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
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
Ashes	Rick Barnes	Rick: I have been sitting here staring at the screen so long but I will overcome my trembles and comment. I refuse to be rendered wordless but I cannot say what I have encountered in your poem. Such spare writing that whelms me to cliches. The hands of a master. Beauty is forever. I tried to follow to the depths your poem was taking me and got "the bends." I cannot explain the terror of my atavistic response to "Ashes". Metaphoric? Understated? Ashes to ashes?" Nothing holds ashes together. ...Not even color survives." Then the near-whimsy of "Such a fire." The philosophical: "One needs to stand in the absence of warmth to grasp degree." Your rhymes set in just the right places. And always the insinuation of sensuality: "Everything else is afterglow." The philosophical: "Light and warmth leave nothing behind that was not there when they arrived, no more cold, no less dark." The epiphany: "Ashes are what we find when the spark has gone." A metaphor for an ending relationship? For me, this is so much more and touches such primitive places in my self, I cannot speak it. Your best by far. Thank you. Your friend, Mell	2004-05-14 15:06:00
Beside the Gate	Joanne M Uppendahl	Dearest LL: This is my first day back on the computer but I want to say congrats for your double win! Guess who was pulling for you, as always? This time I had a bit of vp. Thanks also for the help. I try to keep a perspective on life, but four walls do not give much scope. Plus the horrid depression is almost worse than the body pain. I must comment, however briefly, because not an hour ago, I posted a poem about "home." I find the continuing coincidences interesting. Yours is worthier (big surprise) and you employ the metaphor of gate awaiting by your ultimate home which is a lovely ending...but oh, the beauty in between! Home is all the truth I know where cares turn to the pillow and marigolds sleep outside my door. Your linguistry grows like your (now) sleeping marigolds. Your opening line is brilliant, LL. Home is also the place where feelings are revealed in pillows (soft crying) so the marigolds' sleep will not be disturbed. Superb assonance. Here the steaming cup warms my fingers, and books stand by in somber readiness. While the cup warms your hand, the books stand ready to warm your mind and spirit. The play with "somber readiness" is a fine touch. The home you depict is an appealing abode as one knows the kettle is on the hob, books abound for perusal...a place I want to be. I find somber an unusual adj. for books then I recall your penchant for sentries. Am I close? Seasons grow about this house, like ivy blanketing an old tree. I am held in this space below the stars, above earth's pumping heart. Your simile that house is covered by seasons as ivy "blanketing" an old tree... quite marvelous. Such resonant imagery...the idea of internal coziness of the house is strengthened in this stanza. Grow/old/below and ivy/tree and stars/heart and etc, etc. You use the word "held" by the house and I take it as if in someone's arms, not against your will or a prison-like place. Home is all the truth I know; it stays my longing for another place where beside the gate, a radiant angel waits. The repetition of the 1st line works well here and you tell us that your home quells or satisfies the longing for your true home in empyrean realms. And there he is, your special angel, waiting for this moment when he may welcome you home. Of course, this metaphor adds to the pearly gates notion and the sentinel angel. Simply exquisite writing, LL. I find peace and acceptance of what is in your poem but an underlying pining for your ultimate home. The feeling leaves me in a melancholy state although poet does not convey that yearning directly. Another deftly-done poem by our Joyful Emeritus who is of such tender sensitivity to her surroundings, she doesn't wake her snoozing flowers. A treasure beyond measure and I will stop now for my rest but you have lightened my darkened room with the beauty of your words. Brava! Best always, Mell	2004-05-13 14:19:40
The Last Visit	Sherri L. West	Sherri: I wanted to sample some of your poetry and this is my first look-see. The title is ominous because the finality of a "last" visit. Your format is stanzaic free verse, my favorite form. Tires crunched on the gravel drive, my heart thumped in anticipation. Lemon trees burdened with spring's first blossoms blessed the afternoon air. You met us on the walkway; your frailty was unfamiliar. Once-sturdy limbs were now withered and wobbly. I don't cut and paste...I like typing out the lines lest I miss a nuance. Tires crunching on gravel is a very solid opening phrase...good visual and auditory image. I think you could do better than "thump" for your heart for more unique phrasing. Ached, shivered, quivered, drummed, vibrated, etc. I can smell the lemon trees burdened with blossoms that blessed the air. Very well rendered with your alliteratives. Now poet encounters grandmother and is stunned by her deterioration. Frailty. unfamiliar are great together as well as withered/wobbly. I reach to hug your thin, bowed shoulders. Your wary "Welcome-stranger-have-we-met-before" smile pierced my soul. (Don't you remember me? My mind stumbled in stunned disbelief; I am the firstborn of your firstborn, the speacial one, you once told me.