but I saw a second Moon which if strength continues, I'll look at tomorrow. Exquisite poetess of clarity and light, thank you for elevating my being this evening. Much love, deep regards, Mell	2004-10-10 21:19:49
My Children - Lost But Not Forgotten	Nancy T Bindhammer	Dear Nancy: This is the 1st work I've seen by you but my health precludes my being on site often. I would like to hear the melody to the song but since what we have are the lyrics, I'll review it as if it were a "regular" poem. The topic of your piece, the loss of three babies, is about as sad as it gets. Your first stanza establishes that they were premature and you longed to hold them but it was not to be. You recall how it felt to have them inside while you carried them and they touched your life. You will never know what they felt until you and your three children meet in empyrean areas. I wish babies could remember more and for a sufficient amount of timr in order that we might hear all they experienced with Jesus before they forget it. The format of your powm looks song-like. You have two tercets, one quatrain, etc and the variation gives the poem just the right pace and movement. I like the repetition of "but I'm glad they touched my life." You mention a range of emotions during this time and your reiteration is effective. In view of all the sadness, I would like to see "tears" in there anywhere, of sadness, dry-eyed as we have a plethora of the emotion. Perhaps in Stanza5? I enjoyed your poem ,however sad it was. We can release a lot of emotion in this manner. I think it is quite cathartic to do so. Keep up the great work! Best Wishes, Mell Morris	2004-10-08 19:12:29
A Fragment	Sandra J Kelley	Sandra: Here in the waning moments of the ending of the contest, I see your poem at the bottom of my list. My comments will be brief in keeping with new rules and the problems I have typing/sitting up long. I love narrative poem and while yours is lyrical, it still has traces of the narrative form. The story you tell is akin to that of numerous families no doubt. The denial you portray herein reminds me so much of my sister who allows nothing "ugly" to come within miles of her family. My son says she rationalizes and that's likely true but she also reminds me of the Scarlett O'Hara syndrome: "I'll worry about that tomorrow." If you don't talk about things, they disappear. I really like your format: a mixture of couplets, tercets, quatrains, each perfectly selected for the content conveyed. The entire work is most intriguing and lovely; I missed its debut. The deletions at the ends of your paragraphs or couplets or wherever...that device plays well. The denial by your gramps or failure to discuss with you the fate of your father seems unusually bitter and most of his ill-will seems directed solely to your father. Okay, Sandra, you've really piqued my interest (another aspect of professional writing), and all readers will want to know why and when and what occurred. {I am not suggesting you provide this data; it's likely better leaving us in the dark). There is an undercurrent of a totally dysfunctional family but uncle seem healthy as do the poet and her sister who, in the ending, in the loveliest of gestures, in JOY stretch their toes to the moon. Tiny, trivial point but in the last stanza "me" should be "I" as it is written as the subject of the sentence, ergo, the nominative case. The sole reason I mention it is I've encountered editors who toss a mss. because of one error. This is truly a joy for poetry reading and I say Brava! for the accomplishment! Best wishes, Mell	2004-10-07 19:37:49
The Earth Smiled	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: This will be brief; when I have a few minutes I can sit up, I try to do a critique every day but I did not meet my goal in September. This contest and voting has me flummoxed. There are poems at the BOTTOM better than those at the top, mine included. There is no rhyme nor reason and BJ and JoUp are going to win which troubles me not. It is the ignoring of others that I do not understand. Anyway, no matter how hard I try, even when I was well, I have no voting power. Enuf of this grousing in lieu of a review. I like the personification of earth in your title and the fact she is smiling. In the first few stanzas, I really wondered why she was smiling when she was arid and dry as the Sahara. The mixing of gods and godesses from Hindu, Babylonian, and Norse was confounding and I suppose "He" is the Christian God. Then I began thinking of it as a "United Nation of Gods" just as our UN is supposed to be comprised of all nations, etc. In that context, and I don't know but am surmising, it works very well. You have enuf imagination for five people! Don't ever tell me you are blocked...not with this poem on the back burner! And for the first time (of what I've seen), your enjambment from S1 to S2, and S4 to S5, is delightful. Again, that imagination of yours! You also seem to be more risk taking than at prior times. Then you take us to gods and godesses spitting and spatting, mountains shaking, "Creation quarreling as naughty children." That is a great simile for nothing irritates me quite so much as noisy kids. I think I would smile also if someone quenched my thirst, opened spigots in clouds for me, (quite clever) and calmed the wind. (I absolutely hate high winds). In the last line, you set it apart for emphasis but I suggest inserting a WHO after He. That is the sole thing I suggest for change which is very minor. Marilyn, there's not much I can help here as your poem has been as polished as an apple for the teacher. Kudos for the accomplished example of your writing. (I'm getting very tired so I will return to bed). Best wishes for you and your poem, Mell	2004-10-05 19:16:01
Thoughts on An October Day	Joanne M Uppendahl	HRH Grand sky watcher: I'm not too creative in my brain but wanted you to know I read this and it makes me pine for October and a true season change. It's hot and humid here; more like August than October, oh great lucky one. Your muse has been perched on your shoulder all month which has to make you happy and all of us, too. Have been thinking of you all week and meaning or intending to e-mail today. Happy always to read anything you've scribed and there's something I see peripherally but can't pin down here. You've drawn a lovely picture in Stanza 1, grey day, birds swirling from clouds amid red-gold leaves. You make this pattern a maetaphor for a charcoal sketch and that feels so apropos. Van Gogh in one of his wheatfield paintings has those black double arcs in the sky background. This reminds me of his work. You use a 5-4-5 line/stanza form; I find myself increasingly concerned about form and why a poet uses a particular one. I think it's part of the way I crawl into a poet's cranium. A lot of poets say it just happened but I am discovering that the really "good" poets leave little to happenstance. Will I know when you've come home? Perhaps that doesn't matter; but only that I saw you go and celebrate your winged release. Quite intriguing question posed by poet and I think it DOES matter that poet (we) know when the birds return. My people and those who live close and attuned to earth know/feel these things. I agree it's quite important now when they are leaving us/you for more habitat-friendly areas that you celebrate their departure which you see as a release. In both stanzas, you bring your magical insights about birds into focus for your readers and symphonize the work by internal rhymes and particularly assonance. I feel I am standing by your side, gazing at the sky to see what you do. I wonder how much of what YOU see is visible to us. Ah, liebchen, that I cannot know, brain link or no, or as Rick said, he sees the two of us joined at the hip! You bring us easily to the epiphany and ending of your piece. You note that the birds divide the sky and then your simile of spiraling as the Milky Way. "Nothing lasts but everything persists above the ceaseless sting of wind." You have herded us gently to this conclusion, what Joyce called "The poem's soul, its whatness leaps to us from the vestment of its appearance." Oh, ye Irish mystical writers! You who have the intuitive grasp of reality achieved in a quick flash of recognition and you gift your readers with new looks at an ordinary things as Joyce did consistently. That requires an abundance of spirituality and comprehension and as if you as poet have the inside track on matters of which most of are unaware. It must get lonely in your rarefied air, my friend, until Mark, Rick, Tom et al wander past. The poem needs no help from anyone and I see nothing I would change. Encore four times or more and purple pansies still standing at your front door. All my best (sorry but I tire so easily), Mell-o	2004-09-30 19:04:41
Stones Will Sing	Joanne M Uppendahl	HRH Emeritus Laureate,L.L.: As I inscribed your latest title, I realized I had made you hell! Heavenly daze is what I'd call this poem, my pick of yours for the month. (My sister's oft-used epithet is heavenly days! which makes Eric and me swoon with laughter.) How can anyone fail to swoon at your heavenly daze? It is a beautiful poem that throbs with life, sub-life, and matters of which we dare not speak. I am only surprised I haven't encountered you in the darkness of your search. The first line gives the reader the notion of perspective, comparing your being to that of the universe. Then you titillate us that when you're out there searching, you are your REAL self, no flincher, but flinger of fire. WOW. We all long to know this version of yourself, extremis, floater beyond where man has gone, extant. Since I've seen no bird (there's likely one there we cannot see with human eyes), there must be bells with concomitant music of message to you from the other. These are no ordinary bellwether bells but the belletriste calls them longing, pulsing, pining metal sounds sent from her bellboy (sorry) for the sofest part of her being combined with his. Such music I long to hear now before it is lost or filed away in an array of empyrean boxes. Your ending couplet is exquisite...we all know stones sing...but not that they already have your music awaiting your arrival. How wondrous! Every line of your piece delivers a tender touch, a caring caress, a handsel of gorgeous blooms only you can grow. This is a bloom greater than self or anything of this planet. Nothing left to say, great enchantress. I am quite emotional these days and your poem was a grand experience which I felt in every cell as if it were composed for me alone while others play with dollies, etc. Not you, little sister. Thank you for writing such beauty. Mell	2004-09-23 16:15:14
Listen For The Shout	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: This was # 50 on my list! It will be brief but I must comment on such a lovely write, of great tenderness at present for me and every person with a problem. Or just a lyric poem of riches. The first four lines are encouraging to hear...the spirit of the human being is so strong, it can overcome any adversity. You list some of the problems one may encounter and then reiterate that our spirits stand when skies are dark and seas swell. And that nice entity...war. **The spirit doesn't know how to surrender.** Oh, Marilyn, what an incredible idea and I feel the strength in those few words alone! The remainder of stanza 2 tells us no river nor anguish about storms of tomorrow can foil the human spirit because it rescues the soul. {Soul and spirit are the same things to me, so you'll have to explain that one}. "When death creeps about...listen for the shout" of the human spirit, magnificent. I really like the repetition of the 1st line in the final. Thanks for posting this right now as it is inspirational for where I am in life and that is not a good place to be. I am getting worse with each day but I haven't given up and I ask you not to give up on me yet. You, more than most poets, have e-mailed, sent hilarious goodies and I must tell you, when I read the one about the restroom, I laughed so long and hard, my stomach hurt. I haven't had such a laugh in years. I truly, deeply appreciate your constant friendship. Thanks so much for posting this when I need it. For me personally this is a *****. Best wishes always, Mell	2004-09-22 20:07:59
