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Below you will see ALL of the Critiques that Elaine Marie Phalen has given on The Poetic Link.
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Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Elaine Marie Phalen	Critique Date
A Tribute	Sherri L Smith	Hi Sherri, This is the ultimate Memorial Day poem. You tell it "like it is", with unmistakable pride. The Vietnam passage is the most poignant because these veterans have been treated with the least honor of any. That whole era is extremely painful to recall, now. There were so many losses, so many agonizing personal defeats. In the next-to-last strophe, you nicely defend those in the Middle East against biased journalism and media-generated controversy. The use of "Storm" also calls to mind Operation Desert Storm; the situation in this area seems to have been at the boiling point for a long time. Those who are serving in Iraq have assumed a burden of terrible responsibility, and no matter how they conduct themselves, there will always be those who criticize and condemn. You speak with honesty and conviction. What a fine tribute to the military of all generations! Take Care, Brenda	2004-05-31 22:19:17
New Chapter	Karen Ragan	Hi Karen, I wondered where you'd gone, and am so sorry for your loss. My mother is ill, also, and I'm steeling myself for what lies ahead. I think that in some ways, you've transmuted your grief into this lovely affirmation of the way life and family do continue. Perhaps by reflecting on what was, you have moved toward what will be. I can't possibly critique this in terms of suggesting revision! The heart has spoken and you are its messenger. That "closed chapter of his childhood" isn't actually gone, because any time you wish, you can reopen the book and look within. Your memories carry everything, don't they? I know mine do (my daughter got married last August, so I understand the feeling very well). In S2, you begin the theatrical metaphor, which is nicely sustained throughout the rest of the piece. I'm not sure your son would agree with your assessment of playing a "bit part", even though you aren't physically present in his daily routine as much, now. You are in everything he does and says, in the attitudes he holds, the skills he develops, the code by which he conducts his affairs. When he passes on this contribution to his own children in time, you will be in them, too. But you've moved from performer to playwright, helping with the unfolding script. I think that's a more satisfying role as the years pass. I just love that final stanza! The speaker admits she wants more than just a legal bond with this young woman who now shares her son's world. "Know as a daughter", indeed. My son-in-law is as much a son to me as if he'd been born from me. His Mom is my friend and so we share this gine young man between us. Same with my daughter; her mother-in-law had only boys and loves this new daughter. I believe that we don't lose, we only enlarge the circle. But there are those tears!! They are very real and your poem has expressed so clearly the ambivalence that every parent feels as the marriage takes place. "Never knowing final end" is a fitting way to close this. The script is being written continually, scene after scene. Actors arrive and depart; episodes begin and finish. But the play itself goes on. And remember, there's a "grand" in grandparent. That well may come next, and it sure sounds important in the overall narrative. I do like this, very much. It's filled with truth and love, beyond any uncertainties. May you find peace, joy and comfort in the months ahead. Great to have you back! Brenda	2004-05-22 22:19:59
Summer Rain	Edwin John Krizek	Hi Edwin, This is a lovely piece, with such rich and varied imagery. I appreciate the way you expand the microcosm of the wet dooryard into a commentary on the way humanity has assaulted and desecrated much of the natural world. The speaker's tribute to rain, as it nourishes the "sensual, sexual jungle" [very nice!!], links the water with flora and fauna, with fecundity and savagery, all interdependent. Only man seems oddly incongruous when placed amid such a symbiotic [and successful] environment. Like a curious spider, I invade this space. I do not belong here. But, if not here, where? The old trees know everything. They tell me [there is no more destructive animal than man.] I, too, am responsible for my brother’s mistakes. I love this passage! My only suggestion might be to drop the line in parentheses, as I don't think you need it and it is rather "telly". I believe you've already implied the negative impact of human existence by questioning your speaker's own place in this scene. "If not here, where?" I'm not sure, myself. Sometimes I think we've given up all claim to any place at all, and hold our ground only by virtue of superior force. The old trees know everything. They tell me I, too, am responsible for my brother’s mistakes. How does that read, to you? It's only an idea to take or toss. I think this is a superb poem on many levels, and one with which I can fully empathize. The last three lines are just perfect. Absolution may not be possible but we can, at least, seek it. The rain that brings forth Eden can also cleanse the souls of those who have lost their original Garden. Much enjoyed! Brenda	2004-05-22 21:48:47
Down to the river	Mark Andrew Hislop	Mark, this is a rare and moving poem. I can't really critique it because my mom - who has lived with me for almost 18 years - has just been hospitalized and I'm too weary to make much sense! But it's a worthy tribute to the legacies upon which we all draw, and then leave in our own turn: the children, the histories, the bonds with kin and clan and the land itself. The "sacred wish to leave all things behind" is almost like a desire to be reincarnated as other beings, spores into seedlings. The baptismal waters allow us to be remade, and the young shall lead us into new insight. Yes, we do become our own chains. Release is impossible unless it comes from within. But we can be led into it by those with fresher insights and more eager embrace of whatever may lie ahead. There's a Psalm-like cadence to the piece, and the diction complements it. The end result is one of eloquence and a resonant joy. This is an affirmation. If we learn, not only how to love but whom, we are the richer for it. Indeed, our children may well show us how to live more fully and gladly. They possess what we believe we have lost but can still imagine, still understand, and still recapture. The river flows through and around us all. It's a huge metaphor, not only for time and life but for the cleansing process that allows us to progress spiritually. This implies a karmic dimension that each new generation must accept, as the old go to seek renewal and enlightenment. "Uncircumcised tents" - great use of metonymy! [I think of Othello's "uncircumcised dog"]. It is as if the ancient ritual reaffirms our place in the chain that stretches from Abraham himself. "The air that cleans the stars" is amazing. "Unknowing, wise" is an oxymoron that so fittingly describes the human soul itself. Perhaps we do know more than we understand. Sorry this is so disjointed. I could not let the poem itself pass unacknowledged. Brenda	2004-05-07 20:30:55
Changing With The Changes	Marcia McCaslin	Oh, Marcia ... I almost missed this! I'm just getting ready to leave school but want to tell you that my eyes are prickling here. Wow, this is so very poignant; it speaks a huge truth, but a sad one. What a gently-told tale, and how almost-unbearable the thought that we each carry, the knowledge that we don't voice our feelings until it's too late. Your poem could describe practically anyone. He hadn’t realized he had a glass heart, and she hadn’t realized she had a failing one. Nobody can predict; that's just as well, or we'd go mad. So your message is to hug a loved one, breathe deeply of the air around us; live each day as if it's our last (because one day, it will be). I'm glad that you've made your characters such simple, hard-working people. They farm, eat baked beans, live in flower metaphors. Your opening stanza is fabulous! Any writer who can begin a poem like this is a A+ poet. It draws us into the piece and the rest lives up to this first promise. "She had been his unfolding, just as gently as he had been/ her unflowering". Wow, again. You have such a clear and insightful voice, whether speaking in first person or third. The POV is unusual in that the narrator appears to be omniscient, detached from the couple being described, yet in the end, the questions are filled with concern and urgency ... "wasn't it? Wasn't it?" It is almost as if this speaker is seeking personal reassurance, that perhaps s/he also fears the failure to express love. In the husband's forgetfulness, and the wife's sudden departure before it can be rectified, this speaker sees himself/herself reflected, and is consumed with doubt. This person will change, as the title implies, because others have undergone change and revealed a life lesson in the process. Excellent work in all respects. I'm so glad that I found it while there was still time to respond! Take Care, Brenda	2004-05-06 14:58:29