( so) The bowed shoulders is vivid imagery as if this woman has carried many loads in her lifetime. Her failure to recognize you hurts badly as you think of reminders in your head. Wary/welcome and stumbled/stunned add euphony and texture. "pierced my soul" is a bit overused and I think you are capable of crisper descriptors of your feelings. Your smile was a dagger wound, lanced my spirit, sabered my soul, cut like a cleaver, severed my sensibilities, etc, etc. Gentle mercy sheltered you (from) loss of husband and son but I lost you in the haze of the past. My mutations make this tercet a quatrain so the overall pattern is achieved. During lazy days you spent in the shade, you remembered your childhood but not mine. We sipped cooled lemonade and yearned (to) connect hearts and souls. Did the lemonade come from the lemon tree? Such assonance in this stanza: lazy/days/shade/lemonade. Old pictures and (old) memories uncovered (revealed?) unknown treasures. I was amazed (at) the you I never knew. You recalled someone with my name... In photos of a young woman on the wind-whipped prairie, I searched your face and found my spirit. Again, to even the tercet to a quatrain. "Searched" her face and "found my spirit" are simply exquisite. I came seeking comfort from my past and left with strength from yours. You gave me a gift you didn't know you had. And now I know I am special, because of you...Can you see that I am crying? The last stanza does not have to conform to any others. And your last two stanzas are like brush strokes from an artist using watercolors. Soft, plangent, poignant. Your epiphany in the final two stanzas is deftly defined. You found your own strength not in memories of your childhood but in memories of hers. Your grandmother also gives you the greatest of all feelings: "I am special." Do you realize how rare it is to find a poem with an epiphany? When read, it lifts my spirits like no other poems. This is a quite pleasing read, filled with special lyricism that emanates from your pen. I didn't point out a lot of your poetic devices as we both know where they are placed. The poem is a encomium to your grandmother and written with such tenderson and love, the reader senses this is from reality, what you really think of your grandmother. (As opposed to a contrived, fictional person). You have a gift with words and I hope to read many more poems from you. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-05-04 16:01:21
Midnight Stallion	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: This is the first month I've felt up to critiquing and I owe many, many more to the web site. I keep meaning to e-mail you; I told Sherri to forward my reply to you. In this nature poem, poet's attention centers on one creature: a beautiful black horse. You apparently encounter the stallion in the wilderness and that could be very frightening. "He seemed poised for flight, this wild gallant stallion of strength." His hoofs of thunder (great) pawed earth's surface and a falcon *skulked* overhead, vulpine by nature, he dove then soared across time and the mystic peaks that prop up heaven. My being was wrapped in a mantle of fear with heartbeats that pounded and pulsed at (in?) my chest. I marked skulked as it is a wonderful word for falcon activity. The other beautiful imagery that spoke to my senses: "soared across time" and "the mystic peaks that prop up heaven." Superlative descriptors, my friend. The only tired or overused word in the poem is "mantle" of fear. You, the poetess of the realm, can conjure a crisper phrase than that. "Cloak" is also a cliche but nothing jumps into my mind at the moment. Stanza 3, you continue your meeting with the horse and as he flares his nostrils, you stand still, facing him. Then you put out your hand and he nuzzles it. So lovely to imagine. "That renegade of beauty engraved romantic magic on a parched, uncluttered plain and the chained palisades of my heart." Ah, soothing and rewarding for the reader. He broke your defenses, the fences you keep round your heart. Splendid, Marilyn, simply splendiferous. I didn't mention your rhymes but enjoyed them as well as your allits such as coat/color and stallion/strength. But more than the poetics of the piece is the encounter you describe. How I envy you. This should be high on the list but this month's list is quite weird, IMO. Best wishes ever, Mell	2004-05-02 18:25:05
Twisters	Sherri L Smith	Sherri: I saw I was at the top of the critiquers so decided to look at more poems. Yours caught my eye because I live in "tornado alley" and wrote a poem about one (long ago). Winds ravishing, whipping through the Midwest Rain blowing sideways Spotters scouting the skies Watches, warnings issued Watching the weather channel, The radar, greens, yellows, reds... Your choice of verbs is very nice: ravish, whip,scout,watch, etc. I like "rain blowing sideways" as I have seen that occur and you realize this is no ordinary storm. Radar red: sufficient to raise the hairs on anyone's neck. Your allits are appealing as well in lines 3, 4, 5. Now the pace quickens. Suddenly sirens, dash to shelter Please God, I pray, protect my loved ones The sound of a freight train Magnified many times over Trees uprooted, Tumbling onto houses and cars... You've deftly depicted