The Bearers of Vision	Rick Barnes	Ricko: An intriguing trek you delineate for your readers, one that challenges to proceed to fumble along in the dark with others, a darkness shared with other travelers in a unique manner that poet seems scarcely able to name. If these enlightened ones who travel in darkness, cannot name the blue light ahead....what of us? So there you are, uniting in an intimacy in the dark among these felt-more-than-seen- people. And you have a same experience that would bond or bind you beyond two or three hours in the dark. It feels timeless here but I have no vocabulary for measures of time other than our own: minutes, hours, days, etc. And from this unique experience of bonding to others to comprehend the light "...refined our vision into a small, thin, dim blue of light." You end your poem with the observation that there are likely some among us who somehow know, we have all the light we need. Now for that closer look at blue, I chose several dictionaries and was most amazed at the myriad definitions of blue. I candidly state I do not know what your blue beam may mean. It reminds me of a laser light since it's a beam, a blue-nose, a flickering tv at night. But your juxtaposition here seems to tell me that in life's reality, we humans stumble along but while that is occuring, there are among us those who have all the light they need and are aware or perhaps wonder at the need for light searching. And I agree we are given what is needed to live a meaningful life. I really love this but the basic metaphor can be so many things when you write in a less-constrained manner. I so enjoy wading the shores of your poems. Here rolls in a big wave that gets my feet wet but it feels a life-giving experience ...like the entirety of your entire pond, lake, etc. Thanks for posting. The water vapor in its effulgience (one blue beam) beckons us to a life of serenity. The structure, pace, and flow are such Barnesisms, I would recognize them among an array of poetry. Those who "bear the vision" such as Roni are lifelines to those of us in need of a boat or lifeline. I know your enchanting salute will put a smile on her beautiful face. Thanks for sharing with all. Mell-0	2004-09-19 20:16:54
Fairyland	marilyn terwilleger	My Dear Marilyn, I haven't even looked at the forum and I think it's all over but I've enjoyed your poetry so why stop now? It truly has been a life saver for me since I'm so immobilized. I thought he was tired of the yipping and the constant power-struggle. He heard a alot last night and everyone has become so frustrated with the site, he's ready to chunk 1t. (Chris). Enuf of that and your poem directly adds to our loss. I MADE GRAMMATIC ERRORS OR SPEling errors throughput but I', m havine a harder day then usual. Your poem is lovely but watching is sad. "There is no fairyland + there is no poetic link." I hope you are wrong. I also see that the flowers, jewels and fairies disappear and the end sounds like a vast wasteland. I'm VERY tired, More later. Mell	2004-09-10 18:08:30
2 (Play)	Jana Buck Hanks	Jana: Brava for trying a new form. I've never written a haiku nor Japanese poetry. The more I read about the form, the more I see that the Japanese are much more free in their approach. The only aspect that is universally demanded is 17 syllables. You have 16 as your 1st line has 6 syllables. If you want capped to be two syllables or in other words CappED, you must use a punctuation mark to indicate the two beats. (Look at Poe's poems and especially those of Gerard Manley Hopkins.) Also Shakespeare and most of the great masters. I like the assonance of ragged/capped and the allits of ragged/roar. The middle line is a winner for who can resist the imagery of kiddies playing in the sand. Your end line is the best: "oceanic melodies." I love the sea and hear its melody calling me to come, most strongly in spring but usually all the time. Swell for someone who lives inland, close to 500 miles to the coast. I give you high marks for trying and as I said the Japanese would likely find your haiku acceptable. You also never use the word "haiku" which lets you off the hook anyway. What matters most is that you have painted a lovely scene and I can hear the waves, watch gulls diving and swooping, children at play on clean white sand, and ta-duh! songs from the sea. Best wishes, Mell	2004-08-30 17:44:11
Grandchildren	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: Thanks for posting this warm piece about loving grandchildren. It is easy to see your development as poet but one aspect remains the same: your ability to draw readers in to feel the emotion expressed. So far, I have no grandchildren and I guess that's why I dote on animals so much. (Not that they are the same). In Stanza 1, last five lines point out what I've heard from every grandparent...you can spoil them then send them home to their parents for discipline, dirty diapers, etc. I love the line "reserve all bragging rights". Then you tell the readers that no matter what misfortune may occur or "slings and arrows" come, just look into the trusting eyes of your grandchildren and your sadness will disappear. I could not help but notice Tanner's obvious love for you as he would write, "So, Grammy, what do you think?" His devotion to you literally jumped from the page. This is a heart-smiling piece of writing that cheers my Sunday afternoon and I'm glad I logged on when I did. Best always, Your friend, Mell	2004-08-29 17:50:01
The Great Divide	Rick Barnes	Rick-o: I will e-mail soon about my abundance of lilacs. I had to go to All Users to find your poem. Hope this cantankerous site will not digest this review before you see it. Wonderful title which is perfect for your poem. The words herein slip and slide and ease and please but as always, you leave me with queries and the need to probe my own psyche to comprehend what you've penned. Your pace is ever lilting and especially slippery in this piece wherein the L sound is sharply contrasted with the heavy force of the D. A dsivision in sounds, if you will, like the division about which you write. Erect albeit alop, the poet sees the slope of the hill where water's flow will run down to fill the long ignored and deep cavity. I keep saying slippery like when I reach for your word, it slides away. Your rhymes bring such music to the reader but then, your poems are often akin to lyrics as I've told you in every critique, I think. This feels like a decision about a division: "I've already decided that I need to alter my view"...and to do so, you rely on your ever-present mathematics to arrive at the correct solution to the equation. "Looking first at the mass, giving angles their due; calculate you and constant force of your gravity..." ...do you need "constant"?... While gravity is of itself constant, it somehow makes me feel there's too much force being applied from the other side. Beauteous ending: "Then either cross the divide or stay on this side of loving and living with you." We as readers want to know your decision but using the great divide as metaphor for your poem, for your feelings, and since you "need a change of view", I have my own answer. How eccentric that it is either/or because you know I would build a bridge and ergo, the decision has more dimensions. Just thinking aloud and musing, which your poetry always brings to me, the stimulation of the gray matter and the sensory, intuitive part of my reasoning. I would not change a comma, a word...as close to perfect as digital Rick-o has produced. Lovely. On my list. There's nil else to say as you have said it all. Exquisitely executed. Best wishes from your friend, Mell-o	2004-08-26 15:36:08
A Rose for You	Wayne R. Leach	Wayne: This poem is at the bottom of my list but I find it impossible to bypass. Yours is a talent I envy and is quite reminiscent of the Romantics. What is so utterly impossible for me to imagine is writing a sonnet with perfect rhyme and meter. While this is about a love far away and with whom poet will not be joined, the poignancy of that feeling comes through very clearly. A sad song. At first I thought, oh me, another love-gone-wrong, trite roses, and lovers separated. But with sheer skill of execution, you make the reader feel this topic has never received attention before. From the "kiss my freckled nose" of the 1st line to the heartbreaking "fantasy is all that we can share" and "More dearly than he really should disclose", you are leading all who read this along a lovely path. Your sensory details of the delicate rose, its tender petals, the sweetness of its aroma, evoke feelings in the reader and after all is said and done, it is yours forever but many spirits are uplifted by reading such beauty. I find myself mumbling, "With Rue My Heart Is Laden" and "She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways" and "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose" and from George: "She Walks in Beauty Like the Night." I hope you do not mind my comparison but that is where your poem takes me. Exquisite. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-08-25 18:47:15
The Rock of Heaven	Gene Dixon	Gene: Happiness occurs to see a posted poem by you! It's at the bottom of my list so you likely have had multiple critiques. You are sorely missed at TPL... who else would teach Mellifluous the art of sonneteering? As TPL slowly slides down the drain, I think "If only we had Gene..." Your title for this paean (cannot remember correct word) must make Marksteven very happy. I suggested "Rocky" which M. nixed but he will love your title! His birth a metaphor as Baby Petes lands in the river with a splash like a rock. Lovely. The reactions varied from awe to sigh to tremble. They witnessed the birth of Petes as an act of earthly and divine love. Stanza 2 is offered as further testimony to the joy of the occasion. All seasons welcome Petes: Welcome as spring loved as summer colors of autumn brilliance of winter. Final strope is lovely, lovely. "Your world is covered by virgin snow. Your paths are marked by wildflowers and blackberries." Oh yes, there must be blackberries as that will please Mark so much (and me). This is lovely and lyrical and makes me want to roll in a field of clover, taking Baby Petes to see things for the first time. You retain the ability to choose the perfect word, bring the reader into where you are speaking and reminds of the good ole' days when I took this for granted. Don't stay away so long!! Best always, Mell	2004-08-17 15:52:55
The Ephod	G. Donald Cribbs	Don: This is not what I would call an ordinary or run-of-the-mill poem. It casts an other-world spell, eerie, anything-is-possible piece of writing. I appreciate your notes as "ephod" is unknown to me. I thought urim and thummin were precious stones used by the priest to draw out oracles and their words. "Wheat field's gentle incense" and to the "fog-shrouded horizon" bespeak the liguistry which casts the spell. You are the intruder in this eerie place and there appears to be a plethora of deer which you call philosophers. I find the notion of existential deer quite appealing and would like to know more about this. Also, the speaker seems a reluctant priest and again, I wonder why. "Warily, I fumble with doctrine and truth"... could he be tired and jaded or a novice who is afraid? You titillate but I suppose the reader is to find his own answer. Poet points out the wheat field, the sycamore tree, the sky and the deer are sentries guarding the edges of the field. "White puffs from their panting" is exquisite. The deer are anxious for the priest's departure (again, why?) and speaker "hesitates back along the path". Recalcitrant priests and special deer who resent anyone's intrusion in their fields. I know there is a message here that is just out of my reach. Your beautiful closing phrase: "away from epiphanies in fathomless dark" again causes my brow to furrow and I am query-filled. WHO would eschew an epiphany?? Don, your poem, while beautiful, escapes me. That said, I should skip the critique, huh. I cannot because of the beauty and mystery which summon any poet and I also think that I am not the biblical scholar you and some others here are. I so enjoy these profound pieces even if I fall short of the poet's intent because they make me think and this one is so plangent, I yearn for the knowledge herein. Your imagery which engages the senses will stay with me a long time. That is about the highest compliment one can give. Bravo and standing ovation! Best, Mell Morris	2004-08-15 16:06:10