Blue Dragonfly - Revisited	Joanne M Uppendahl	Hi Joanne: This is exquisitely done. The dragonfly seems a spiritual emissary, a tiny entity of itself, surveyed by a yet "larger" being. The small soul is dwarfed by the bigger, more complex one, but that's not to say that it doesn't exist. I like the way you use this as a microcosmic reflection of our human relationship to God, which leads to the inevitable question: "But WHAT is watching God?" That way lies confusion, so I tend to steer clear of such metaphysical complexities. "Next to green" unites the creature with the symbolic background color that suggests an entire order of life, the earth itself. It is part of this, as are we all. "Mate or marauder" - nicely alliterative for emphasis - serve as metonymies for the dual passions of love and hate, and the balance we walk between family obligations and defence against those who would rob us of our rights. But the "sparkling adornment" makes of the dragonfly a jewel, which allows us to note the connection between form and function. Thus, bird species often possess bright plumage in order to attract mates; beautiful seashell coloration is also camouflage when the creature is underwater. The dragonfly's glitter attracts the eye - and perhaps another insect - yet, when motion is stilled, the little thing could be mistaken for a twig or grass blade. It is the movement that makes the flash. So it happens in our own species; those who seldom "move", in a metaphorical sense, aren't likely to garner much admiration or attention. Speaking of motion, I did stumble here: " in motionlessness hope". I'm thinking that "motionless" would be sufficient to modify hope, becuase by adding the "ness", it turns to a noun and "hope" is off-syntax. This is a tiny point, of course. The speaker's wish for this little being to linger might well replicate God's own thoughts, for we are frail and die so soon. What if God, too, becomes attached to a few of us, and wishes to see us for longer than our mortal allotment? Even as an entire race of animals, our time on earth is finite and in our turn, we will probably be replaced by others who are stronger, smarter or more adaptable to their changing environemnt (which we have probably polluted beyond our own survival). The dragonfly could also stand for a single individual, present all too briefly, whose visit the speaker wishes to prolong. Alas, we are not even masters of the threads that are woven into our own lives, let alone those belonging to another. The deity beyond us has control of these. Our wresting control of the dragonfly's destiny would probably destroy him. Children bring bugs home in glass jars because they're fascinated by the spots and shapes and wings, but the captives almost always die. We can be gratified most by allowing the creature its own space and fate. This also holds true among parents and children, spouses, friends ... anyone who might seek to bind or hold back another, even out of love. "Splendor hunger" makes me think of Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn". Truth is indeed beautiful, and beauty is truth. We hunger for the beautiful because we know it is a perfect form that reminds us of what is possible, even among the small and humble. The dragonfly's flicker of glory is like catching a glimpse into the space between the stars, before the darkness closes back in. I've just realized that this isn't much of a critique! Your poem was on the finalists' list and I wanted to respond to it but not necessarily to dissect it (if that makes any sense). It's superb work, as are all your poems. It touches something inside my skin that doesn't awaken often. My Best Always, Brenda	2004-05-06 14:38:03
The world is wet.	Jane A Day	Hi Jane, Love the imagery! What's especially interesting is that it's an immersion in the moment, done in sentence fragments, except for the very last line which is complete. Such is the nature of dreams - inconclusive, segmented. You shape the poem to your intent, rather than worrying about strictly syntactical concerns. Thus it becomes a single, focused impression and the title - another full sentence - is a part of that. The rain heavy enough to fill my bellybutton and run down my hips, This is an intensely tactile description of rain that incorporates the whole body in its sensations. It then segues into the speaker's imaginary evening of lying out in the wet, glimmering night. "Neighbors checking their windows for the seep" reveals that not everyone finds joy in rain. The speaker sees a magical quality in it, like a spiritual cleansing. "We all make wishes." Indeed. What a pleasure to read this. Brenda	2004-04-28 13:33:38
The waking tide	Mark Andrew Hislop	Such lovely language here, Mark! In S1, images such as "unsashed the dawn" and the oxymoronic "night's bright shadowland" introduce us to a poem of considerable power and beauty. The speaker's concern with night's end (L4) reminds me of Juliet on her wedding night, who desperately seeks to have the darkness linger so she can be with Romeo but an hour longer. However, the situation in this poem is one of quiet joy, not impending despair. Soft, too hard a word for your full softness, You rest and turn, your tide of breath .... yes, perfect! A balm and tincture clear ................ very nice!! To wash me clean in your deep soul’s Sweet longing. You make excellent use of consonant combinations here - very soft ones, like s/f/th, edged with the sharper c/t. The first three lines are especially fresh and striking; the last two are a bit more sentimental. I'm wondering if there's a metaphor that would work in place of "soul's sweet longing" since you're speaking of being washed "clean" in it. "Soul's deep currents", perhaps? It would pick up the water imagery of "tide of breath" used earlier. Your call, of course! No silk sheet, no cloud Drawn to keep the countless eyes of night From earth's modest breasts, This is a most wonderful passage. The couple on the train are being juxtaposed with a much wider setting, so the earth and sky restate the idea of the humans, peering through their sleeping-car window at the predawn "enervating hour". The dreamlike suspension of energy will cease with day. But the poet places us "in the moment", between the depths of sound sleep and the first rays of morning. It is fitting that the final word is "peace". Very nicely done, indeed. Brenda	2004-04-25 22:19:03
Majourney Well	Thomas Edward Wright	What an evocative poem about the "launching" of a beloved only child [or her relocation from one parent to another, but more on that later]!!! Your metaphors are colorful and so fresh - one never reads trite, tired imagery in your work. I always enjoy seeing what you'll be up to next. "The careful chord, the unicorn" - yes, and so used to being solo and a bit spoiled. Delicate, web-wove, womb-ish, One delights in her songs sung And hung above the cradle’s bow, She the wind, she the rudder. All those s/w consonants blend softly and wonderfully. The baby is the center of her own universe; everything from cradle on is provided for her appreciation: wind and rudder, alpha and omega. Here you begin the ship metaphor that will extend to the finish. I like the way "bow" can be used either as a ship's part or a ribbony flourish, such as we often use to decorate a little girl's nursery. "Fair thee well mama-door" - time to exit that early maternal nest and sail toward adulthood. Interesting use of "fair" as opposed to "fare", suggesting the weather and the future - both bright - as well as the daughter - now beautiful in her new maturity. Mine is graduating on May 21 with her first degree and then goes on to professional studies. It's always a wrench to think of the distance over which she's travelled from my own "mama-door" (love that!!). But it's a revolving door, I think. She'll be back; they always come back when they need us. Meanwhile, she's in good company. The poem could also involve a marital split, with the custodial parent (father, probably) taking his turn at parenting from the significantly "opposing" shore. However, I'm not reading it as such because of its relevance to my personal experience. Very timely piece at this time of spring convocations! Brenda	2004-04-21 10:14:13
At The Mammae of Modernity	Thomas Edward Wright	Ohmigosh, Tom, this is wickedly funny and astonishing. The dedication is noted with a blush. : ) I'm an adoptive Mom, you know; my kid arrived through someone else's good will and forceps. Oh well, same end result. I want to carry this child for every day of a full term. Not a Nixon-ized premature delivery from the womb, nor A Clinton-esque affair to derail the current train of thought. I would sing (La!) for forty weeks. Loud, in the shower, from a tower, In a crowded house, even with a mouse. There's soemthing slightly nutty about blending the politicos ("full term" indeed; no impeachments here) with Dr. Seuss-style rhyme. I love it! Who knows which kid is going to grow up to be loved by the world, and which is going to be shuffled off the Shady Rest Happy Home for Vilified Ex-Presidents?? Or worse. I would buy pink Blueberries, and Blue Cherries and, Spumante ice cream and wear the banners of every Pink and blue team in the newspaper. Gender-neutral is good. Buy yellow and green; they're safer. After the birth you can get whatever color works best. Damn, this is just too funny! Suddenly, miraculously, I am pregnant with this vision! The prodrome of labor is upon us! The pangs of pain are real. Aha, yes, a metaphorical vision is at hand. Those "pangs of pain" signal a sudden awareness of vulnerability. I'm curious as to the exact exit route but we won't push it (ooops, sorry). In the end, reality impinges on the fantasy in the form of yells and diapers and ravenous appetite. The milkless man is udderly bereft of sustenance for his newborn. He's also about to wake up and realize it was a nightmare! One question: why not Mike?? Love the poem, pal. It's very ... unique. Brenda	2004-04-07 23:12:19
Swimming With Mary	Thomas Edward Wright	Tom: This one isn't on my list at all, I don't think. I can't leave the site tonight before commenting, albeit briefly. This is the most powerful, profoundly moving summation of an ephemral but brave life that I've read in many months (the only other poems that come close to it, in that respect, were also written by you). I believe this is your time to shine, my friend. Mary is your vehicle for raising our awareness both of how fragile, and how very marvelous, the human body and spirit can be. Sitting in her hospital gown Her ribcage threadbare, Heaving, sucking the oxygen From the air like a vacuum cleaner In a mad and manic search for dust In her best cyanotic blue She drifts in and out This is just beyond imagaining! I'm there in the room, watching and waiting. When you speak further on of the four siblings similarly afflicted, and how the room is like a morgue with serial occupants, I want to scream and weep at the same time. We lost one of our students to CF just over two years ago. It's a fairly widespread disease aong the population here, along with Niemann-Pick. Nobody knows quite why CF seems to be so prevalenet but maybe it's because there are so many Nova Scotians with common ancestry, being members of a fairly homogenous gene pool. Anyway, the swimming metpahor isn't really all that metaphorical, considering the process of this particular death. Water is both purifying and fatal. It both washes free, and drowns. Sometimes at the same time. I am unable to leave her side today. She looks worse – which is better. I cannot see the point in her suffering another day Another minute. We all hold hands and pray that she’ll learn how to swim. This is unbearably poignant! The intense wanting, the need for her to exit now, before there can be further horror. I think of her family and wonder how they are feeling, of her siblings who know what lies ahead for them. It's enough to make angels tear off their wings. Later, after the carbon dioxide had effectively Snowed her, and the morphine had taken Her across the lake, to the safe side, the sunny shore – I thought about our prayer, and the meaning of her life - There's a redemptive quality to this passage. Mary is mistress of her own destiny and has passed beyond agonizing over it. But we ... the poet, his peers, his audience ... must still contend with all the images we'll retain, the aftermath of this event. Hence, your final line, "how to drown". Yes, we know that, too. Drown in sorrow, in tears, in the overwhelming unfairness of life itself. Doctors drown more than once, don't they? I'll bet they drown a thousand times. Stunning poem, in every way!!! Brenda	2004-04-07 22:59:22