a landscape of ruination. Like the aftermath of a hurricane. Sirens and the dash to shelter as you pray are very realistic. I've always heard that twisters sound like freight trains. I have also heard about a straw being blown into a solid object. Again, Sherri, your linguistry works very well as the pace takes hold and I feel like rushing to the end. And your ending portrays the misery: Survivors picking through the rubble Looking for memories to salvage. Springtime in the Midwest. I see those shots on TV where people are picking through total debris, hopeful of finding one photo, you said memory which is perfect here. And as you tell us "in the blink of an eye." This is the season for tornadoes so we'd best buckle our seat belts and be ready to roll. A real action-packed poem that is sure to sell. You have been more successful than anyone at TPL in getting his/her work published. Good luck on this one, too. I see nothing that needs changing. Best, Mell	2004-05-02 17:46:19
Run Mommy Run	DeniMari Z.	DeniMari: I'm still doing critiques to build up some voting power as I never have any say in the contest. Your title jumped out at me and I had to read to see where the poet was going. By then, I was beguiled by the poem and have to comment. You have definitely captured the life of a working mother and possibly a single working mother. The manner or format used and the pacing of your words make me feel very hurried, the way the woman in the poem must feel. Whelmed by all she has to do in one day. Run, Mommy, run, from first sight of the sun, into the kitchen, coffee on, all day at work, you'll be gone, run, Mommy, run. Sounds like what her children would say. She's gone at work all day, away from home and her "real" life. Hurry up or you'll be late corporate supervisors sit and wait, to look down their nose(s) at you. Too bad, the rent is due. Your final line of S 2 are a gut-punch. She can't tell them to mind their manners as she needs the job to pay the rent. "corporate supervisors" stopped the flow for me. I don't know if anyone else had that reaction. I thought of "the bosses in Armani" or "the manicured men in three-piece suits" ...there are many examples you could use. This is nitpicky and if no one else commented, forget it. I haven't commented on your poetics but your rhymes are spot on and lend a texture to the piece. run/sun and gone/on and peers/years and you/due...are merely a few examples. Stanza 3 deals with traffic (the worst for me), speeders, anonymous faces of co-workers. The defamiliarizing by corporate America. The dehumanizing by corporate America. You have excelled here with your descriptors. Run, Mommy, run, from the first sight of the sun, chasing your back to stay on track, this corporate equa(t)ion makes you numb, Run, Mommy, run. Nice ending as it brings the reader full circle which furthers the point you are making. The repetition adds emphasis to this Mommy's situation, treadmilling. I like the phrase: "chasing your back to stay on track." In toto, this is a very well-done poem and I imagine magazines for working women would accept it for publication. I don't have a current Poet's Market, but I wish you the best with getting this accepted for wide readership. Good luck now and with future poems, Mell Morris	2004-05-01 18:51:40
Summer	Sherri L Smith	Sherri: I haven't seen a poem of yours in ages! I'm still critiquing, not to win anything but to get some voting power which I never have. I rarely review haiku because there's not enough words for me to explore and you know how I love words. But yours is reminiscent of so many summers, smelling someone's steak on the grill in their back yard until you have to go buy steaks and do the same! There is no aroma on earth comparable to the scent you depict in your first line herein. "The sizzle of steak" is home, family, the USA, apple pie, and the flag. Of course, the fact that your haiku has ten sibilant words...SSSSSSSS... like the sizzle of the steak, has great appeal for me. That soft vocable charms me as much as the hard C or K sound. "symphony of summer sounds"...beautiful liguistry as this conjures images for me of quiet summer nights when you can hear crickets, some bird song, frogs, and the rustle of the wind through the trees or shrubs. Nothing dearer to my heart than euphony in poetry: a symphony of sound. "sun rays on bare arms"...and bare feet as well. I used to stay barefoot all summer except for church on Sunday when my mother made me wear shoes. Bare arms in Texas summers with full sun rays are not always happy times but I comprehend the spirit of your meaning here. Short and sweet, terse and succinct, this haiku is rare for it evokes my senses and makes me reminisce about childhood summers. Excellent work! Best wishes, Mell	2004-05-01 18:09:40