Heart Eyes	JACK M HRINIAK	Jack: This is the 1st of your poems I've seen; if you are new to TPL, welcome. If not, it's a pleasure to read a poem by an artist new to me. Your title "Heart Eyes" caught my attention and it's a show-stopper kind of title. The short lyric that ensues is hanging by the thread of two words but that's the sort of risk few take except in workshop/classes. I assume this is an elegy for Ray Charles and if I'm correct, then your title speaks for the artist who indeed showed heart eyes. What a divinine master of music he was. I am so old I remember when he impacted Rock' N Roll with "What'd I say?". tHE WORLD WOULD NEVER BE THE SAME. Then he sang C & W: "I can't stop loving you." And against all odds, we had a crossover for him to be a pop music figure for his remaining years. Your poem delivers us a command in simile form: "Be like a black man receiving the sun. With a song to sing to the black king." Again I assume the black king is God who will be stunned at Charles' panegyric. I see nothing that needs fixing so I will simply join you in praising this wonderful king of blues and thank you for sharing this wonderful salute. Gotta hit the road, Jack. Best wishes, Mell Morris (Ms.)	2004-08-14 15:38:31
Conception	G. Donald Cribbs	Don: It is much easier to critique "poor" poetry than that of a talented, experienced poet. There are no gaffes to list, no call for corrections. All of this is good, of course, but I never feel I have done anything helpful except act like a cheerleader. I guess cheerleaders have their places, too. Your first tercet has a lovely simile and "lips against lips" is a special way to share the welcome news of a baby's presence. I've always believed infants in fetal phase understand matters so I was always careful what I said when pregnant. A friend of mine played music to her unborn child. Flicker/fireplace/flames and passion/peeling does what good allits are supposed to do. The sound is fricative then plosive...a frenzy of lovemaking as celebration and thanksgiving. Our senses are now fully engaged by your poetics. The following tercets show your remembering the likely time of conception and your sea metaphors are splendid. Thus far, two phrases really strike me: "our souls bathed in good sweat" and "our tongues gasping at the shore of our mouths." The simile of flowers pressing againt the underground to reach the sun's rays is lovely. Somehow "supine" doesn't sound right to my ear albeit the word matches and harmonizes with the other sibilant sounds. A really ideosyncratic matter. You end with another fresh and unique simile: "Our eyes burst open like stars clustered and eager to put on flesh." A conception of a child is of such enormity that stars are envious. My words here but your poem made me think of that. If this poem celebrated your first child's beginning, it was a beautiful tribute and we are waiting for the poem in March when baby Cribbs arrives. My hearty congratulations for your news of a second bairn and best wishes to your wife who likely feels doubly blessed. A quite evocative poem which I really enjoyed. Best wishes, Mell	2004-08-10 13:12:14
A life in the day of a gutter-girl	Lynda G Smith	Lynda: I like each and every poem you post and I would have to go back and look (I have no short-term memory because of my meds) but it seems you are emerging as a feminist poet. That's terrific company you keep. This free-verse definition of the evolution of a woman from prude to good-time girl is masterfully executed. You call her "gutter- girl" which is derogatory and a descriptor with which I wouldn't agree but it helps make your point that one can be overly restrained and constricted until they become a different person altogether. Your opening metaphor of her in corset stays and rigid-boned rules is excellent. You use the hard C sound in corset/craved/carnal/ coveted/secret/canons. It sounds as if she fears the strength of the physical side of herself never unleashed. Someone as tightly wound as she (magma confined) is going to create a hugenic explosion when/if released. I cannot possibly point out all your poetics in this jewel but they are indeed noted and contribute to the rhythm and sound herein. A veritable symphony of sound. Great linguistry in the allits and the phrase that begins: "She forged..." You have internal rhyme and so much assonance, I lean back in my chair and sigh with appreciation. Please remove the apostrophe from "ITS". The resolution in your poem likely says something different to me than to the typical readers. "....poured her energy upon the earth in the baptism of birth." For me, Lynda, this woman has been a prisoner all her life: by parents, husband, religion, ethnicity...it does not matter by whom nor what she was kept confined. After toleration of this, it builds a volcano in her that must explode eventually. Or as your ending states, she is re-birthed as a free woman. For me, experiencing the entirety of existence is normal and for which God gave us potential. I may be out in left field where I often stay for days. Do let me know if I missed the import by miles. Your talent has never shown as brightly nor as sprited as in "A life". All that's left to say is Brava! Keep these wonderful poems flowing! Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-08-09 13:02:13
Winona, from the High Cliff	Thomas Edward Wright	t.: A brief review with no revision as I'm no t. or so they say. It has not been the same site without your wit but we are confident you will return to your family here. At 1st glance, I thought this was an ode to one of the Judds and then I remembered her name is WYnona, emphasis on 1st syllable. I believe this is fashioned on the tale of the native American girl whose father has chosen a husband for her when she is in love with someone else. It is romantic and tragic which you capture beautifully but I am not overly fond of this account of first American stupidity. I'm sure these were not Cherokees if they lived in the land of sky blue waters (Minnesota?). Of course, we Cherokees made a number of stupid mistakes...look at our trail of tears. Sorry, this is a sensitive spot for me. In the 1st stanza, the girl addresses her father, seemingly from the after-world. Your opening line re "dark brooding eyes" is lovely. In 2nd stanza, she realizes neither her father nor the warrior he chose for her will comprehend her actions but she must remain true to herself and to the hunter she loves. She says the marriage vow to him and steps off the cloud, "Away from your land, into my ocean." Exquisitely worded, t. I enjoyed this paean to the lovely girl and her lost love and the title is t.-like, very appealing. I am always curious about line lengths and why your stanzas are seven, six, eight lines in lieu of all the same pattern. Keep them coming, please. You do have a way with words. Best, Mell	2004-07-31 20:12:23
JOURNEY OF THE CRYSTAL CAVE	Jana Buck Hanks	Jana: It is so good to see you back at TPL and find your poem on my list. I don't know what happened to you nor is it my business but so many people are gone and in many cases, I think it's TPL that brings that decision. The 1st thing I noticed about your lovely poem is that it is still free verse, unmetered and unrhymed, but your poem is punctuated! Thank you, thank you! I know many poets eschew capital letters, punctuation, etc, but it makes a difficult go for the reader. (This reader, anyway). Now instead of trying to determine where the sentence stops, etc, I can simply enjoy the creation itself. You use enjambment like a pro! The title itself is beguiling and the 1st stanza we find ourselves on a path to a secret cave and anything can happen! The reader can't stop now. My only stumble was on theurgic canopy... I always thought the word meant one who works miracles or aids used by divine workers. I hope I got it right with the 2nd meaning. The cave is one which is central to your life, appearing in dreams, and as you touch the layers, if they are tellurian, they formed when earth was new...so, I begin to wonder if the cave is part of a time travel for you. Espying a tea set, you remember something about your gmother and I love this phrase: "glass jars holding vegetables suspended in the liquid labor of Grandma's love." I realize I am doing an exegesis of your poem and not pointing to any poetics. BUT I notice them like the susurration of "spiraling surges spiritual embrace" or the allits in "theurgic thick trails". Jana, I'm so caught up in your saga about the cave, I don't care about the formation of letters, if you get what I mean. I'm not saying they don't work or anything negative but that your story in the poem enchants me so I care about nothing but the scenes so neatly unfolding. You wonder about the presence of the Goddess as a "lyrical stream" forms which produces wondrous sounds of euphony and symphony. And here is the loveliest phrase of all for me: "singing the song of creation to my soul." Ah, exquisite. Thereafter, you gather energy on your left side, power on your right. With utilization of this power, a door appears for you, a door with magical symbols, and a jewel-encrusted handle. It opens easily to your touch. Still in dream-state, you walk through the portal into "other lifetimes and future fancy." This satisfies me as reader that you reached a door, a magical door, created for you that will lead you to other times, other fancy fantasies: a reward akin to heavenly realms. It also leaves the way clear for a subsequent poem. We are supposed to keep our critiques short and my health and strong meds interfer with my reviewing well. But if my critique is less than quality, I adore your poem and the mystical regions only a few can enter or write about. Better than before, Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-07-30 14:08:28
NIRVANA	Robert L Tremblay	Robert: It's good to see your return. I rarely read the forum but last month, it was agreed that all critiques be brief. Since everyone gets a 10, it's made a joke of a review and its worth. I'm pleased you have posted a poem I may come close to understanding. Not all members have your intelligence and talent and no one wants to appear foolish. An inspirational poem with ebullient liguistry, perfectly rhymed and metered. I would call that an outstanding performance in itself. I find one slant rhyme in Stanza 1 and I think it is an accidental swap of "words" and "beware". In S2, you/speaker tell reader of his timeless spirit, his thoughts sad, regretful, and that it's incidental the length of your life so long as speaker has been faithful to his "passion's vent of earthly paradise beneath the sun." Lovely writing, Robert. My favorite phrases are in S 3: "To show the process of a mortal rhyme Condensed upon mathematical strands." You elaborate your journey which is primarily one of a missionary, bringing the words of truth to all men. It is a cold and lonely sojourn, it seems, but you are a staunch believer in enlightenment. This is my take on what you have written and I hope I'm not in left field. Your final stanza delivers the epiphany. Modern man should be grateful because the Word has been delivered to all. "For earnestly I pray that you've been shown That being is precious, one's life here, brief." I find nothing really new but a crisp, unique way of saying the same words. That artistic tool makes the poem seem newly born, novel, and original to you. What splendid writing to bring the reader to this point of revelation. I think your poem is grand and extend congratulations for this accomplished piece of writing. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-07-29 15:01:29