Terra Incognita	Mell W. Morris	OK, Mell, it's taken until RIGHT NOW for this remarkable poem to make it upwards on my list! "Last but not least", though! Your theme is an intriguing one to which I can relate because it challenges our idea of individual perception. Do you and I see the same things, share the identical views, when confronted with duplicate stimuli? What a conundrum! Of course, we can't crawl into each others' minds, but your poem tackles the task and shows us the possibilities. The opening metaphor is very clear, with its aberrant tree, still clothed after the others have stripped to their bare limbs. Brrrr! Anyhow, the speaker uses the tree to launch herself into a reflection on the very nature of Mind. It isn't a Guinness event by any means, merely a small, unusual occurrence. I have amassed a collection of such episodes but I rarely expose those oddities. Your sense of humor adds a most attractive note of whimsy here. The speaker's uneasiness is downplayed by the quirky nature of the tree's "behavior" (which replicates what human eccentrics also do). Her recollection of odd past experiences is phrased in most exquisite assonance (enchants/entrances) and internal rhyme (comprises/arises; brains/rain). Do musical/instruments produce colors with their sounds? Do tubas always bellow yellow for you, too? The human brain is capable of an astonishing array of responses. I've often felt a convergence of color and sound, a synesthesia that immensely pleases my imagination. I can also - quite literally - "taste" scents. This may have come from a perfume allergy but it's an eerie and familiar occurrence. "Bellow yellow" is, again, a droll and striking turn of phrase. Do you free-fly through space, awed at a feast of colors and lights, wonders never imagined, yet feel intrusive as if ignoring a no-trespassing rule? Do you experience diurnal deja vu? Well, I do wonder whether or not I'm pushing the boundaries of sanity to their absolute limits. People look at me funny sometimes. "Diurnal deja vu" - what a concept!! Yes, it happens a lot. Things seem so .... recognized! Then again, if there really is an Akashic Record, and every action is/has been already imprinted on it, then we should be able to move back and forth at will. We should be able to experience the same event more than once and know it for what it is (or has been). My life is filled with unwilled happenings ... filled/unwilled: nice! that tap into neural cells and I cannot ... happenings/tap: also nice! understand that which wells in my own brain nor do I know my place, if one exists, in the grand scheme of our universe... Of course, the brain is not supposed to be self-aware; it thinks but doesn't actually "see" itself in that process, right? We just have to imagine how it is doing all this thinking. We are also, I believe, not meant to grasp everything that happens. As for the universe, it's so vast that I'd drown in it, were I to ask where I fit. Yes. "all/queries and no responses". Great line break, by the way. ... what quirks, majesties, and mysteries teem in the heads of others that forever will remain unseen and unsaid? "Teem" links via sonics with "unseen" and also connects to it through logical sequence. Obviously, everyone's mind is crammed with impulses, thoughts, memories and so on; equally clear is that separate individuals don't have access to this stored data. It's like a locked file cabinet; the thing is massively heavy and we'd love to know what's in there, but the owner has the key and can't even find it. "Unsaid" is, in a way, a bit paradoxical because a poet's gift is to say the unsayable. Merely by voicing these musings in a poem, you've essentially spoken the unspeakable. But still, our skulls are divided forever by space and solid bone. Short of telepathy, we can only tell each other what's inside but we can't show it. I do so love your work. (( Easter Hug! )) Brenda	2004-04-07 22:44:35
japanese verse 41 (Rainbow)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Hi Erzahl, Better late than never! My critiquing opportunities have been few until recently, owing to workload. I always like to respond to your haiku and senryu when they appear on my list. This one suits the early spring, because even after a depressing rainfall, one can anticipate the uplifting appearance of sun and new growth. Sibilant "s" sounds are appropriately soft and soothing. So is the "th/f/v" fricative combination. The rainbow, your "spectrum of hope", confers a larger promise than the mere gift of a single season. That it "smiles" is a pleasant contrast to the "plethora of tears" - "plethora" is such a great word, and so seldom heard!! "Heaven's cheeks" nicely personify the cloudy sky but also imply a higher order to everything. Rain, as with all else, is at the command of a greater power than we who look up in awe. Lovely work, as always. Brenda	2004-04-07 22:10:53
Haiku	Andrea M. Taylor	Hi Andrea, This is a bright little jewel. The branch and a robin image combine so nicely in L1. The "bloom" is a bird, I think! How delightful. In S2, the alliteration works well, and the internal rhyme of cheek/peek also tweaks the ear with pleasure. In L3, the contrast with the winter provides the "turn" so essential to haiku. It's unexpected to be reminded of the seasonjust past but the contrast heightens the appreciation of spring. (Now, if it would only make it up to where I am ... the sun shone all day but we still have too much snow in the shade of the woods). You've brought a smile of enjoyment to my corner of the world tonight. Brenda	2004-04-07 21:43:13
My Summer Dream Cabin	Marcia McCaslin	Marcia, what a glorious tribute to this vision, this place of peace! S1 is just superb by way of introduction. "Crocheted/in webs of reindeer moss" - wow. I think this poem nicely complements our poetry reading of Louise Gluck for this coming month. You are the mistress of line breaks, you know. Not tomention fabulous nature imagery. The poem's tone is so uplifting and calming. From the simple gifts of the garden to the wary but curious wildlife, you've set such an engaging scene! The Morse Code - S.R. - intrigues me because I'm wondering why those two letters would be used. (S'all right, maybe?) I also enjoy the way you move from the nurturing of the young animals to the spiritual mothering that this place of peace will provide for you. "Glacial trickle" is a detail to die for! It makes of the icy coldness a beautiful thing indeed. Sorry this is brief but it's almost the end of the contest and I did want to let you know how much I've enjoyed the poem! Take Care, Brenda	2004-04-07 21:35:57
Sable Shadow	marilyn terwilleger	Hi Marilyn, Those last two lines are chilling and take away my breath in a gasp of horror. This nightmarish description reflects the speaker's desire to confront her own past, manage it (as perhaps she wasn't always able to manage it at the tme when he was living) and move on. Little cues - "command", "thrust" and "antipode", for instance - imply that the deceased spouse may have been a carefully organized, and decidedly assertive, personality. In S2, "tenacious succubus" speaks of his lingering control over his wife's mind and, thus, her spiritual freedom. He is draining her of will and joy. "Shakes" and "jars" in S3 speak of her anxiety; this is not a romantic and wistful memory, but a plunge into frustration and a choking confinemnt. You cast a sable shadow around my mind but I know not why. I fear that you will beckon me Ah, yes: sable. Dense, black, warm (smothering?) like the fur for which this color is named (or is the fur named for the color?). Anyhow, it's an ominous effect, like a cloud that stifles the dreamer. She fears a return to the limitations of her previous existence, I think. But she also fears dying before she has truly begun to savor freedom. I note she says only "beckon", not "claim" or "take". The question is whether she will actually go to him if he beckons. Maybe she would have, once; is she now more in possession of her own destiny? This poem is remarkable not only for what it says, but for what it doesn't. I'm glad that it served you well as a therapeutic exercise. Those particular dreams must have been extremely difficult to endure. (( Hugs at Easter )) Brenda	2004-04-07 19:45:55
Seeking Comfort	Jane A Day	I love the imagery in this piece, Jane. Assonance of gum/underbark is great; lovely use of the hard-c consonance in L2/L3 (typo: reflects). Neat way to segue from finger moons to candles, which blends the visual/tactile imagery so that the fingers seem almost to hold a part of the sky. "Complex" is an intriguing choice. "Rain of frost" = super oxymoron! "Edges us" makes the humans into living works of natural art. "New light/of window, flint and flame" is beautifully evocative, sonically exquisite and makes me think of E. Pauline Johnson for some reason ("flint and feather", perhaps?). There's something so friendly about a glowing, cozy room! It's almost animate. We receive the definite message that there's much to be said for simple pleasures. Light, alone, was the first created thing of all, and still offers the greatest gift. Sorry for the sentence fragments but I'm up too late for coherence tonight. I just wanted to tell you that this has been such a pleasure to read. Take Care, Brenda (who is California Dreamin')	2004-04-06 22:47:56