Untitled 2	stephen g skipper	Stephen: This is a lovely tribute to your wife so recently lost to you. I am glad you are writing about her because that act in itself can be palliative. Some say cathartic. I wish they were titled but I'm sure you have a reason for the "Paula Poems" to remain untitled. I've had a season of joy, Followed by a season of sorrows, Where she has gone, I will surely follow. The hounds of winter (,) Are howling on the wind. I see her face, beautiful As ever, (so) easy to remember. In Stanza 1 I would change line 2: "Then a season of sorrow". The reason for the suggestion is to even the meter between lines 1 and 2 and to eliminate using "follow" twice. In the 1st stanza, poet tells of his joys and sorrows, calls them "seasons". I like this word because it has the connotation of change which is certainly true in your case. The first two lines of Stanza 2 are wonderful. Hounds/howling and winter/wind are grand word choices. I know how the memory of her beautiful face must haunt you. Stanza 3 paints a vivid scene. I see a man outdoors, clouds around, and he has his arms open and extended waiting for a thunderbolt of reason. (Nice back rhyme to season). My heart says the man would like to be struck by lightning as he would immediately be joined with his beloved. "Even though she's so close now." I think this is a beautiful structure to have that one line by itself to show its importance. In your lovely final stanza, I would make the 3rd line into two, keeping your quatrain pattern going. "Utter love and passion" set as fourth line would be stunning in format. It's a beautiful line in whatever form...these are my tiny suggestions only. Your loving elegy to your wife is evocative and I hope to see more of same. Bravo and best wishes, Mell	2004-05-01 17:43:00
Demon	Mark Andrew Hislop	Mark: You MUST remember to reply to me for postings at the end of the month get forgotten. It takes me such time and effort to review a piece so bear with my irracible self! "Demon" is excellent but a true melancholia that one must struggle to deny the devil his soul. Said devil has never wanted me so you must possess many wondrous qualities that both God and Satan want you. It is written in the stars, and fool I do embrace them Like a trance, I whirl my dervish Heart, barren, barren of passion In the gyre, bringing forth and bringing forth My one, my only doom. The first stanza is brilliant and leaves me dizzy after all the repeated spinning. The reiteration in lines 4 and 5 are affective to me. How truly sad to have a barren heart and now you tell us why the devil wants you. With barren heart, you are wide-armed vulnerable for attack. Your stanza also limned a picture for me of all the monks in trance, whirling as you as well because it is written in your destiny of stars. Doom is a powerful word with which to end your 1st stanza. Stanza 2 finds you still in spiral motion, your "estranged hand" up for angels but you turn your back on good. I especially like the estranged hand as that is unique and original. And there once more, you opt for evil and doom, willing to exchange your innocence for degradation and loss of salvation. You are wicked deep and this 2nd stanza has me wanting to converse seriously with poet to de-marginalize his thinking, his accepting of fate. Ah, such liquid lightning you pen, Mark! God save me, save me From my whirling turn away, Sense my senseless soul and save me From the callous power of my frailty. Cease the wheel, the whirl, the gyre And set me, God, Oh set me right And forgive those awful stars that I embrace. Ah the epiphany that poet sees the light and turns to God for help in getting off the merry-go-round. Redemption is yours, once you ask in sixteen words of susurration. Wisps of prayer to God. A fine ending so the readers can relax and quit holding their collective breath. (I have been leaning forward, on the edge of my chair). You must really be special in that you not only ask God to help you but also to forgive "those awful stars". That shows more generosity of spirit than I have! I would like the ending much more if it closed with: "Oh, set me right." For me, that has much more eclat than those hideous stars. Mark, if I didn't know better, I would swear I'm reading Blake. I don't know if you even care for him as poet but every nuance between the lines shouted Blake to me. That is, of course, high acclaim but your poem is polished and accomplished. I think you could easily get it published, especially in the many, many publications that want spiritual poetry. Anyway, be sure and let me know if I am way off kilter from your intended import and congratulations on the composition of this startling poem. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-04-30 16:05:35
Creature Comforts	Mick Fraser	Mick: I have some problems dissecting this poem in terms of point of view or who speaks when. I'm certain it is obvious to you (and perhaps everyone else) and I am having a brainless moment here. I like the title. I like that you see the world through the eyes of cats and interesting that you think cats see the world through the eyes of old horses. Stanzas 1 and 2 are in the 1st person so I assume it is poet who speaks. Second stanza is from cat's p.o.v. written in third person and stanza four is from the horse's mouth? If this is accurate, I'm on the right path. You say as cat, you are curious, frightened and uncaring. These traits belong to many cats I've known as in "I mostly want to be left alone." It's odd hearing that phrase from a poet and I wonder to whom you refer: family, friends, co-workers and people in general? I am a recluse of sorts and relate to the want-to-be-alone notion. Or as the poet said, "The world is too much with us." It really strikes me because in S3 you are lying on your favorite recliner just as the same poet (Wordsworth) lies on his couch. S2 we see cat's look at the world thru the horses's eyes: curious, frightened, disgusted but wanting love. This is a novel concept for me. Thanks for tendering it. The naughty poet has a water bowl of whiskey, his "catnip" after reclinering. This is quite clever and humorous. S3 is filled with harmony of L's and I like the allits in lapping/liquid. Now the horse's view of morsels of comfort (nice phrase) in her feeding trough. Most equine creatures have large blunt teeth but it is too-totally cool that you include it as imagery in your poem. That single detail captures me and lightens the poem. Your final line is poignant and plaintive and plangent, "She is never nourished." Are you really speaking of the horse or is this a metaphor for a lot of people in the world? The second, I think, which broadens the scope of your metaphor. Indeed your entire poem is like an MMPI, a psychological tool for measuring personality traits. They are there, not all but many. To create and deliver the poem through the eyes of animals is unique and imaginative. (And a break from prose). Hope I interpreted it close to your intent but even if I missed, I greatly enjoyed the read. Kudos! Mell Morris	2004-04-27 19:01:02
Hat Language	Marcia McCaslin	Marcia: I saw this when posted and knew I HAD to comment and I've watching and found it today at #45 on my list. So everyone at TPL has told you what they think but I still want to add my two cents because the poem is of great appeal for me. I like the title and somehow knew this was the kind of poem to be read slowly, tasting each savory word. And one to which I will return when in a certain mood. The length and my stamina preclude a line-by-line scan so I will tell you the parts I particularly liked. Okay? This is a narrative poem and they don't seem to have rules about stanza lengths or rhymes, etc. I can't stop myself from mentally arranging it in traditional form: It is a straw Stetson (cowboy) hat, once shapely and crisp from the factory, that hangs on a peg by the door. It is approaching the end of its seasons and although frayed and finger-smudged, it is still a possession of great value and has earned Old Comfy Slipper status. I already love the hat on its peg and you tell us some of its stories. "Earned the old- slipper status" is wonderful phrasing. Your fricative allits in frayed/finger echo with factory/fact/comfy. I know your hat because my grandfathers and father wore same. I don't know if Wyoming and Texas hats differ but I doubt it. A hat would recount its adventures with "eloquence." Love it! Your Stanza 4 has rhymes and allits and assonance which quicken the pace of the poem. Rain/rodeos/roping but first lost and tossed, terrible twisters, string becoming upset and hat goes in river. Riding fence and ridges in heat and blizzards, dust and hail. How enduring this endearing hat would prove to be! No matter the water, dust, hail...they could ruin a man's hat! That made me smile out loud. Stanza 5 finds the frication returned in six vocables which brings harmony to my musical heart. I can hear the music in your word choices and would guess you are a musician even if I didn't know. And of course, our hat which speaks so eloquently would doff to a lady, tip to friends at the bar. (And on the street, but if in pickup, fingers say hello, hat stays put, at least in Texas). Nice rhymes in Stanza 5 as throughout your entire poem. Your hat of course, would be worn by a patriot, placed over the heart when the nation is honored and hung in hand at sad occasions such as burials. Your hat not only speaks, tells a grand and florid tale, but has good manners as well. Your lovely hat as seen through your artist's eyes is stepped on, slapped, sworn at, snugged, circled, swatted, shooed, sworded, twirled and collected. "Its sweat band will forever testify to the hard work of a cowboy." I particularly favor this line as it states what the hat represents...the theme of your poem and why the hat becomes a symbol for so many things that are good and natural and earthly. Your final stanza deals with the retirement of beloved hat (already spotted the new one) and what lovely, touching desires it has! To be unwoven and placed as bedding in barn for lambs or calves and "provide the closeness and warmth to which an old curled hat has grown accustomed." That is fantastic and evocative and shows us of what substance the hat is made...and I don't mean straw. Having given a lifetime of difficult service, its humble ambitions are to add warmth to a young animal. Ah, the tender touch you render, Marcia. I will not belabor the point, but your lovely ode to a hat, representative of all the same type hats, is poignant and sparkled a touch in my heart. The symbolism of the hat is as granite-like as Frost's symbolism in his birch tree or path not chosen or mending wall. You have done a beauteous job and that it why I HAD to comment. Brava! Mell	2004-04-26 18:10:41