American Gothic	Edwin John Krizek	Ed: This is lyric poetry at its best and by far my favorite of all your poems I have seen. Perfectly metered with subtle and slant rhymes and although no quixotic, fancy words, a lovely portrait finely drawn. I think the poem itself is quixotic and fanciful as well as a moment of ordinary life. You have chosen couplets which seem perfect for your theme...there may be a name for this form of six couplets with five syllables followed by ten. I'm not well educated about poetry. Your title calls to mind that famous painting of the couple, he with pitchfork, but I cannot recall who painted it. This seems apropos for the quintessential elderly couple, almost part of the American landscape as they walk together, usually hand in hand. (The painter is Grant something). Sunlight, fresh grass, bird song echoing in the breeze. Worn red-brick sidewalk, older couple in their Sunday best. (I've noted, too, that the oldsters tend to dress more formally than even the middle-aged, no matter the occasion). They speak softly about the nature that surrounds them: "pink flower beds blooming bright." Nice alliteration. Your ending is the heart/theme/core of your poem, IMO. "And it seems they have always been here, loving spirits strolling." That was what I was trying to say when I said part of the landscape, only your phrases are poetry. One tiny, picky point, Ed. You say they are strolling (twice), then use the adverb "briskly" to describe their travel. I think of strolling as slow as in meandering, taking their time. "Briskly" can easily be changed to slowly, onward, abreast, smoothly, etc, etc. Very minor and picky point. In toto, this is a winner and all I can say is Bravo! Best, Mell	2004-07-23 19:58:52
Another Battlefield	Wayne R. Leach	Wayne: I normally eschew any poem about war, but your name as poet made me take a look and I'm glad I did. I feel your title belies the heart/core of your poem which I see as a metaphor on the indecipherable nature of war and its futility. Nicely paced lyric poem without meter/rhyme...my favorite...free verse. A quite unique and fresh idea which garners high marks because everything has been written before. I'm certain other poets will tease you as well: while you're walking, leprechauns imitating mushrooms speak with you. Do you consume said mushrooms as part of your communion with nature? Is this the reason your leprechauns have white parachutes? Stanza 2: you lose sight of the paratroopers (leprechaun parachutes) but in this second scene, the mushrooms are the mimes, aping leprechauns. Role reversal which seems to change nothing so I hear from poet that which "side" you're on really doesn't matter, and the frivolous paody of whether to be a mushroom or leprechaun...holds up the mirror to the foolishness and inanity of war. A clever poem by a gifted, talented, veteran poet. What more could we possibly ask of you? Very well done, Wayne. Best wishes, (Mrs.)Mell Morris	2004-07-23 12:54:10
Hanging at Home	Mick Fraser	Mick: Apparently hanging at home brings forth some interesting and peculiar thoughts from your brain. I like that: a person who stays home and muses or ponders. IMO, too many sit in front of the tube, letting someone think for them. Your opening line is an oxymoron if I've ever seen one! It's fine by me that you opine that hypothetical situations are real, but what about your ensuing statements? Are they true/real or hypothetical? I think the purpose of the 1st stanza is to tell us the setting...Chicago...the prime example or quintessential environmentally-impacted city. Chicago made it on the stockyards or likely wouldn't exist and with the market and processing, came the odious smells. (I may be missing your point..I used to live near Chicago...and to me, it will always mean Marshall Fields, the el, and the blues). S 3 tackles directly the politics of the city...the righteous evil-mongers who strike a bargain and therafter do not have to follow EPA regs. Chicago has always lacked political integrity IMO, the same as Louisiana with the Longs, and in Texas, every street corner spawns more political corruption. I really like your metaphor: "spun into swirls of political peanut butter." Your final stanza says to me that it's time for Mother's old remedies: castor oil and milk of magnesia and other purges thought to cleanse the body of impurities. While you perform purification rituals, the ads on TV promote salad spinners. Very effective linguistry here and throughout your poem, especially the contrasts you point out. Or I should say, paradoxes upon which you focus the light of exposure. Your last two lines made me laugh out loud. Taking a swing at one of our Southern good-ole'-boys. His name Jim-Bob tells us all we want to know about him. Poor old bow-legged rube just doesn't get it and rube that I am, I don't get a lot of things either. A symbol of time passing him by and initially funny, it is a sad commentary on the times in which we live. You've done a fine job here with a seemingly light-hearted poem but reading between the lines, I think you address some vital concerns about the condition of human life. Please let me know how far astray I nay have wandered as I am burning with curiosity. I have no suggeastions for change and find your poem well created or written. I already see the growth in reviewing your prior submissions. Kudos! Best wishes, Mell	2004-07-19 18:00:56
Crystalline Life Collage	Robert Wyma	Robert: I remember your name from some time ago when I first joined...three years in June. Your title caught my eye as this reminds me of my niece who is a "rock hound" and especially in the quartz/crystal category. With your permission, I would like to give her a copy of your poem. For me, your poem could be a metaphor for many things...a collection of all the meaningful bits and pieces that have impacted your life with good or negative outcomes. You have some grand phrases and your imagery of the crystalline fragments which are sharp and sting you much as the world has done is brilliant. For me, it is in examining these rocks, you define yourself and reveal your innermost self but not without a great deal of pain in the process. Your opening lines are arresting: "Quiet reflection upon the losses riding in imaginations wash..." This is splendid linguistry, Robert. You blend this with stinging emotional pain and the great metaphorical "strings of moments", producing internal rhyme and profundity of thought. This is followed by one of the most harmonic phrases ever read: " coherent collected effects intersecting (upon)* consciousness and final acceptance..." The consonant hard C sound provides a lilt and you have six words with same so it sounds as a symphony to my ears. I marked "upon" as you use it in line two and it is picky to suggest another word...I just point to the option of so doing. (A minscule matter). We are supposed to keep our crits brief and I do not believe I can improve your poem in any way but I continue to want to point out the words/ideas that captivate me. For example: "lashing violently against the defiant walls of expectation and regret..." Herein you limn a universal concept that applies to all humans and especially resounded a note with me. Towards the ending, you set the fragments "in sandy silt-laced wreckage". Since you have not previously referred to any ship wreaks and it's too late to introduce a new concept, I assume "wreckage" is figurative, not literal. Your ending is as graceful as the poem. After speaker tells us what can/may befall the crystal bits, what they accomplish by merely being, poet's comment is: "sun warmed and glistening in the glory of change that unveils the inner place where one truly lives." Almost as if the bits of crystal (and our inner self) are flowers, opening and revealing all to the sun. Such a satisfactory ending to a poem in which i invested myself, time-wise and emotionally. With this voice you've acquired (or always had), I hope you will stay at TPL and post other gems like this exquisite piece. Bravo! Mell Morris	2004-07-17 15:20:01
Nocturnal Fantasy	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: I missed the original sonnet but for what is it you aim with couplets of varying meter and changing accent? Perhaps a lyrical poem and no wasting time on format? I write free verse so from meter and rhyme, I could care less albeit I have learned a great deal at TPL about pacing and rhythm and poetic devices. The construction is important to me as it seems like the skeleton or framework upon which you hang your words. In "Nocturnal Fantasy", you use antiquainted language with doth and o'er twice and so forth and that is not my personal cuppa tea as I favor post-modern poetry. However there are likely ka-zillions of people who adore dost and thy and lo! This is a plangent paean to your lost love for whom you mourn and it seems you search for him at "nooday", S4, line 1, but your ending confuses me so I must be reading this bass-ackards. First of all, I cannot determine if this is a day-long period of time as you begin with "Beyond dawn" a storm is brewing and soon birds will be stirring. You continue that you search at noon (I had to tease you on nooday) and that when there's no storm, you "drift in vain." "Mourning" winds is a nice play on morning and winds are pouring into the sea. (I think you can find crisper descriptions than "billowing" and also "crimson rays"). So now it is sunset and the storm returns to unfurl over the slumping sun. (Slanting? Sloping? Sagging? Surrendering? Slippery?) Then you tell us soon you embrace your nightly fantasy. Is it only I, an obsessive/ compulsive person who nits to this degree or hasn't leared to tell time? Then the next part of my confusion: the ultimate line says you will stay your quest for your departed loved one. Does this mean you will continue your mourning via fantasy? That is quite an individual choice, of course; I just wasn't sure I got it right, and it seems to fill you with anguish. I like "broomy lea" as that conjures up meadows covered in broomweed. I am personally curious which words you liked so much you couldn't toss them, if that's not too rude to ask. Joanne's poem had winds whispering through the trees...it is becoming that susurrant time of year but I envision Wyoming as windy with frequency. We had a windy June which is unusual but now it's just blooming hot (100*) so I doubt you head this way until autumn. It was so nice to log on and your poem popped up first. That rarely occurs with one of your poems as they are quickly devoured. I enjoyed this one and hopefully I'll be looking through me mate Fred quite soon. Take care and continue to grace the site with your jewels. Best always, Mell	2004-07-16 18:28:26
The Grief of the Return	G. Donald Cribbs	Don: I have been carrying a copy of "The Grief" for two days, hoping I would comprehend more fully by the process of osmosis. During the time I communed with your poem, I searched for "The Quest" with no luck. Have you ever moved while infirm and most of your possessions are books? I hope not for you'll never find the fare you want when wanted. I did get further acquainted with Wright by finding a number of his poems in anthologies. I think everyone knows "Lying in a Hammock" and it holds up well with time, IMO. One simply cannot surpass that last line of his! Sorry, I divagate. Your poem is wonderfully constructed which is part of its charm. The pacing, rhythm, end rhymes (especially the slant rhymes), similes, metaphoric phrases...I could easely delineate your poetics for a lengthy critique. The tone is noir by use of words such as dusky, dim, grieving, shadow, dark, shudder, and so forth and it seems endless, these terms, making the (this) reader more melancholy with each line. This sadness seems to emanate from poet/ speaker as well. I have no suggestions for improvement so I shall cite the bits I especially like. "...begin to buckle in, ashamed." & "his shadow distended by dark waters..." & "staring down shadows". You use "shadow" twice within three lines so you might change to "penumbral places, etc, etc." Very picky detail. "...Tossing inland seagulls" & my favorite "waging unwieldy fielded currents". The "B" allits in the next line are notably effective. The denouement begins with the first line of stanza 4 and the epiphany comes with line 4, the epistemology of life itself or certainly that of the speaker. "A life lost in stasis" will stay with me, Don; that is a unique, marvelous turn of phrase. I enjoyed this enormously and envy your talent to come out of "a season of writer's block" with this accomplishment. It will be on my wee list (I rarely have much v.p.) and rather than heaping more encomium, I shall say: Bravo! Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-07-13 18:01:25