By the Pond	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, I can't wait any longer for this to hit my list!! It's so far down that I will never get to it. So ... here goes. Stalks of wild iris like green-dressed sentries greet wandering geese. Wow, the ee assonance is fabulous. Ass those s's and you get a sound much like the way I imagine spring, with the shrill of peepers, the call of geese overhead, the windchime of temporary waterfalls that will soon be gone. The iris stalks are as yet unblooming, suspended at attention. They are the shape of things to come. Everything interconnects - even the plants have their animating essence that recognizes the life force in other beings. The ancient symbolism of the iris is associated with the Greek goddess who leads the souls of dead women into the Elysian Fields. She is also keeper of the rainbow. From her come all beautiful colors; she guards the feminine aspect. How very fitting for this new season! Birth and fertility are certainly the focus of our attention. Death too will reap its own harvest in a few months when flowers fade and infant livestock are taken to the slaughter (I think of Blake's poem, "Little Lamb") but this is also the way of the world. Ducks glide on water cupped in pond’s upturned palms as late arriving gulls wheel and dip to receive air offerings of flung bread. In this one, it's short-u that takes centre stage. There's energy in glide/wheel/dip, as the heartbeat stirs faster and faster. "Late arriving" - where I come from - applies as much to the season as to the gulls. It has been so COLD here!! But I digress; the gulls are the dawdlers at the feast, but are still confident that they will be accommodated. Those "air offerings/of flung bread" have a manna quality. God will provide even for these stragglers. There's a providential element that cares for all living things and sees none overlooked. I can easily make the imaginative leap from poem to self. Nascent yellow buds snuggle in spring’s pale womb-- a cradle full of summer with velvet sighs to come. "Nascent" is a wonderful word. It suggests so many possibilities, and is followed up by "womb" which again connects flesh to flower, mammal to marigold. All will come in its good time. The "pale" womb is as-yet unripe but, like iris's rainbow, late spring will infuse its richness over the tender landscape. "A cradle full of summer" foreshadows a more intense green; the "velvet sighs" will mourn for its eventual passage. "In the midst of life ..." and so on. The act of sighing is made bearable because it's expected; "velvet" is a lovely, textural description. We are ever aware of endings, even when anticipating a birth. But we accept, because we must; we memorize present glories so we can recall them later. If a poem is, as Wordsworth says, "emotion recollected in tranquility", then spring is a poem season, recollected in the winter silence. The perfect Easter offering! Then again, considering its author, I'm not at all surprised. Take Care, Brenda	2004-04-05 13:43:50
Doppler Effect (Revision)	Joan M Whiteman	Hi Joan, First of all, congratulations on your acceptance by Atlantic Monthly - not an easy venue! This poem is a fine illustration of the use of sustained metaphor. The rising emotional intensity, triggered by something as insubstantial as air, begins with the alliterative touch/temptation (and oh, how readily one leads to the next). The rouging of the cheeks makes us think of how we prepare for someone's arrival, primping and beautifying before his train reaches the platform. She remembered the thrill of his arrival, welling in her breast like the sound of an approaching train. Good use of the "l" consonance with thrill/welling ... nice! The sustained Doppler metaphor begins here, with a fairly straightforward simile. The moment rushed in, .... appropriate to the train's movement filling her soul to the brink, ... more of that lovely "l" consonance clouding her eyes, ... bit of a shift away from the aural comparison, but visually appealing like early-morning mist. Time ran, deeper than midnight, faster than the light from falling stars. I really love this strophe!! The synesthesia of light and speed suggests the train's headlight as it races through the darkness. How does love outrun light? Paradoxical, but it happens. The heart moves faster than the head. The poem makes good use of lengthening lines to imitate the train's rapid approach. A whistle blew. .... Suddenly we're brought abruptly into a colder reality. She felt the spaces grow. .... Yes, awareness of absence becomes unavoidable He left a fleeting touch, .... you have already used "touch" in S1; is there an alternative? more bruise than memory. ... wonderful!! The moment peaks and begins to fall here. It is already past when the speaker acknowledges what's happened, too late to stop it. The train dwindled into dust. ... "d" alliteration works well; train represents relationship She heard the wavering sound of distance, ... what a great line!! fading like forgotten vows. ... fricative "f" is so soft, like exhaled breath I can see why the magazine editors would want to publish this one. It's evocative and oh, so poignant. I keep wondering how it would read if done in present tense, so the separation is a constant and ongoing thing. Just a thought, of course! You know your own intent far better than I. She holds her breath as the breeze sighs by, gently rouging her cheek. It brings to mind his touch ... The train dwindles into dust. She hears the wavering sound of distance, fading like forgotten vows. Anyway, this is a fine poem, well crafted and a pleasure to read. Regards, Brenda	2004-04-05 13:00:50
Senryu 154	Michael J. Cluff	We always covet what's just beyond our reach. The crow sees the damn doughnut behind the glass and is passionately frustrated. He probably sounds like a tenor who's going to pass out in the second act. Anyway, "ecru" lends a certain delicacy that's directly opposite to "squawks". "Loud" and "lush" are equally contrasting. There's a certain elegance even in fury, and when overdone crow-fashion, it does become, well, "lush". Love all those l's!! Also the ow/ou assonance. I've known people who act like this, all bluster, but remarkable in their capacity to explode at the slightest provocation. This is the human element in the senryu but you include the obligatory nature image to connect the two. This permits the message to be delivered effectively, and acknowledged. Much enjoyed, Brenda	2004-04-04 22:06:45
Israel	Marcia McCaslin	Marcia, this is a powerful tribute to a most astonishing and enduring people. It's also very timely, coming at Passover and also on the heels of the controversial Gibson movie. To those who raise questions regarding the Chosen People, or express skepticism and doubts, your poem stands as a firm rebuttal. I believe there is a corner of Israel in every Jew who lives across the world, whether or not he or she has ever been to this special land. It is a magnetic, a lodestar. The references to Divine Geometry are most appropriate. This perfect placement seems ordained, as her "scientists, scholars ..." are likewise ordained. There's a certain karmic pattern woven around the state itself (which was founded but a few days before my own birth, so I have always felt a connection). Your writing is cadenced here, psalm-like. Diction is easily understood and very accessible to all readers. It is formal but not verbose. Allusions drawn from the Old Testament/Torah are apt and nicely integrated. Imagery is clear and striking, as in this: Why was so harsh a land chosen for this people and this time? It seems as though the soil is reluctant, the wind relentless and the sun searches every shadow until it finds a particle of itself. Subtle use of sonic elemnts - alliterative r and s, lots of sh/ch blends - whisper like the sand in the wind. I love the implication that the sun itself descends to scatter among the stones. The theme of sacrifice is made more poignant by this impression of blessedness. We all know how great the losses have been and how many potential Israeli citizens have never made it to their promised land. Perhaps there are answers in the Pythagorean School of Numbers, but how many searchers remain? And of those who remain, how many understand? Many have already died, in the camps or the wars since, and through age and despair. Rabbinal scholars, searching the Cabbalistic writings and other arcana, may come close to comprehending the very nature of their homeland and its divine covenant, but their company is dwindling and the newer generation of warriors may have little time for such puzzles. Your closing passage, in which you quote from Genesis itself, crackles with passion. Isn't it amazing how those ancient words can stir us still? I'm short on time tonight but had to stop by and tell you how this poem has affected me. My Levite roots are proud and I'm made glad for having read it. Brenda	2004-04-04 19:04:59
Poems I Cannot Write	Sandra J Kelley	Sandra, this reads as essentially finished, to me. My only small suggestion would be a period instead of a comma after "head" and also after "forming", to give the following lines their own caps and make of them separate ideas/questions. I can relate to it 100%, as well. In fact, I have a poem here that also deals with my own inability to write love poems, as they're too damn hard [I mean, who cares about one's intensely personal struggles in that department?]!! Universality is the only thing that matters, really, because we all suffer disappointment and elation. In this poem, you've achieved that universal approach, with your remarkable visuals. In many ways, I can intuit the use of environmental metaphor for the various aspects of love, expressed in words that hide true intent. The sunsets may be the endings of relationships; the lightning could easily substitute for physical passion and conflicts that arise from it; the snow could signify cooling of ardor, even though it may have been unexpected. The moonlit night suggests romantic inclinations, with a surprise shift in plans out of that deceptively clear sky. You've twice referred to "black" - which is a backdrop against which one plays out his or her small story. It's an indifferent setting. The lonely feel so isolated; being unloved is like a prelude to dying, I think. You might want to change one of the blacks to a synonym like jet or obsidian or just dark. But the repetition reinforces the speaker's sense of being by herself in an unfeeling world. Still, we grab beauty where we find it, and joy can come from a space beyond human creation. It's better than nothing, I tell myself. Lovely - haunting - writing; I'd include it if I were you. I hope you'll tell us when this collection is published. My Best, Brenda	2004-04-04 15:50:16