Instructions for My Burial	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joyful Emeritus: Your poem is #47 on my list and there's no way it will wend its way higher. I've been trying to amass a few points so I will have a tiny bit of v.p. But which Uppendahl fan can resist this? That "Instructions for My Burial" can make me laugh aloud is a miracle of writing. Sad as the thought of your obit, your instructions are so YOU. Dress me in my moss green sweater, my mother's pearls, clean jeans and soft socks. I love the color moss green and it would be a good color for you based on the one photo I've seen. "Soft socks" seep comfort in its alliterative way and all you mention are leisure-wear, comfy clothes with one touch of elegance...mother's pearls. These are the perfect burial wear, IMO. Place a granite coffee pot at my head pine cones at my feet, grandmother's "Blue Monday Poems" in my hands. Does granite pot refer to those old deep-blue ones with a handle? Unfamiliar with your grandmother's poetry, her title is apropos for the occasion. It doesn't get mush sadder than blue Monday when someone dies. I picture that blue coffee pot and the blue poems with pine cones added and it's quite the scene! I envision the pine cones as brown (mine would be gilded because my sister would add that artificial touch) with their scent intact. Pour sea water, enough to cover. This is reminiscent of a recipe but such an irony, I smiled. Of course, you must rest eternally in your soothing sea, pickled in her brine. In fact, if not for the sensibilities of your family who need to visit your burial site, I wager you would opt to be buried at sea. Read Psalm 131, "Silver Pennies", Mary Oliver's "What Do We Know". Again, not familiar with the last two works cited but I looked up Psalm 131, easy for it follows my favorite Psalm, and the bible quickly opens to that page. "Surely I have behaved and quieted myself"...too true. "My soul is even as a weaned child"...such wondrous words you choose, Joanne! I find your eyes lofty but I comprehend the import of humility herein. Haughty heart? Never! Then your choice of picture to accompany your obit. Hysterical and this is where I laughed. "Close-up snapshot of the dog's nose." I would add photos from Hubble and one of Ms. Tsa. Musicians, if available: red-headed woodpeckers, Pacific tree frogs, rain. Your music is nothing short of divine and I would have anticipated the sound of a bird. The thought of the tree-frog sounds is wonderful and your single, ending word perfect. It is also YOU. You have taken what would normally seem a morbid topic and woven a tapestry of clear, simple beauty. There is a spareness here of grand appeal with a soupcon of humor, a measure of melancholy placed just so. This is one of the type poems that brings laughter and tears. As you routinely accomplish with all of your pieces. This one touches deeply, especially to those of us who have come to "know" you through your writing. The spirituality is present as I would expect, your auntiness in old jeans with soft socks (only you), your vision in citing the lack of lofty eyes. Your imaginative gifts in selection of photo, your appreciation for the best music in your choice of musicians. This is grand, superlative, an eclat for my simple Sunday. My deepest thanks to you for sharing your richness with us. Standing ovation!! Nekk	2004-04-25 16:27:51
An Atheistic Affermation of Faith	Paul R Lindenmeyer	Paul: Good to see a poem by you. I'm sure you've already noted your title typo and all and sundry will point to it. I like your novel structure, somewhat of a calligram or whatever those figure poems are called. I do not recall seeing this before but I have been absent a great deal. Your poem is reminiscent of the old aphorism: there are no atheists in foxholes. The difference here is yours is a dialogue piece with Stanza 1 addressed from 1st person to 2nd and Stanza 2 is the reply of the addressee in 1st person. Don't I complicate matters! But I point it out because I find it clever and a rarity in the poetry at TPL. "At your last moment, you must surely call out to God! Yes, with all my strength I will cry out! My voice joining others, ringing out, v resounding through the i d . ." There are pleasant vocables herein...call/cry are harmonious options for verbs. Likewise the use of voice/void puts our mouths in the same formation. The allits of ringing/resounding are noted and I like the fact that the atheist feels he will not be alone but his calling aloud joined with other voices. "With all my strength" packs the most power as the non-believer affirms his resolution to turn to God at the last moment. What is a nonplus for me is the fact that we may not know when our last moment comes and so his vow is not worth that much. Too bad he cannot approach God now when there is time. For me, that is the TIC irony of your poem. You deliver this in an understated manner so the reader must attend with an inner ear. Those with faith have little patience with atheists, IMO, so the dialogue opens a window that needs opening. Your poetry is often spiritual and we have many religious poets on board so I know they warmly respond to your postings. Paul, I enjoyed this and find nothing to add nor delete. I think your theme is interesting and important, tied up in a tight bundle, succinct and terse. Spare writing has a strong appeal for me so thank you for posting. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-04-17 15:43:36