A Poem Is. . .	Joanne M Uppendahl	LL: The 1st 'ars poetica' I've seen from you and dedicated to your friend. I cannot miss this one! Free verse with all your poetics at their peak. In fact, I would call this a song because your choice of words creates a symphony. Your allits are strong and coupled with the internal rhymes and assonance, my foot is patting. Frankly, dear one, I don't much care for the "lance a boil" opener but I'm too fastidious and a true poem can lance with the best of needles/scapels. But then: "a pen to draw a lily's face. It's a wedding rite" ...I like the pen to write the rite... "silk and prayers" are rustling in my head "a paper whisper whistling through woods of wind..." So sweetly sibilant does your whisper whistle in the windy woods. Excellent, imperial enchantress. Following the soft rite and concomitant whispers, you quickly segue to the consonantal crunching of crabapples by deer and the twig-tweaking by someone (thing) unseen The juxtaposition is perfect. Stanza 2, please remove the "maybe" for you deftly show us the truth of your simile; the water down the drain is a sucking-singing or a swirling-song or a snortle-tune... but song it is. Likewise the coursing of blood through the veins. Musical? I cannot account for others' blood flows but yours, Rick's and mine sing. Yours is a harmonious alto, Rick's a mellow cabaret singer (I'm alluding to the Tony Bennett/Neil Diamond variety), mine a torch singer with a treble (and a drawl). Poets are one with green fields, so no quarrel there. BTW, nice internal rhyming in S 2. And your coda is dancing Rick, leaping through pages of poetry, "heart beating, breaking like waves". Loveliest simile but oh-so-sad if his heart is breaking to the song as does mine and I'm sure many other persons'. Then after all this high emotion, poet brings us back home from the dizzying heights she has taken us and a poem is nature, the natural world where beavers create music by slapping their tails on the pond. Oh, so exquisite, Joanne! The only thing I would change beside deleting "maybe" is that because I'm OCD, I want each stanza to have the same number of lines. I'm getting on my own nerves now and we are supposed to keep it brief (which I love). A Poem Is a Brown Study of Other Poets. Wonderful poem, LL. Brava and an armful of lilies. Nekk	2004-07-12 19:08:27
I Am Fred Chapter 1V	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: I finished my response to your review of "Portrait" and found Round Four with that charmer himself, Fred. This poem doesn't pace the story line in quite the spirited manner of the first three which may indicate you are nearing the end of the first Fred series. S1, line 2, I would change "thee" to "thy." Otherwise, splendid beginning. S2, line 1, I would change "said" to "asked" or queried or questioned as I would reserve the "saids" for Fred and use other verbs for yourself such as line 4 herein. I know how you loathe punctuation but you really need something after "flee". The play of bird-witted and cat-footed made me laugh out loud...very rare for me. Line 3, S 3, I would change "said" to "pled." Stanza 4, line 1, I might change "said disquieted" to "Gently goaded." With this ending, you've left your readers dangling, wanting to know where Fred goes and if he returns...so you must give us closure...or go on forever until he bores you. I don't think I would ever tire of Fred myself! Not sure if this helps any but it's obvious you have well developed the character of charming Fred, his accent, his eccentricities. And all quite well written in the process. I think Fred has great possibilities and could well be published as part of a children's reading program. There are artists and illustrators who will provide sketches just for the byline and further exposure. Most of all, I hope you will not abandon him and see this idea to completion. Another installment of enchanting Fred. well depicted. Best always and more later, Mell	2004-07-11 18:12:42
The Desert Wind	sheryl ann minter	Sheryl: I see why this poem is running so well in the race. Lyrical, strong imagery that take the readers with you into "The Desert Wind." Replete with metaphor and simile, the heart of poetic techniques, you also use alliteration and all the other linguistry which satisfies me as reader. My favorite line is: "Pink clouds run atop the mountain peak". The plosive p casts an audio appeal and after your brook roars, your dog howls, and your trains sing, you give us: "Stacks of silos scattering barns". This is a wondrous descriptor/metaphor but you employ six sibilant sounds: ssssssssssss, composing an euphonic delight for our ears. We are supposed to keep our critiques very brief so I will merely say congratulations on writing this accomplished piece at TPL. Brava! Mell Morris	2004-07-07 18:24:24
Gambling on Mermaids	Thomas Edward Wright	T.: You've always given brief and pithy reviews but for me, my pithiness flees without all those long words behind which to hide. However, I mentioned mermaids to you not long ago and I can only assume the notion took hold and has been festering in your innards ever since. Introductory comment aside, your 1st stanza captures some lovely imagery: "sun slides from sensible day into troubling night" and "throw poems into into the green ocean, hoping to hear tales of daring mermaids." This comes across as adventuresome and romantic but stanza 2 finds you bearing an albatross to India and then the non sequitur of being able to see the baby cubs of Ursa Major. That is quite original and unique, T., even for you! It is apparent to the reader that you are more brilliantly imaginative when stoned. Stanza 4, line 1, "wanting some peace" seems a bit plebeian for the poem. I suggest "longing for" or another phrase. I was mentally preparing my green-sequinned mermaid costume and I would leave a slit so "Twisted Sisters" would show but if unicorns are in that shape (!) and your boat is rotting, I'll have to pass. I like your ending of this could be brief, who kows? "It's whispered mermaids will call from the sea." Bravo! Best wishes, Most pithiless. You have concocted a savory brew here and while most likely wide of the mark, I enjoyed the poem more than most.	2004-07-02 19:17:30
Fractals of Fear	Lynda G Smith	Lynda: Nice alliterative title which teases one to find the meaning herein. To find a perfectly-executed lyric poem is rare these days, especially in the poetics of meter/rhyme. Stanza 1 tells the reader that speaker is silent and still, her mind shrouded in darkness. The foes who would have such affect are interesting especially when even speaker's muse "caters blind." .....Quite clever. The fear goes deeply into your soul and you continue to instill a noir feeling in the readers. An adversary of wordplay pressing your mind into anguish and "beads of sweat...track the salt down to my lips." This is indeed someone to fear as foe. In S 3, line 2, do you need "down"? You have options: "saline trails", for example, and keep your meter. A very minor point. Stanza 4 is my favorite because you use geometric terms with nine sibilant sounds as if to indicate the rarity of what you speak...in whispers. "In a wilderness of chaos fractaled beauty in the wait." Simply exquisite and for a mind in darkness, this is delectable fare. The final stanza tenders a ray of hope. My take is that when sensory elements meld with pure will, inspiration will expatriate the fear. I rank this poem high on my list because it is intellectual and causes reader to think. Metaphysical elements at play herein and the entire piece trembles with beauty. Congratulations for this accomplished poem and for sharing it with us. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-06-30 17:44:34
After the Coda	Thomas Edward Wright	T.: The few times I'm out of bed, I try to get the news and it's sad that Gary's time is short. He was the first member to point out my errors (which I thought were stern comments) but we e-mailed our disagreement to a melding of spirits, if not minds. Your first two stanzas bring those memories back and how he never held a grudge. Even after a meeting with his "iron mind", he was quick to e-mail and say he hoped he stepped on no one's toes. "His world matters. Honesty is the leader Of his valiant band As good as we are When he is leading The March, are we?" T.: your next two stanzas herald this remarkable man, his interest in music, peace, injustice, and his fearless approach to the world, no matter the darkness which tries to prevade us all. Your nine words following "What would you do?" are superlative. Your elegy stands with some of the finest written through the ages. "And begin again to tell the tale Of that space, just after the comma, Just before the next breath, There - and then." The artistry here brings tears. I did not care about your metaphors, litotes, allits... but instead, the message you tendered to Gary (and to anyone in that situation). Pathos of a genuine poet, a tenderness which has to be earned and learned over many years. We are learning a great deal about TEW when he writes of others or offers elegies such as these. Exquisite. Mell	2004-06-27 17:13:57
INSIDE MY HEAD	Michael N. Fallis	Michael: I've not seen your poetry before today but I've been out a lot myself. Happy you are here if your poems are anything like this one. Great title: "Inside My Head"....making me hopeful of a metaphysical journey. Stanza2, you ruminate about getting all the message, all the musings, the bits, the regrets contained in one small space. Sometimes it's worthy material that must be cast aside and sometimes. it is a sentence here, phrases there that burst and you feel a zero. S4, line 3: no apostrophe in its. And you wind down with: I wonder in my twilight Why my head has not yet burst As I drink in every tidbit With a never-ending thirst. Your epiphany in the final stanza is sweet as the focus being on how much you thought you knew at eighteen when the common question is what is there. I hope I got this correct. Your poem can be interpreted in diverse ways, using differing formats but I like the one you chose. This is quite appealing to me and the poet obviously does a lot of thinking on the state of the universe. I hope to find more of same. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-06-25 17:19:12
The Wall	Jana Buck Hanks	Jana! I haven't been on line much but have been wondering where you went. So glad to see your name pop up on a poem! I like the new short critiquing as I think more people will comment. You cast an eerie spell with your tribute to the Viet Nam wall and since that war profoundly affected my life, your poem brings tears. You deftly delineate this scene: tracing his initials in the granite, "looking for life in sweet memories." S 3 tells the reader of the playing of Taps and how apropos for your friend lived twenty-one years. All of your memories bring anger, angst, sorrow, the still-fresh memory of his death and burial. This suggests a very special relationship and therby more deep feelings for the death of your friend, So evocative, Jana, I give five stars and a standing ovation. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-06-24 16:29:51