Among Lilies	Lynda G Smith	Hi Lynda, and welcome to the site if you're a recent addition. My attendance lately has been sporadic, owing to work demands and a student teacher whom I've been supervising since January. I'm delighted to find this lovely poem on my list and have been waiting for it to rise to the top (rather like the poem's own subject) so I'll have more voter weight to make my choices count! This sustained metaphor reminds me of many things. There's a Monet Impressionistic undertone that I quite appreciate. There's also the implied lotus symbolism, since they are related species, both being nymphaea. The lotus is, of course, representative of the soul's unfolding and enlightenment, which is a part of your theme here, especially toward the end of the poem. Lilies wrap my legs [one's fate is irrevocable and inescapable, after all] In ribbon curls [nice!] To pull the limbs of my being beneath the meniscus of my thoughts. Lovely tactile imagery! Excellent use of "r" consonance, nice short i's, vivid use of appropriate diction (meniscus, for one). Their vagrant castings of crimson coils, [yep, the undersides of many lily leaves are red, as are their stems] promise to preserve that virgin nerve from the pickling white brine of memory. Alliteration works nicely in the above passage, and your use of "v" lends a fricative thread that's very pleasant to the ear. Rhyme of preserve/nerve is a bit of a surprise in a free-verse piece, so it draws attention to the phrasing. And it's an important idea, the preservation of one's youthful courage and idealism, against an onslaught of conflicting memories that have intervened since then. "Pickling white brine" is a great metaphor! And "brine" sounds rather like "brain" which connects to the memory idea (subtle!). They encircle an ankle and linger with suckling pull within a tender hollow to shudder, to cull a liquid sigh, a last response to what was left undone. Great "l" consonance, like the undulating water itself. "Suckling" gave me pause as I at first thought "sucking"; however, the former gives an infantile impression, like nascent memories pulling at the breast of experience. "Cull a liquid sigh" is so evocative. I'm not sure you need "within a tender hollow", though. I usually think of pulling ON, not pulling WITHIN, and "pull/to shudder" seems to follow naturally. But of course, it is your poem and your call (I just toss out ideas, since I figure a decent critiquer should offer them once in awhile). Are these the keepers Of last breath, Of life, or death, Or simply a servant of a drowning mind That spirals down the spirit Into the abyss of the unconscious. [?] Now we get into the murky territory of Higher Self and the nature of consciousness, together with what actually happens at the moment of death. "Servant of a drowning mind" suggests that we imagine the afterlife images that so often accompany our passing ... but lately I've read that even a totally non-functioning brain, a flatline, has been known to undergo some sort of spiritual experience, because the clinically dead patient revives and recollects it. Hence the mind and body seem separate and the third entity, the soul itself, is not tied to either. "Spirals down the spirit/into the abyss of unconsciousness" may describe the reutrn of the soul to its fleshly home, the tendril of the lily's stem being like the fabled silver cord that connects both physical and insubstantial parts of ourselves. It is an excellent metaphor, capably presented. The softness of all those s sounds lends a calming sibilance to the process. A darkling process… [and we do see through the glass darkly, with no certain knowledge of the other side] but from this deep cold storage, [I like the breaks here!] A baptism of belief In promise and possibility, [strong use of alliteration] Will rise with the lilies [resurrection imagery befits the Easter season; reincarnation is also suggested] Come spring. [I would put this line above "A baptism of belief"] Thus .. Come spring A baptism of belief In promise and possibility Will rise with the lilies. [The final word restates your theme and subject; all is now full circle] Anyhow, this is an exquisite poem. If I were to have any concrete suggestions for "improvement" [hard to improve on something so appealing] they might involve a few stanza breaks. However, the upright format, with its short lines, visually depicts the lily's stem, so it works fine. On a side note: I checked your attractive website and found a few interesting coincidences. I'm also Canadian [NS], on Sympatico, minister to six horses and a bunch of other critters, and own three telescopes (an 8" Dob, an old - as in original - 60 mm Vixen refractor, and a 60 mm Bresser refractor, the latter two of which are odd little beasts indeed]. I've collected quite a few Televue eyepieces and some other stuff. But this has been an awful winter for star gazing because of all the storms. Let's hope that spring is more accommodating. Drop in at the Forum if you get a chance and haven't already done so. Several of us hang out there and love to see new faces, figuratively speaking. Regards, Brenda	2004-04-03 23:03:06
Chant	Jane A Day	Hi Jane, I do so enjoy your work and don't get to critique it nearly as often as I'd wish. Deep voices carve song heavy as the demon of adultery in the first cycle of a marriage. What remarkable use is made of "carve" here! The opening song's weight bears us downward, like adultery itself; no marriage can survive this burden. The song is dark, darkly rendered. The beat of throat hum under throat hum waves pale the sopranos of vespered nuns. There is a multi-layered effect in this strophe, suggestive of Gregorian textures. Assonance of "waves pale" imitates the high-noted voices; "waves" in itself is another rare verb choice. It also portrays the two genders in a sort of counterpoint (like marriage partners), for we know that the resonant voices are the throat-humming monks, and theirs is the rich undercurrent that anchors the lighter notes. "Vespered" is lovely, so sacred and quiet. This music is strong enough to heave the darkness from the muscels of our shoulders. Another great verb with "heave"! Thus we see harmony as a literal concept and as a unifying force between members of a pair. The couple can resist that first demon if they stick together (seems obvious but it isn't, really). I like the way "heave" links back to "heavy" in L2. Spelling: muscles This sound can carry us across the bridge to unreachable heaven. This has an almost orgasmic quality. When partners are perfectly attuned, nothing is more likely to reach the sublime. There's a certain paradoxical quality to the whole idea of bridging the gap to "unreachable" heaven, since if it is truly unreachable, there could be no bridge. Since I love paradox in any context, this one definitely appeals to me. I've also known the delirious sensation of being borne away on a rush of music, so the metaphor is readily understood. Beautifully cadenced, haunting and honest writing. There's so much being said, in such a condensed space. A poem doesn't require length and verbosity to be profound! Here's the proof of that. Regards, Brenda	2004-04-03 20:51:36
Political Senryu 4	Michael J. Cluff	Ah yes, the scapegoat is ready-made. Bigotry can be so easy to perpetuate when the vehicle is provided courtesy of the big screen, under the guise of "entertainment". While the movie itself may not necessarily contain explicit anti-Semitism - since its protagonist, his followers and his mother are Jewish themselves - the audience's responses certainly can and do provoke such an attitude. Those who are predisposed toward hatred will fix their attention on the villain (sp: ai) that is least likely to evoke a spirited defense. In some quarters, it is acceptable to attack those whose beliefs and ethnicity differs from one's own. Never having been in Fontana, I can only assume that this is one such area in which such prejudices are permitted to blossom unchecked. The word "convenient" is so dismissive, so casual, that it is the perfect choice here. Diction is straightforward, conversational even. The syllable count is a variant, 6-7-7, rather than a strictly traditional pattern. The shift from "villain" to "bigots" is nicely done, a reversal of the identified "bad guy", who thus becomes the very thing s/he most fears - a villain - whereas the so-called "villain" turns to innocent victim. Ironic, and neatly accomplished here. Brenda	2004-04-03 20:37:19
No title	Andrea M. Taylor	Goodness, this is tough to say fast!! I can see the humor coming out. Talk about serial alliteration! My students would enjoy this as it's an ear-tickler. The r's roll, the p's pop, and the z/x/s sounds are mellow and soften down the others. You have used every vowel in the alphabet. I wonder if one could ever do a haiku with every letter, consonants and all!? Might be entertaining to try. Brenda	2004-04-03 16:21:05
High-ku	Andrea M. Taylor	Hi Andrea. This is unusual! I find an ambiguity in interpretation that can be taken a couple ways - not a bad thing, mind you, as it opens up interesting levels of meaning. It could be about either prayer or the universe itself. The spots might be like projected desires, sent upward with a hope of some future answer. Or they could be stars and other cosmic particles, flung out into space against a backdrop of infinity. The wishes/prayers in the first interpretation turn to tangible sparks in the second. The s/f consonant use is very pleasing. I was once chastised for using alliteration in one of my own haiku - to the purist, it "just isn't done" - but it does sound so like the outrush of breath that I think it works nicely. We mustn't be greedy, as your final line points out. Even the Most High probably prefers to grant us our wishes in small sequences, lest we grow greedy and complacent. The veil prevents us from knowing how our petition will be received, as nothing is certain. Just as well. I always enjoy haiku, maybe because I seldom write them myself, and appreciate those who do. Take Care, Brenda	2004-04-03 15:58:15