What is Rooted We Revisit in Sleep	G. Donald Cribbs	Donald: I have not seen your poetry before; if you are new, welcome. If I've missed you before, it's a pleasure to review a new poem. My printer had a mind of its own in copying out your poem; the over-long lines couldn't be handled so the machine placed them wherever. I've not had that occur before. I am taken with your title which seems the theme of your poem. I favor free-verse constructs but your piece appears a bit over-long in length of lines at first glance. The form relates a great deal about the poem and might put some people off. I don't cut and paste but often rewrite portions of a poem to get the best taste possible. "Tonight we closed the bookstore, a warm privacy of illumination clustered around and around us. Our hunger poured over pages of words, gobbled down with sips of coffee. This pleasant frolicking lightens steps taken to the field, and the heavied ones afterward." Nice first stanza depicts two people in a cozy bookstore scene. I like "a warm privacy of illumination clustered, etc". Crisp descriptors to convey the notion of people united in feelings and ideas. Words were ingested, coffee sipped...a rolicking good time before going to the field. To work is the implication since steps returning are heavy. As reader, I think of what the relationship might be between moments of togetherness in a bookstore to going to fields...then I recalled your title. The bookstore scene, the fields and then Stanza 2 in the boats are parts of dream sequences. What is rooted for you apparently include the sycamore with its significance, the wheat fields, the sea, forms in nature. In S2, I find "rippled currents edged in deep night" a lovely choice of words. I also like the originality of your footprints leaving "no sound." Your imagery is deftly limned and stimulates the reader's senses. An indication of an experienced poet with knowledge of poetic device and technique. Your piece is not over-laden with allieteration or rhymes and were it not as verbose, there would be a spareness about it which would be outstanding. You dub your sycamore "a sentinel" which is a bit overused but it guards sacred moments which you explicate in your notes. "Altared before us" is exquisite as is the delineation of wife's throat of "delicious and silky darkness." I think Stanza 4 is the framework upon which the significance/import of your poem rests: "The wind is hoarse from wailing all night, wheat threshed upon the ground. From here we see each marker, every dog-eared page, words risen prayers before these life altars. One sleep passes into another (sleep), days tumbling end over end. Under the torpid darkness of trees, the body slowly heals." Ah, lovely. A hoarse wind, words risen prayers before life altars, torpid darkness of trees where the body heals. Your continued metaphor of life comprised of books (some dog-eared) and words is affective. Words are prayers in your analogy which says the poet finds words holy with which I agree. Your final stanza reveals the importance of the sycamore to both of you, now wordless. With no words or prayers available, you say your mouths are open to receive and the poet ponders what to give: "The hope of trees, new leaves." Nice ending for your rooted things revisited. You achieve quite a bit here with a singular tree. I am reminded of an oak tree in a small town which is very old and extends across a graveled road like a bower. The locals call it the "wedding tree" because so many people have been married neath its sheltering branches. Sorry for the divagation but your poem, as most good poems do, brings warm feelings and memories. You as poet know that when readers share their own experiences when reviewing your poetry, your poem is an evocative one. Healing and new life or regeneration of old life, all of which rests in the shelter of your tree, is a splendid notion for your poem which I enjoyed. I think it could be tightened a bit, extraneous words deleted except for the essentials. You demonstrate a talent with composition, visuals and vocables. I hope you will continue to share your lovely poetry with us at TPL. My best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-04-16 15:52:24
japanese verse 45 (Stream)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Erzahl: You may recall that I rarely critique haiku as the construct gives such sparse words to examine. I , being verbose, cannot seem to find the flavor of seventeen syllables. Your metaphoric "Stream" has the taste of creme brulee for me. (My favorite rich dessert). In succint and terse terms, you render a depth (de profundis), an image that can be interpreted in countless ways. Hidden rivulet Midst the shoulders of mountains Runs to open sea I like "rivulet" and that it is "hidden" but with protection from the personified mountains, it bravely runs to the receiving arms of open sea. I see your sibilance, assonance, and read aloud, your vocables are harmonious. However, in "Stream", it is the message/theme which stimulates my spirit. This magical, mystical poem shows the poet has a wild and metaphysical heart, if you don't mind my saying so. Anyone who conjures the feelings of readers in this way shows something about his own character. (IMO). The open sea can be a metaphor for numerous things but those of us enchanted by the sea can see it as sheltering, comforting, and regenerative. "Stream" could represent a person's epiphany...discovering an important truth for the first time, seeing the world in a new light. It is reminiscent of someone's turning on a light in a darkened room. "Stream" might also signify a soul reuniting with God, running to Him as the ultimate optative factor. Your poem also gives me the image of a child hurtling to the open arms of his mother, his sanctuary. I'm reclusive as your rivulet and perhaps that is the reason your words spark such flames within me.