The Hive	Molly Johnson	Molly: I haven't seen a poem of yours in forever and it is always a pleasure to see your name on my list. Your title suggests that the subject will be about hymenopterous critters and their home; especially their home. Having read the poem, I find it a metaphor for a busy, thriving, bustling home, seen through the eyes of a barren woman or one whose children are grown and gone. We have agreed to do shorter crits (hooray) so I won't point to all your poetics but they are duly noted. The 1st stanza is lovely and alluring...I want to read on because those six lines are wonderful. More babies: robins, deer...the imagery deftly drawn. The only change needed is to remove the apostrophe from "its" from S2, line 4. Final stanza delivers the epiphany: no children in this home. And the bees, a thriving hive of honey-soaked children in the rafters of my home, steal away the need for my house (and me) to hum with children of its own." The linguistry is exquisite, Molly. I can easily imagine the way the bees have hived in a cone shape, hanging from something old, perhaps a coat rack. And the grand humming to which you return...after the 1st stanza. I can hear this. My father raised bees as a hobby and he was fascinated by their behavior. And the honey they made from the clover of the fields had a taste I've not encountered before nor since. Your poem is an accomplishement of writing, lyrical and professional from a true poet. I enjoyed every syllable and hope to see more in the future. Brava! Best wishes, Mell	2004-06-24 15:41:36
Shadows of Youth	Edwin John Krizek	Ed: Nice to encounter another of your poems. I am relieved that the members have opted for shorter crits; this way, I may see more poems and not use so much of my time with one. Your opening lines include a fine simile of the world as a fully- blooming tree. My maples never bloom but do turn magical colors in the fall. Your next sentences employ alliteration with the p sound. I especially like: "the music of life pulsing through endless iterations of notes." During youth, you say everything was new and exciting; there was something special in everything. And then we learn a bit of cynicism, become jaded, everything's been done before. You look back and find you were "supercilious and trite". I think it's more a naivte than superciliousness or then again, maybe we all suffer the arrogance of youth. IMO, the parentheses do not add but distract. "Out of time and place my memories linger; hovering over my middle-aged head like a halo." Lovely ending, an epiphany of sorts, for it was the memories of your youth that put the halo on your head. From cliche to blessing. One of the ways we grow and become more self-actualized. To learn from history is not over-rated and certainly rare when we look at this country's history. And yet, that is what you achieve herein. Ergo, a lyric poem with a plethora of wisdom. Very nicely accomplished. My best, Mell	2004-06-19 15:42:02
On the Character of Climbing Vines	Joanne M Uppendahl	LL: Just read your pith-less posting on the forum. Thank you, thank you! Reading the title piques my curiosity...what do vines have in common? They scale upward, seem to produce tendrils to abet their ascent, some have berries or grapes or flowers and then I thought how much I've always loved the sound of "liana." That led me to ivy covering so many venerated bldgs, the Halls of Ivy, and Ivy Leaague. Stanza 1 tells us poet sees ivy as reckless, growing without heed or caution. I like the phrase "not accepting caution--no, you simply conquer corners." And I realized vines are all about corners and angles, much less deterred nor delayed by their steep rise. So much harmony and allits and poetics in every line; magical in description. To find ivy gone would bring tears...such tenderness displayed here. The simile is grand: the ivy slides down the sides of the buildings like melted butter. Summer heat. Which segues to the ivy's first red taunt of season's change then softens the snow glow so bricks can breathe. Nice allit but is that true? Autumn and winter are not the seasons for your climbing vines, per your account. Your last stanza gallops across the screen to announce the arrival of profligate spring, its extravagant greenness, birds and wind, and of course, always rain. Poet sees her vines as accepting their lives in all seasons, never defeated but suitably clinging to life. As do we all. A metaphor for life, for acceptance of its vagaries, to put down strong and sturdy roots with the announcement of an undefeated resolve to continue each season we are granted (and my own addition of gratitude for one more spring.) This is tender, filled with pathos and optimistic joy at the same time. I truly needed to hear this poem today. You cast magic with this exquisite writing. A winner, Best wishes, Your Wanna-be Nekk	2004-06-18 20:26:54
Tree Forting	G. Donald Cribbs	Don: Quite clever the title although I've not heard it before, I knew immediately what you meant. Put boys and trees together and they will erect forts against the foe. (I was quite the tree child myself when young). You've contrived some grand lines herein, you have metaphor, alliteration, assonance, etc, etc. However, once more, your format drives me off the page which is where my printer took it. I assume the couplet and tercet are favored by the poet but one cannot help but wonder how this would look in, say, tetrameter. It would tighten the piece and I think you want it big and sprawling like your fields, valleys, trees, etc. Couplet one is lovely with the rime and the steps to the treeline "borders blanketed by branch arms." Simply exquisite alliteration to paint the picture as you segue to stanza 2...tree arms spired against the dawn sky. Whoa!! I got ahead of myself, Don. When I find an appealing poem, it's as if I launch into orbit. Congratulations for last month's win. I told you I was smitten with it, printed and carried it with me. I still do. I regret I lacked the stamina to comment on several poems. Back to our forting: "I clamber up walnut and oak all morning feeling twice my height with the earth below, *just out of reach.* Then at noon, cool grasses reach to embracethe speaker's limbs and the sun leaves a kiss on the poet's cheek. You limn this so deftly, I see the wind thru the high grasses, the child running from tree to tree, and if we could but one minute be in this young man's mind! Then you smoothly move the reader with you as you imagine how it will be for your son. The phrase most appealing to me: "boyish dreams far too idyllic for this earth." Closely followed by the theme of the poem and its epiphany: "he will feel the weight of the sky pressing each of us against the earth, as if gravity wasn't enough to remind us we weren't meant to fly." Outstanding! and sets up your closing. I note you use "earth" twice in Stanza 5 and did not know if deliberate. A miniscule point, anyway. The very lovely musing: "what dreams hold him fast to this world, keeping him from leaping back up in the dust of sky where he came like a glimpse inside heaven." That last line resonates like a tuning fork and is as close to perfection as it gets. Oh, that wonderful feeling when you (any poet) know you nailed it, that it is quintessential to the poem. This poem reminds me ofone of the masters but I can't get it. You have lovely, lyrical Frostisms but without his bleakness or noir tone. I have been rumbling thru some of my books but it eludes me. All I can say is this is the simplistic creating the spectacular and I greatly enjoyed the read. Another winner! Best wishes, Mell	2004-06-13 18:31:53
A Tribute	Sherri L Smith	Sherri: I copied this so I will always have it. Thanks for bringing my attention to it. I'm almost positive this critique won't go thru as TPL has been "acting up" several days. This poem wasn't on my list but after waiting about ten minutes, I got it on All Users. The sentiment expressed here squeezes my heart and hurts my soul. Oh, if everyone felt as you do. "A Tribute" is the perfect title. I like in Stanza 2, that you point out that WWI is e history lesson for us as no one our age could possibly remember. Stanza 3, a little tweak, WWII, never WW2, and they didn't fight "in another country", they fought in other countries. They saw action in Germany, France, Italy, England, Japan...the whole South Pacific. Stanza 4 is so true and makes me cry. The marines at the Chosin Resevoir, the days in torturous rain and mud with no shoes left. Many lost feet and legs but felt lucky they didn't lose their lives. You know how Stanza 5 will hit me (where I live) and I will share your poem with Col G., if you don't object. You do a superb job in the following stanza (6) and your linguistry is excellent. "You are volunteers...in the midst of a "Storm."" Sherri, your closing stanza is evocative wherein you thank all vets. "Serving with pride", those currently in harm's way, you likewise thank. You tell the soldiers that you send your prayers and to "serve with honor and dignity" as those who came before. I hope this was one of your many pieces published as it is a very important piece of writing. Of course, your theme hits home with me and will to many others if they get the opportunity to read it. Thank you so much for postinbg and telling me about it. Brava! Best wishes and kudos! Mell	2004-06-06 17:08:51
Dawning	Nancy Anne Korb	Nancy: I've not seen your poetry before so if you're new, welcome and if I have bypassed you in the ago, I'm happy to review your poem and many more to come. I like your title and find it most fitting after reading your poem about darkness. Dawning also has the connotation of not merely the sun rising but finding enlightenment. Your format interests me: a lyric poem with rhymes at the ends of three lines, then other rhymes for the next tercet. Your meter varies and read aloud, the pacing sounds spot on. I will make minor suggestions which is part of the critique process: for all poets to try and help each other. Of course, you are free to disregard any comment or suggestion with which you don't agree. I copy out portions of your poem to help me get the meaning from every line. (I need to learn to cut and paste). Like a snail darkness crept Rearing its slimy head Then back to its portable bed. Wending its horrible way, Allowing nothing to say, Day after miserable day. Interesting simile that darkness is slimy as a snail's head raised, then back to his bed he carries on his back, as it were. This darkness is ominous as it allows you no words, keeps you silent day after day. What is its power that keeps you silent as it wends its horrible way? As I continue to read, I see poet is describing childhood and darkness is very frightening for children. And it appears there are other children with speaker who must be siblings. Stealing the promise of happiness, Pain suspended, unexpressed, Shadows and so used to less. The cold freeze of winter took hold in our hearts, Emptiness learned from a young life in parts, Never allowing our childhoods* to start. *No apostrophe needed. Your rhymes continue to be perfect and the imagery of night and cold is evocative. Such misery for these children who are becoming accustomed to deprivation. The line that really sparked with me: "so used to less." Your delineation of the cold taking hold of the children's hearts is so terrible and sad. Emptiness and the lack of any comfort in their lives is painful to read/hear. You have used the word "allowing" twice in eight lines; you might want to change one to permitting, letting, etc. Your poem's theme is actually child abuse, an unforgiveable state of affairs. Not permitted to have a childhood which each and every child deserves. Like enemies in battle, choosing (up) sides, ....do you need "up"?.... Seeking the strongest to hide behind, The ones who should love us, (so) very blind. ....do you need both adverbs? Deletion evens meter.... Till growth gave us freedom, Life bade us (to) come, ....do you need "to"? And try to forget where we'd all come from. Grand ending but very difficult to attain and maintain...the forgetting of childhood miseries. Abuse such as you deftly detail leaves a scar. That's not to say we can't go on, mend and grow from the experiences, but forgetting will take a lifetime to achieve. I have reacted quite strongly to your poem which is indicative of a well-written piece, otherwise I would have little response. You grow up and can move away from your "very blind" parents or care-givers but that leaves a plethora of years to suffer. I liked your comment of trying to find someone larger to hide behind. Typical of a child and of the theory of survival of the fittest. This is an acutely noir theme and you have given it life by your linguistry. It is also an important topic, seen too frequently in the news, and the more we learn about it, perhaps more action can be taken to rid society of monster parenting. Your poem speaks loudly with a few words, effectively delivered. This is a fine endeavor and one of which you can be proud. Thank you for posting it at TPL and I hope to see more of your fine writing. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-05-29 16:18:48