The Web	Robert L Tremblay	Ok, now, THIS is really something! The visual elements are remarkable. You've outdone even yourself, I think. I like the various wordplaying on "I" and "eye", and the web reminds me of the childhood weaving exercise known as making a "godseye" design. But the speaker seems centered and temporarily trapped in his own web; he has spun it and now cannot leave it. Escape is possible only via an outside rescuer, embodying the divine element of one's existence. Nice double entendres: "quiver" - the shaking web, or an arrow casing; "nipping" death - forestalling it, or dining as a "nippong death" on the doomed victims; "aye" - yes, or forever. I especially like L7. The assonance of gaping/sating is appealing, and the whole idea of feasting to fulfilment conveys a spiritual reward as well as the physical act of eating one's prey. I will never in a million years attempt to write one of these, but I have to admire your complex creations. They take a great deal of focused thought and a spatial reasoning ability that I totally lack. Regards, Brenda	2004-03-26 21:35:36
Actuality	Mark Andrew Hislop	Hi Mark: Excellent work, indeed. Use of pentameter is really subtle because you don't anchor it to iambics. "I hunt what stares me in the face." Our search for personal meaning is never-ending. Use of "edge" sets the limit on what we can discover. Perhaps we don't really want to peer beyond it. "It lets me pretend that I'm still looking." What a revealing statement! Why can’t my heart show itself in neon Right across my forehead? Memorable question! True self-knowledge is probably impossible but we do search for signs. The invisible hides behind the skull; the visible is a lot less important but it's also easier to find (just tougher to interpret). I nod here, smile there, make glass promises, And I watch them fight the magic fading. "Glass promises". Wow. "Fight the magic fading". Wow again. You have a gift of evocative imagery. Living on fantasy, living in fantasy, show us to be frail dreamers who can never become what we'd wish for ourselves. There’s the dark truth of me in the mirror, Right where it left me. Right before my eyes. The obvious jumps into focus. It was there all the time, which you suggest from L1. Your speaker and reader both shift from imagination to reality, a back-snap into the room where the mirror waits. We understand perfectly what's been said, and what we can expect of our own futures. What a fine poem this is! Brenda	2004-03-26 12:33:13
Memories of Bertha	Sherri L. West	Hi Sherri, This is a marvelous and very honest tribute! Congratulations for writing it, and drawing the reader right into the scene. There are so many personal details, each one specific and clear. You also have a delightful gift of metaphor: "Your coffee-coated conversation covers me in a blanket of contentment". Not to mention excellent use of alliteration, done well but not OVERdone. The series of questions in the middle strophe are tumbled together in just the way a child would ask them. I loved the "matching dollies" observation! It reveals so much about the grandma's love for her little one. I might suggest changing "displays" to a more vivid verb as it's kind of just ... "there" if you know what I mean. Maybe "radiates", which would add to the "d" sound series? Not a biggie, though! I'm also not sure you need "immutable" as you're proving this throughout the poem. Again, not a big deal. The shift to past tense in the closing strophe is a surprise, implying a change in circumstances (which is an accurate assessment for the reader to make) and the final line - again a question - is filled with pain. But you do get to ask it, which implies that she is still living. So there's an unstated element of hope there. This is a remarkable poem and for a first effort, "wow"! When I made a reference to your own writing in my crit. reply to you, this is what I meant, knowing I'd be critiquing this piece soon (I've read it a couple of times already). I do hope there will be more to follow. Tanner's mom, right?? Welcome!!! Brenda	2004-03-20 12:14:00
Search and Seizure in the Ache of Day	Rachel F. Spinoza	Oh my! What imagery. I'd love to print this, then sit down and paint the scene(s) upstairs and down, in precise watercolor detail. Of course, since I'm only familiar with oils (and that a long time ago) it's not a feasible response. They are dreaming in the peeling hallway hidden behind beams, dizzy with designing philodendron, Persian rugs, distressed oak. Terrific use of assonance here, all the long-e sounds of dreaming/peeling/beams. The alliteration is also notable, and not always a device you use - h, b, d, p. "Distressed" is such an appropirate modifier for the oak because the whole process is a "distress sale", given its nature. Yet the clients dream of their own decor, little caring about previous tenants' tragedies. Not for the the worry over meeting mortgage payments. Nor would they ever own an unpapered cat! The man and women whisper in quick breaths while the motivated agent sweats in the aqua kitchen hot in her silk-lined blazer hot from hammering repossession signs and gloomy salesmen The "motivated" agent is a twist, as usually it's the owner who's motivated to sell; we know that the previous owners of this place must have been traumatized beyond belief and have left unqillingly. I get the feeling they might have been older people; who else would tolerate an "aqua" kitchen (shades of the 1970s!). Those "repossessions signs and gloomy salesmen" tell their own tale. Use of "hammering" as a verb is both forceful and ironic; one normally would not associate silk with this action. She's a tough cookie, all right. Nice use of slant rhyme with breaths/sweats. I notice a fiar bit of sibilance incorporated, too, like the sighing of breathing and steam. Nice touch! The manicured man bends his stiff suit picks up something shining – a diamond – fallen from the head of a unicorn – a diamond set in pink feathers and soiled dreams There's something mystical about this image. It suggests a lost innocence, the unicorn being an untouchable icon from virginal youth. I'm also seeing it as a remnant from some theatrical production, in which pasted gems and feathers might have adorned various props. Possibly the previous owners were stage actors, fallen on hard times with the dominance of film. "Soiled dreams" - when given a sideways glance - almost looks like "soiled dramas". Just a trick of my eyesight! The use of "manicured" and "stiff suit" is at odds with such a tattered fragment from a more colorful age. He would never understand this, we believe. But maybe he does ... Phantom wings open bare cupboards something is singing One can hope that the man, as well as the speaker, is party to this strangeness. That the feathered "diamond" shifts his inner sight into another place and time. The house may indeed be haunted. It's making him aware of its own personality. Do the wings belong to spiritual beings? Lost vaudevillians? perhaps it is a hinge in the vacant vestibule or the mangy calico kitten left in the abandoned cellar without papers You close with the more prosaic explanation, the one this man probably will accept. The aura of abandonment falls over everything and we mourn for the kitten, calico like the motley of the stage, "without papers" and therefore, of small value to these people. Readers are left with a sense of concern about this small creature. He seems the last vestige of that vanished tenancy. I love this poem, for many reasons! Imagery is sharp and vivid; theme is haunting (literally); characterization is skilfully done with a few telling strokes. Diction matches content very effectively, too. Brava, Brenda	2004-03-18 11:25:12
I am a lighthouse	marilyn terwilleger	Lovely work, Marily (11th-hour crit here!). Your writing just gets stronger and stronger. Use of internal rhyme is evidence of skill, but not obvious, and the cadence suggests the waves breaking around the lighthouse. There is some very appealing consonance going on, with the l/f/s and w/v. Verbs such as welter, beset, batter and polish are vivid and present clear images. The metaphor of the guiding lighthouse and the wave-driven ship is fairly familiar, but you are using it in your own way, with a unique voice. I'm not sure about the caps in L4 of each stanza. Is there a specific reason for using these? This is a fine illustration of personifcation, nicely extended throughout a lyric poem. The message is one of faith and reassurance. Everything works together so very well. Good luck with it. Brenda	2004-03-07 23:20:15
Insects and Other Tiny Nations	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne, I'm out of time, mad at the "system" for robbing me of my weekend's critiquing, and on my way to get some sleep .... but I have to tell you what a delight this is! The visual detail is just so engaging. S2 is like an animated painting of the insect kingdom! S3, the pivotal strophe, introduces an element of horror into this happy busyness. The insects then assume metaphorical proportions and become, well, us. Perhaps a child might not quite grasp the parallel, but we do. The globe that draws in its admirers then offers a hope of redemption, which the closing lines affirm. Harmony is possible, although not always conceivable unless we dream with passion and expectation. I love this poem. It speaks to me, and to all who long for something better than what we've made of our own world. The "living sphere of insect races" seems Utopian and lovely. I've read that insects will survive mammals and eventually inherit the earth. If so, I pray that they will use her well. Gotta go ... good luck with this one tonight! Brenda	2004-03-07 22:30:25
Archae	Regis L Chapman	I see a man reflecting on his own mortality as he contemplates an ancient gravesite, with accompanying artifacts. The rhyme here is esepcially remarkable because it's so effective, yet could not have been easy to do and provides the "spine" of the piece. In the end, I take "surround" the be a vision of one's own death, surrounded by earth ... no birdsong, no awareness, no need for anything at all. Thus the dead wait to be discovered ten thousand years later, and perhaps hope that someone will be curious about them. I like this poem very much. It's unusual, fresh, thought-provoking. And I am fast running out of time! : ) Brenda	2004-03-07 22:23:26