Condensation	Mark Andrew Hislop	Mark: I will likely fall wide of the mark again; my last misinterpretation was indeed embarrassing. The title is no help as there are so many diverse meanings of the word. Initially, I thought of it in the sense of something written in compact style. The Reader's Digest Condensed Books but with the bathroom imagery, I assume it refers to water vaporizing to steam as it does in a bathroom. Then you refer to graffiti on walls therein in sharp contrast to the poetry with which you begin the poem:: In the matter of a word or two, They tap themselves along On finger-fibers that can channel the cosmos, I'll flesh out a miracle. First, flesh yourself in a page Of this portable white bathroom Scrabbed with black roman tiles. Gently rinse your eyes in this ink. Then with a familiar sting you'll see it: Your face, splashed across a nirror. Finger-fibers that can channel the cosmos are significantly powerful and the poet is leaning toward giving them free rein. Therefore, I think this is about composing a poem or reading poetry from a true-depth approach. I get this notion largely from your ending couplet and your singular ending line. It's as if you face the poem so directly, you get ink in your eyes, feel the stinging of the poem's import. Thus with blurred vision you see your face in condensation on the mirror. I did as you requested in looking at this poem but it's a bit arcane for me. I tend to be too literal and do not do well with symbolism of post-modern poetry. I can admire the intellect that contrived this piece, I understand every word written but the real meaning teases and skitters away. Mark, I suspect you are too sophisticated and adept for me to unravel your more complex pieces. However, I greatly enjoy reading your poetry but do better with the less abstract ones. Let me know how far off I strayed this time. Best wishes, Mell	2004-05-27 18:44:25
Hush, The Young Bird Sings Once More	Joanne M Uppendahl	Dear and exalted laureate: I'm going to fudge a little as you said I could. I do not know how to cut and paste (I despise admitting my computerial limitations) so how about a few phrases copied? Your title is best! I wonder how you know it is a "young" bird. Knowing you and your love of avian beings, you likely can discern from the tone, reach, trill, whatever. This is so beguilingly simple but lovely and de profundis. First and second stanzas copied. Your poem could be a metaphor for many things for which we search: grace, divinity, flowers, rivers, etc. Of course, I always relate your metaphors to your search for union with the spirit of your lost loved one. It really doesn't matter if we readers know and the possibilities are deliberately left open by the poetess, IMO. I like all the "ing" sounds, your simile of the waterfall, the alliterative pause/plants, the assonance of water/pause. But most of all, I like your standing "at the rim" which makes me think of crater but more importantly, you stand at the edge or border. A nice place to start any endeavor...at the rim. Your enjambment throughout the four tercets is clverly executed. No one does jump-rhyme or enjambment as effectively as you. Your simile of memory in tercet two is striking and more so because of the slant rhyme: spring/scenes. You've painted a beautiful scene even if there were no emotion. A woman wearing a pastel color stands at the edge of her garden, wide-brimmed hat with a ribbon, gloves, basket, perhaps shears somewhere near. A sunny day with little spuffs of clouds scudding past and the elusive song she longs to hear. You want to communicate with the bird, tell him you await his song, that he is special to you and you want him to remember you are in or at the rim of your garden, especially for his song. I hope you will receive the gift of his appearance but if not, you already know he has been sent to sing for you and that will have to suffice. The spareness here is wonderful and I applaud its accomplishment. I've not done justice to your lovely creation. I'll just say Brava! You've dome it again. Best always and ever, Mell	2004-05-27 17:12:16
Heaven on earth	Mark Andrew Hislop	Mark: You have me flummoxed here; how does one go about interpreting this glib, in-the-moment piece when it is so far removed from my life? I find it intriguing and although I will likely miss the intent by miles, I hope you will share your import. "Heaven on earth" is something decidedly special so your theme is about happiness and feeling good, as they say in the smart set. My take is that your poem is a paean to sex without unnatural interference with the pleasure. Or a praise of sex without the prophylactics. Not often enough it grabs your balls and then you feel the true pain of seeing stars and what they really mean. Men have told me that gonad grabbing is quite painful but here it is an affirmative experience, one that occurs without frequency but causes the poet to see stars and understand them. That is one helluva orgasm. So fall down, fuck you, get welded into the image. Don't flatter from above saying "how lovely" when it's finally time to drop your dacks and take the piss. Thanks for the explanation of dacks. I've not heard the word before. The language gets stronger in the second stanza and it is clear that poet is obnoxed and irritated with the other person in the sexual congress. Stop fooling around and get with the effing program is what I hear being said. Anger is strong in every line of the poem. Poet/speaker is vowing to behave in a certain manner, defiant of the safe-sex rules, and he has allowed the behavior of the times to rouse his wrath. (By the bye, I never assume poet/speaker is the actual narrator or writing his own view in a poem). One phrase in this stanza is of particular appeal: "Get welded into the image." I will deny my words no more. ...Nice use of litotes... I will strip the bastards and rape them rip them of their shrink- wrapped transparent prophylactic that keeps out this opaque world. The world must infect me, there is no more room for fear. The longer I read and reread, the more certain I feel that this wresting of the rubbers is symbolic. Of what, I'm unsure. Perhaps those who cloak their true identity? Those who remain closeted? I think the speaker expresses his frustration with the situation of disease transmittal and the manner in which it is being treated. "There is no more room for fear" is quite strong and poignant. Henceforth I will fuck my fear without reservation. The closing stanza says to me that speaker in future will act spontaneously and not bother with preparation or advance armming, if you will. This disease has been such a killer to so many grand people and I relate to speaker's cynical attitude as he has likely lost close ones to the illness. Ergo, I assume the poem is TIC, an irony, a use of hyperbole to shine the light on the problem. I hope this is so and not the risky business speaker avows. However, since I have likely misinterpreted the intent here (a major embarrassment), the poet may be discussing congering or eeling. In any event, I enjoyed the poem as I do all your poems I've seen. This is raw, to the point, no dallying with poetics...just state the message of apparent importance to the poet. This is a brave piece so I salute you and offer "Bravo!" Do take care. Best wishes, Mell	2004-05-25 15:44:20
The Defining Moment	Thomas Edward Wright	T.: I just now saw this poem and I am even rolling my eyes. There are some inside references and I doubt members will comprehend your loving tribute. I recommend a few minor adjustments for clarity's sake: The fat one in Houston is my sister although she lives near Dallas and she is the slinky one. All else is accepted as encomium from your heart. Your heart throbs with Texan sentiment...you as well as those west Texas cowpokes know the beauty and allure of a big-boned woman. My heart actually skipped a beat (PVC's) when I read my favorite adjective: fuliginous. But I think you are taking this too far and I don't want you to go public. I have a friend in Hawaii who will translate for me but I cannot call now as he's asleep. Oh, how I long to know every nuance of your mumu bobo. (Shouldn't kiki-bobo be hyphenated?) And the highest tribute of all in the closing stanza about my fuliginous humor. You are the sole person in my life to have said that of me and while it's a bit over-the-top, I feel in the presence of a friend with vatic powers. T., I will print this panegyric, enlarge the size, and frame it. I have the perfect spot for hanging: above my desk. I have out-of-town relatives coming to visit next week and I'll have my son get it ready before their arrival. I'll admit my pride in "The Defining Moment" and want to share this eulogy with others. What can I possibly say? Thank you, T. This is a moment I'll never forget. Fuliginous herself, Twisted	2004-05-23 11:43:06
Skylark	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: I have no clue as to what will emante from that pen of yours next! I am certain Shelley is smiling down on you. "To A Skylark Hail to thee, blithe spirit!" You also use "soaring" and "float" and "sunken" and "shrill delight" and that's all I can remember. This is really a tribute to Shelley and I love poems that are paeans to other poets. I really like the couplet arrangement with the end rhymes, unmetered, but the repetition of "Soars Skylark" became tedious for me after about the third time. I think to pare it to every two couplets, after four lines, would give the three (in lieu of six) interjections more power. My humble opinion, of course. Blithe of spirit and light of wing Aloft in powered blue a melody to sing Upon the sunken sun or bloom of day On a puff of pampero floating with fay Wafting with voice of shrill delight Neath portly platinum clouds, ere night. Your rhymes are spot on and you again use words not often heard. I read "powdered" blue the first three times. I really like "power" instead to describe the blue sky. You outdo yourself with alliteration...four in this segment I arbitrarily chose. I like puff of pampero but I thought pampero winds occurred only in South America. Of course, your poem may be set in the Andes for all I know. "Fay" is another word I rarely see..."fey" being more common...but I find it highly imaginative that your winds puff then float with elfin magic or charm. You know how I feel about "wafting"...a cliche...so I think you could find a crisper descriptor there. "Smiling with voice" or "persuading" or "sharing" or "thrilling"... the possibilities are unlimited. "Portly platinum clouds" made me smile...it is a perfect picture of obese, fluffed-up cumulus. Brava! Dainty notes of rain with aerial hue Amid swaying flowers in dells of dew In opera of harmonious rapture Among clover in rain-awakened pasture If your spirit is bleak and sun is lost Look to heaven with stars embossed. You have many lovely images...that has become your forte, my friend. "Dainty notes of rain" is purely exquisite as is the description of clover in pasture. Your alliterative "dells of dew" is nice. I like your ending line with embossed stars and the Soar WITH Skylark. I feel certain Shelley would endorse this wondrous tribute to his skylark and I find it another of your "jewels" of nature poetry. I'm sitting here smelling clover in a rain-freshened field which attests to the power of your ability to evoke sensory responses. You indeed have the magic touch of a "Fred" or pixie or genii or genie, Marilyn, and you have lightened this dull, hot Saturday afternoon in Dallas. I continue to be "proud of you" or better-spoken: "happy for the poetry that pours forth." Kudos! Mell	2004-05-22 19:54:26
Summer Rain	Edwin John Krizek	E.J.K.: You posted poems here quite a long time ago but I remember them. Welcome back and perhaps this time you can stay a while longer. I recall previous encounters with your poetry were lovely, lyrical experiences. Your title beckoned my attention as I love rain in summer, a surcease from the dreaded heat (Texas), and as you so aptly write: nuturing. Free verse is also my favorite form in poetry so you already are on a winning track with me. Moss in the gravel marks where bumblebees float like butterflies. Soon the rains will come. Nurturing, life-giving water from heaven will soak the earth where the green leaves grow. I do not cut and paste but like to copy out portions of the text in order to wrap my mind around it. Lovely imagery like "moss in gravel" lends a texture to your view of nature. The alliterative bees/butterflies adds harmony, a quality one wants in a nature poem. I also like the word "float" to modify butterfly and that they "mark the moss" is something I've never heard. Unique and fascinating. Water from heaven (it seems like that, doesn't it?) will bring new life, soaking what I envision as barren, dry ground. I already mentioned nurturing as it is the quintessential descriptor for summer rain. Sensual, sexual jungle outside my front door ....do you need "you live"?... The birds call to each other and to me. I smell the jungle's sweetness as I sit. When I tinker around or rearrange words, you are welcome to ignore these minor inputs but they are what occurred in my brain as I read your poem several times. If I do not find the poem worthy, I do not critique nor offer suggestions. "Sensual, sexual jungle" may be the neatest phrase I've ever read for nature's bounty which surrounds you. Bravo! The birds chatter to each other and include you in their conversation. Quite the lyrical concept. I smell the sweetness of your jungle as you describe it so well. I can even hear the whispering of rain on the leaves as it supports life. Like a curious spider, I invade this space. I do not belong here. But if not here, where? ...This is a sad line.... The old trees know everything. They tell me there is no more destructive animal then man. I enjoyed your simile of being like an invading, curious spider. Perhaps we do not belong there by rights but nature surely is for all to enjoy if they protect and respect their environs. I like the wisdom of the old trees sharing their knowledge with you that man is the greatest destroyer of nature. I, too, am responsible for my brother's mistakes. I kneel in this thicket and pray for forgiveness. The rain washes me clean. Beautiful ending tying all back to your theme of rain. The scene is grand where you kneel in the copse and pray for pardon for spoiling our environment as you take the blame for your brother. That displays more generosity of spirit than I possess. I would not litter nor pick wildflowers but I don't feel at fault for some gallooping redneck who tosses his beer cans out the window. (A big litter problem here). You have a pure spirit and feeling for planet earth. That comes through clearly in your poem which I enjoyed. Kudos for this tribute to mother earth and best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-05-21 19:29:47
Above the Well	G. Donald Cribbs	Don: This is the second of your poems I've reviewed. It's totally apparent that you are talented, experienced, and educated about this business of poetry writing. I hadn't looked at a poem since college (many moons ago) until joining TPL and I'm yet in the larva stage. I'm especially fond of free verse in stanzaic form, that for which you opt herein. Your piece is filled with poetics: allits, assonance, internal rhymes. You have employed my favorite sound...the hard C in almost every stanza. Stanza 5 has 3 such words and stanza 6 has 5 such sounds. Poetry is all about sound for me so I comment on the above as it strikes me as grand euphony. Your beginning quote from John would better serve the reader if framed in two lines in lieu of one that runs off every page, no matter your resolution. Your metaphysical poem lends itself to varied interpretations with a lovely opener: Most days I wander thick fields, watching sharp movements of the pine. I cross the fence through waist-deeo grass, keep pace in underboughs (still) wet with rain. ....do you need the word?... When the storm hits cold stones below my feet smell like wind stirring the water. I especially like line six. Nice assonance with waist/pace/rain. Stanza 2 dazzles with alliteratives. You ask what twitches/tingles your soul but I haven't found the answer. Your simile "hot scraps of desperation" is deftly drawn. Stanza 3 is quite compelling with the branch falling, your runging of it, your battle with your God, and the branch propped against tree and fence becomes your tower of Babel. A "new" Babel...does that mean "new" language? I find it quite apposite and brave to wrestle the Lord for new knowledge/language/ path from the "desperation raging the storm." The divinity to slake your thirst on your spiritual quest. Doesn't get mush richer than that, IMO. A dry thirst pulls (up) from the well an ocean, ....do you need the word?... asking why I seek to sustain myself this way(?). If I spit, I choose faith to wash with. I find the last line of stanza 4 excellent. Your eleven sibilant sounds are effective herein. Is stanza 5 occurring in imagination only? That it is the way it reads to me. By the bye, I like the pattern of hexastich, tercet, quatrain, tercet, quatrain, hexastich. Appealing to my senses, particularly visual. You pose a query in your final stanza which I feel you answer. What do I hope for in the depth of the well? Back to your quote from John, a healing recovery from whatever ails you. I think your answer, too, is the opposite of the crabs' reaction. They scurry away to hide under rocks (rupiculous critters), away from light, new sight. While crouching, you seek the curative powers of the well to provide light, another metaphor for knowledge. You really hold back nothing, poetics-wise: the hard C sounds, the assonance with the long O in hope/ocean/stone/over/, the rhymes of light/sight and weed/need and allits of back/beneath. I usually don't bother pointing out such unless they are done with agility and charm which yours are. What I take from your poem is that you are on a spiritual journey (as many of us) and you use imagery/instances from the bible to depict your progress and occasional encumberance. This is a poem to which I will return many times for its richness of linguistry and because I believe I may find a different import each time I read. An accomplished piece of writing. Bravo! Best, Mell	2004-05-20 16:14:42
I Am Fred (chapter two)	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: I had to find your original (hidden in March offerings) and this one is not on my list so I'm critiquing from the All Viewers. Mercy, you are one popular girl that I have to expend such efforts to find your poetry! (And this is not a "critique" but a look-see, per request. Okay so far?) This would certainly find an audience with children. Who could resist the Cockney Fred Elfkin? Or mayhaps Liverpudlian gnome? Or Irish, etc. In other words, your lil' man is quite appealing, particularly in his speech. That you are in your garden speaking with an elf is no ordinary day but the charm lies in the character you created. I had to read the first poem to get the significance of "Bob" and then enjoyed this neat idea that our leprechaun cannot find his soul mate because of his name. Quite clever! You have perfect pentameter in many of your stanzas in Fred II which makes my ear listen for that same cadence again. Not a negative, merely an observation. Your rhymes are cute and this is not a metered poem and your assonance is quite appealing throughout. I would suggest either no punctuation or complete punctuation, Marilyn. You know how odious I am on grammar/punctuation. You use the word "pate" twice for a rhyme as in addle-pated and twitter-pated so I would change one. Luckily there are kajillions of ate word rhymes. "I fear you shall become ill fated" "I fear you shall be left gate-waiting" or.... use "agitated" from Stanza 4 as it makes no rhyme, and use "I said I fear it" to make the rhyme with spirited. Also Miss Picky here thinks you could do more with "bow-laygged" or "bow-leg-gaited". To further or extend his accent, you might use "me" in lieu of "my". As in "I spied me sprite is most bow-laygged." I find this so charming and imaginative and you certainly cannot stop now! To continue the "Bob" fantasy, he could learn that his sprite wasn't calling him Bob but asking for bob (money). This could easily become a series of children's poems to fill a book. I am serious...I think it a worthy endeavor and I can already imagine the drawings of Fred, the elf without bob. (Couldn't curtsy). If I lost you somewhere in this olio of ideas, e-mail me. Tarradiddle from me but mayhaps something will ring a bell and/or you will be encouraged to continue your Fred Saga. I am hoping you will. Best always, Mell	2004-05-17 17:50:00
Of Flowers, Bees and Meteors	Joanne M Uppendahl	Enchanted Emeritus: This will be brief and it is grand not to have to explain. First, I love this poem starring geraniums but I want the title to be "Blue Tunes At Dusk." That is one of the loveliest phrases you've written to date and as memorable as purple pansies standing in the rain. Some images you create are forever which proves Keats correct about things of beauty. I wish I knew if geraniums are always plants or sometimes veiled angels. Just exquisite. I first envisioned pink/cerise/white veils a la Salome and then I imagined tiny geraniums with their hands folded, wearing purdahs. Little Islamic flowers. Or mantillas. Little Spanish flowers. In the heaven I hope to reach their plump faces surely wait. Heaven/hope/reach...sometimes I must comment despite myself. That their veiled little faces are plump is perfect. Quintessential. I picture them planted all along the sides of the gate where your angel awaits you. Today the gate is opaline, nacreous. Their strong stems, like long leafy arms, rise up and out as if to praise their Maker. Great simile in keeping with my notion of their prayerful attitude. The long A sound in S 3, line 4: praise/Maker produces a sweet chiming of bells. We will ignore the majesty of your allits in lines 1 and 2 and your seven susurrant sounds which are their whispered orations and orisons. They fling sweet-lipped signals to bees and me, sing hot coral hymns at noon, hum blue tunes at dusk. My favorite stanza. Hot/hymn/hum and bees/me...oh, my goodness...it never ends. They don't permeate the air with aroma, they "fling sweet-lipped signals." If I ever write anywhere near the magesty of "coral hymns at noon", I will declare myself Laureate of TPL and demand apposite adoration from every member. Seeing their faces, ....little plump cherub-faced flowers at their prie-dieux.... feeling their whispers on my skin, I almost glimpse them blazing like pink meteors nearly see them wink. Another wondrous simile and a personification as well. I envision their wink as one of those that accompany an elbow nudge. One anticipates gazing and you render "blazing". Sweet touch. Their whispers would somehow smell of peppermint for me. Is the use of "see" twice deliberate? Knowing you, it is. If not, you might consider "catch, note, spy" their wink. Morris tarradiddle. I DO believe at THIS moment that THIS is my favorite of your complete body of work although I'll never forget pansies and Ms. Tsa. Of course, being the enchantress I know, you will top this one at a later date but for now, Ta-dah: # 1. Nekk	2004-05-16 17:52:08
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