A Late Afternoon Service	Thomas Edward Wright	Another superlative piece. The sonics are incredible (the lines are a case in point, with all the "ow" combinations). The visuals are stunning, like the cardinal with his mitered-ness (I think of a red bird, not a holy man). The recovering tongue awaits the Host, and we share in the intimacy of the moment. The speaker seems very distractible but everything conjoins to form the total image of God - and this is not the God in robes with a beard, but the divinity of Being here and aware of it all. The white flakes "suspended in atmos" are gentle, dove-like, the Holy Spirit descending with such subtlety. The cackling cat in the front row gives new meaning to the term "lip service". Wordplay on Bach/backing is an aural treat. The poem releases its subjects but not its readers; the lingering afterimages will remain for a long time. I think this is magnificent writing. Brenda	2004-03-07 22:16:12
east ore	Erin E Roland	Hi Erin, I've been enjoying your work and meant to post some critiques but then the site crashed! You have a decided gift for immediately-accessible imagery; we read and can instantly visualize what you're describing. The comparison of the peach harvest [or maybe theft?] to the process of gold mining is apt and fresh. "Oasis in a scrubland" offers a quick take on the irony of orchards amid such dryness. I don't know where John Day County is located (I'm Atlantic Canadian and, for me, the whole concept of dusty sage is quite novel). But I don't need to know because your poem is rooted in a strong sense of place, even if the name means little. The terse, brief lines enhance this piece, I think, because they suggest the patterned quality of day-to-day migrant farm work, shifting like footsteps and ladders from tree to tree. Or, again, one can interpret the poem in the light of two runaways, or lovers, hiding out in the open air and stealing from orchards for survival. "Snatched" culd be used to support this perspective. There would still be the quick, furtive movement. The metonymies at the close are also effective, as well as being pleasantly alliterative. This is a staid, law-abiding landscape. If indeed the spaker is going to swipe some fruit, s/he'd best be on the lookout for both temporal and spiritual law-enforcement, as s/he's breaking one of the Commandments as well as committing a minor theft. But I doubt there will be any chance of reprisal because old men don't run fast. Heh. I think I'll go with the idea of the migrant harvesters ... and will be interested in seeing your own identification of these two. Nicely done. Brenda	2004-03-07 21:51:43
A Passion For Senryu	Thomas Edward Wright	Well, there it is. The Emperor said it in "Amadeus" and it seems to fit. I applaud the way you've taken Mike's Chris-Robin strangulation senryu and run with it. You've run waaaay further than anyone might have expected, actually. The dual stories alternate so cleverly that at first, a reader might not be aware of the way this should be taken. We get the speaker and his wife (even lines), and the Chris-and-Robin situation (odd lines), and then they come together so well in the end with the siren's departing wail. Robin ain't gonna come to no dinner party, pal. The horrific nature of the crime could be overlooked because this seems such a lighthearted piece - but only at first. There's the issue of spousal abuse, the belt being undone, the wife's deperation. Robin is no longer Batman's sidekick, but a battered woman trying to free herself from multiple burdens, not least of which is her husband. The comfortably domestic couple in the other house are the opposing pole. Contrast through ironic juxtaposition: very, very well done. Once again, a clever and exceptional poem. You're probably producing some of the most innovative and consistently brilliant work on TPL right now. Where will you take it next, is the crucial question? It can't just ... stay here. It HAS to be out there, working on your behalf to give you further laurels. Brenda	2004-03-07 13:05:10
What Gives?	Michael J. Cluff	Mike, I love it. The Walter Mitty of political smarminess. I know I'm missing the references, being Canadian and out of the loop, but I do follow CNN and read Time. I see this as being either Arnie or the current leading contender for the Presidency. You know, whatsisname ... Kerry? Or, wait! Bush?? Something like that ... Or, oops, a fading competitor who's been a front runner right up until people started making their choices. Oh geez. I'm not in the know, am I? Tell me, tell me!! The tie gives it away. What price patriotism? Of course, it can clash with other things. I do think you mean "striped" but "stripped" may be a Freudian moment, eh? Naked beneath the fancy duds, these guys are as mortally weak as the rest of us, even if they're muscular ex-bodybuilders to whom women throw hotel keys. Or Vietnam warriors squinting against the Mekong Delta sun. You touch on what many people probably feel but won't voice: the secret envy of those in power. We can't be and they are; we're better but they got there instead of us. Money talks and all that. So we dream ... lie that we don't ... and yet are relieved it isn't really we who are up there, crying for votes. I may be way off here. I probably don't care because I love the tongue-in-cheekery, the dress details, the last glad word. I just don't know who this guy really is! Maybe that's merciful. Brenda	2004-03-07 12:52:47
Senryu 135	Michael J. Cluff	Oooh, this is nasty at first read! But then the meaning jumps out. The co-ordinated beige tie and tan dress belt present such a suave image. Use of Chris's real name, as opposed to Robin's character identification, implies that perhaps the living actor (in all his paralyzed dingity) would just as soon put behind him all those memories of his former self in its muscularity and power. By suffocating Robin, he's actually purging himself of many associations that are impossible now. He has moved past one kind of hero into another kind entirely. How it must hurt to remember. How hard it must be, even in the face of such great personal strength, to present a bold front all the time. The man is an optimist. He keeps believing in the chances for spinal-cord research developments. But his is a reality, not a child's fantasy of heroism that can't happen. Strong use of senryu form to convey meaning beyond these mere 17 syllables. Good to see you posting again! Brenda	2004-03-07 12:28:52
The Band Leader’s Grandson Is Comatose	Thomas Edward Wright	Oh my ... I don't know what to say. This is beyond good. It's beyond stunning. It's as powerful a poem as I've ever read about mischance and the sudden destruction of that which makes us fully human, with goals and hopes and even hobbies (like playing games). Use of wordplay ("was swell", for instance), vivid imagery, sustained metaphor of games of chance: they're all here. The Monopoly allusion that ends with " ... maybe a railroad?" is horrifying and prescient. He sentenced that paragraph to death. So we parsed the mysterium out of it, Teased a crossword iotum, Scooped out the crimson squash, Grappled with the vascular demons, Left the bone flap in the freezer – Give it plenty of room to grow, Bring him back later, close the door. Who can read this and NOT mentally step backward in horror? Who could not vote for this astonishing piece? Answer: those who have already selected one of your others and don't want to scatter the odds. Month after month, you deliver this kind of riveting material. Surely it will be THIS TIME, I keep telling myself. Brilliant work. Find that publisher! Brenda	2004-03-07 11:55:29
The Elms of St Peter	Thomas Edward Wright	I have no way to critique this astonishing poem now that time's running out (thanks to the crash). But it is another reason I think your work is brilliant and deserves to be collected and published very, very soon (please tell me it will be!). The tree-personality is so beautifully drawn and the speaker shows such empathy. The echo of "California Dreamin' " (4.) was unexpected and poignant. We have lost so many elms over the past couple of decades. I gather that it's happened everywhere. The "browning one" may be replaced by an anxious maple but the others are too terribly aware of their own possible fates. Oh geez, this is SO good!! Brenda	2004-03-06 23:34:56
I Have Memories	Sandra J Kelley	Brutal, you say? OK, I'll try to be blunt ... but wait, I like the poem too much to be negative! Uh-oh, what to do? Let's see ... I'll just toss a few suggestions at you, and if you like any of them, they're yours. if not, no harm done. I have memories of being alive of sunlight touching my skin [maybe a specific part of the skin ... neck? face? spine? thigh?] at the point when it is burning [Nice!!!] memories of cool water lapping ["cool" is sort of expected; is there another modifier that might be surprising? "Hungry", for instance? "Hungry water biting at my ankles"? There is a burning, and an argument, so maybe you don't really want a soothing sensation here ... or do you?] at my ankles as we stroll on the beach arguing about latex [Wow!! Talk about speaking a volume in one word!] memories of my heart beating ["beating" is also kind of expected. I mean, that's what hearts do. "Clenching"? Something a bit more, ummm, conflict-laden ...] deep breathing and sweat [Perfect. Prosaic, unromantic, visceral.] other than that I remember nothing not the sound of your name or the stretch of my throat [Wonderful!! This has a scarifical undercurrent.] as I spoke it I do not [Love the use of breaks to replace punctuation] remember the brush of [maybe "recall" or "imagine" - since you're going to use "remember" again at the end?] your hand in my hair the warm flannel covering your chest the gentle suck [Nice!] of your teeth as your breath filled my ear the rythm [sp: rhythm] we created[] movement [I'd use another spave here] bodies entangled I do not remember I hope these little comments are helpful. I made them mainly because you asked! The irony of this piece (no, more than irony: it's really a paradox) builds throughout. The last line is so simple and stark, and yet so filled with denial, that it lingers with the reader. The lady doth protest too much, of course. This is very good work. If it were mine, I'd submit it to the anthology with pride and confidence. Good luck with the project; I hope your group sells thousands of copies. Even hundreds (sigh) given that it's poetry, and the market's not what it used to be, back when astute readers truly appreciated the poets who spoke to and for them. Ah well, I applaud this undertaking as being most worthy of support. Give us a link on TPL when it's ready for sale. Take Care, Brenda	2004-02-29 13:29:26
Tree of Life	Robert L Tremblay	Hi Robert, This is an unusual concept of the Tree, because you've given it the outline of a palm, and that's much more apropos than the usual deciduous Northern species (apple, or pear, or oak, or whatever). I associate this idea with the Fertile Crescent in which palmate species predominate. There would have been palms in Eden, too. The bottom of the sketch has the wave-like effect of water, as noted in the poem - the cleansing stream (baptism, font of holiness, river of eternity, and so on). The tree draws upon this wellspring as the mortal spirit draws upon God. "I continue be" strikes my ear as being a bit ragged; I keep wanting the "to" (be) in there. "Tan" is also a curious choice, as it seems to be a rather forced rhyme. I don't see tan as being the same as dark, but rather an intermediate and warm color, like sand or brown skin. The concept of a Divine "chime" is interesting because some mystics report that there is a "bell note" which accompanies various spiritual experiences, such as astral projection, and of course the tolling bell that signals one's own death is a familiar image. This isn't as complex an image as some of your other concrete poems but that's not a negative thing at all. Our whole focus is on the single tree and what it represents. The "fan" reference nicely applies to both the branches and the spiritual rejuvenation that the poet is describing. This is a hopeful piece, because it offers the prospect of enlightenment and shows us that we bear considerable responsibility for our own progress. Too many people seem to expect that God will do all the work! Brenda	2004-02-29 13:12:37
A Life Sentence	Mell W. Morris	Mell, this is a powerful, bitter and authentic piece. The voice is so sure and true. Your characteristic internal rhyme and attention to sonics are incorporated as skilfully as ever. You just keep getting better and better, and that's saying a lot because you've started out at such a high level! Your writing style is what I'd call very dense in terms of the imagery and the diction. There are layers and layers, carefully applied, like color to an oil canvas. This style is vivid and vital. It suits your theme so well. I'm not really critiquing as it's too late but I had to tell you this. I've cared for my adoptive mom, who lives with me, since 1986; she will be 91 on February 11, has had two strokes, broken hip, pneumonia, cardiac problems, you name it. She was a dominating force in my youth. I find it hard to reconcile that persona with the frail and compliant wraith she has since become. The contrasts between what we knew as children and our current realities are, indeed, both ironic and unsettling. Yet there are burdens on both ends. "Youth was time served", and now time is being served again. Your title speaks a whole history of this relationship. All of us who are caregivers will see a part of ourselves in this. Congratulations on a win well earned. Brenda	2004-02-08 20:13:41
untitled	Rachel F. Spinoza	Hi Rachel, What exquisite visuals! The embracing image of hugging and bubble-wrapping draws close the haze. I have no vistas of orange groves here in NS, but this is so clear that in my mind, the snapshot takes on vivid colors and definable textures. I like the gutturals in L1, rich and glow in the throat. In S2, the silence of growth reminds us that everything has beginnings and then expands toward maturity. "Bubble-wrapped" is the most amazing metaphor! "Bubble" has a subliminal level; I picture little green gumballs [i.e. bubble gum] on the branches. This is a haiku variant with strong cadence [3-4-3 in terms of accentual pattern]. As a condensed Nature portrait, it is a gem. Much enjoyed! Brenda	2004-02-06 12:40:40
I, raindrop	Robert L Tremblay	Hi Tom, I enjoyed this when I saw it the first time. The essence of being is nicely evoked here, and it is fitting that the last word in each droplet is "be". There's a Zen feeling, as we are immersed in the character of the simple drop. This is a much less complex poem than most of your others but I think that's also part of its appeal. We can also move among the raindrops in various sequences, because it is not a linear piece. Freedom of choice, however, is a recurring theme. Rain is unconfined, which makes it a good metaphor. Water, in general, takes the shape of its container. Thus the collection of droplets might be taken to represent the indwelling human spirit. You do offer us latitude for interpretation! Brenda	2004-02-04 12:51:45
For Mikey and Naneen	Thomas Edward Wright	Oh my ... words are insufficient. If this one tops "martins" it will be understandable. You work kicks the gut and makes us sit up - inhale - admit that not everything is going to be perfect and joyous. Some children meet horrific fates. One can question the existence of any sort of benevolent God when confronted with this reality. In S3, the bitter comment about the failed angels foreshadows what's to come. ... he just let the ol’ Carotid valve go – This makes Mikey's departure his own choice. Of course, we know differently, but giving the ghost some control over the circumstances of its passing is a twist on the usual idea. The closing strophe reminds us that the speaker and his partner are pediatric specialists, whose world is populated with these small spirits. There are so many lost boys like the one described in S4. So many ... I hope you're collecting these poems into a single volume! I know it would find a ready audience. If you could find some talented child artists to add illustrations, even better! This could be a fundraiser for childhood cancers or other medical concerns, as well as a personal testimonial. You are writing some of the most important poetry on this site, I think. It's raw and real; it deserves to be supported and applauded. There is nobody writing like you do on any poetry site I've visited. Please, keep on keeping on with this. Eventually, a publisher has GOT to find what you're writing and then I can say "I knew him when ..." Brenda	2004-02-04 09:40:51
A Vanishing Trick	Rebecca Lee	Excellent use of sustained metaphor that centers around a theme of error, regret and attempted concealment. The file cabinet idea, while not necessarily a new one, is treated in a fresh way. The speaker's dialogue with his/her "other self" nicely advances the development of the inner struggle. Lower case does not allow either side to dominate. If we had an italics function on this site, I'd suggest using italics for the second internal speaker. Use of "we" reveals the main speaker's awareness of his or her dual persona. One half wants to obliterate the memory, while the other is content with simply burying it. "ugly/not beautiful/festering/not forever" - the mistake isn't so horrible, yet one part of the psyche blows it out of proportion. The other is more pragmatic. At any given moment, the individual's stance will shift; hence, the chameleon comparison. Very nicely done. it's a pleasure to read your work. Brenda	2004-02-04 09:24:51
The Devil's Ballet D'Action with Cardinal Law	Robert L Tremblay	Robert: I have NO idea how you manage to do these intricate pieces! This isn't a critique, as I'm at work and time's running out ... but I can't let this pass without at least commenting. The effort involved is tremendous, which I realize. The tough part would be not only to craft a shape that works, but to create the verbal component in a logical way. AND do it in IP. With rhyme, and consistent use of alliteration. Loading millstones carved in limestone, marbled Fine on collared necks with voices, garbled. Great use of various consonants here! L/m/r ... even reading the line out loud imitates the garbled effect. In the end, the isolated figure of Law, devoid of company and awaiting judgment, is both pathetic and repulsive. The initial "act denied" has led him to this place. A man of God does not avert his eyes when he knows that evil is being done. Those who stand by and fail to intervene are the devil's partners, for sure. This may not be poetry to everyone's taste - for no poem can be all things to all readers - but it's undeniably sincere, unique and very difficult to execute. Regards, Brenda	2004-02-04 09:10:33
martins	Thomas Edward Wright	Whew! This is an astonishing tour-de-force and an extremely important poem, to boot. You lead us where few can ever enter and we learn more than we'd imagined possible. (At least, I know I have done so). It's hard to know what to say, really. This rises above and beyond my critical skill. The lower-case "i" and "martin" serves to underline our relative lack of signifiance to the overall unfolding of the human destiny. Yet martin serves his instructive purpose and the speaker fulfils his own half of the bargain by becoming a doctor, who now understands what lies beneath the surface. The stairs down into the morgue also parallel the speaker's descent into the cadaver, deeper and deeper. In the end, the tulips offer a sort of absolution to the speaker for having intruded into martin's chest cavity and removed his heart. The rationale for its burial is never explicitly stated but we can comprehend it nonetheless. The flowers themselves are egg-shaped and imply a form of immortality. The bright redness is the color of blood and, therefore, of life. Over and over, martin's memory is resurrected ... and he stands for all the martins, the plural of your title, who allow us to peer into them and memorize their secrets. One small slip: sure we’d spayed or spread the right guard in there amongst the curly hairs. You want "sprayed", unless you are doing very weird things to your armpits. This may almost be "too much poem" to glean the requisite numbers of votes for a top placing ... but I hope not! Even readers who tend to bypass lengthy works will find themselves inexorably pulled into this one. It says far more than most poetry manages to accomplish. It's rare and splendid. Brenda	2004-02-01 20:34:53
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