` Sincerely, it has been a rare occasion when a haiku captured me in this manner. Don't misunderstand, please; I read every word you write and each of your poems demonstrates the stroke of genius, the skill and art you bring to your writing. But "Stream" absolutely shouts to me from the page. Last month, I wrote a lengthy review of "Fiasco" but it got lost when TPL wavered momentarily. I lack the strength and health to repeat and rewrite at this time when I am not well. I thought it engaging and worthy and it should have placed higher on the winners' list. We all know that the list lists, tilts, wobbles, and shifts according to who has the most voting power and as has been said repeatedly, some of the finest poems do not find an audience. Personally, my poems which I truly love may not do well at all when my poems with less quality/strength jump to the top or even win! Forgive my verbosity of analysis but I needed to tell you of the magic of your writing and particularly "Stream", an exquisitely-written piece. Bravo! Best wishes, Mell	2004-04-15 12:25:48
with a tranquil passion burning	zen sutherland	zen: This is the first of your poems I have seen, a lovely free-verse poem replete with poetic devices, too numerous to name. Love poems tend to be too-too or trite or boring for me but your fine imagery gives me a crisp and fresh meaning. Your title is your first line, an oxymoron that I really like, but I am always told it weakens a poem to use the 1st line for the title. So many of the master's poems are so entitled because the printers had to put something at the top. "with a tranquil passion burning in your eyes i watch your soft face through curtain-filtered morning light quieter and more quiet until i notice an unfolding like a flower or a soul expanding within them and i see sheer delicate lines the same way spider webs are lit by summer's backlight the lines of the universe that tether you to me or us to us, back and forth stitching my soul to yours." I do not cut and paste--this is one way I unravel a poem to catch every nuance as I copy the words. Your imagery of two persons in bed, a loving relationship, and poet watches the other's face awaken as does the day. I picture the light in delicate, lacy patterns thru the curtains. "An unfolding like a flower" is a good simile, even better "a soul expanding" and best spider webs backlit by summer's light. The third is especially fresh and crisp. You are tethered to each other and the originality of your phrasing "us to us" and "stitching my soul to yours" is pleasing to the reader. Strong images that appeal to the senses and fully engage the reader. Stanza 2 is an analogy of your love to the voice of a mother which remains in a person's head, shaping his/her life. Sounds and touches "folded into our feelings of presence and self-worth." Simply exquisite writing here. "if i watch so long that time stutters for a moment the film reverses and it draws me down, encloses me softly in your gaze a gaze that surrounds my heart and tickles it too." A bit of playfulness at the end line but the metaphor of time "stuttering" is new and deftly limnned. One cannot speak too earnestly about originality as everything has been written before. My encomium may seem over-done but it is sincere because there is nil new under the sun. When I read fresh descriptors such as these delivered in your poem, I feel renewed myself. "wraps me in layers of moments spent when i cannot see your eyes but know they're around me with a tranquil passion burning." Lovely to bring the poem full circle, ending where you started but with a plethora of love between. This is therefore satisfying to this reader. Small case, little punctuation is great but stay consistent...I am nitpicking the capital I: Stanza 1 twice and Stanza 4 once. Also, Stanza 1, I think you can lose the "and" in line 8 and the "same" in line 9. Your poem shows skill and a knowledge of poetry. I don't delineate each poetic device because we both know where they are but your internal rhymes, alliteration, and assonance are noted as in "forgotton/folded/feelings/self" which sparkle in Stanza 2. The most important aspect of a poem is its theme (love) and the imagery used to bring the message to the reader's senses. (My opinion). As stated, you delight with fresh images in places, in others, you might work on honing them to the polish of your "time stutters" or "spider webs are lit by summers backlight." Your pacing is good; I didn't get bored nor bogged down nor did I race to the end. I feel a delicacy of touch in the lines and the way the poems unreels like your film played in reverse. If you are new, welcome. If I've missed you before, I enjoy your talent and hope you will continue to share it with us. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-04-13 17:20:09
Canticle	Joanne M Uppendahl	Dear Joanne: Thrilled as always to find a poem by you...right at the top of my list. Oddly, I have had tulips in my mind for weeks as I guess it's that time of year. "Canticle" is the best title for your encomium to nature/spirituality as it always has religious underpinnings for me and this love paean to tulips is almost olde English in flavor and seems to follow the canonical hours of days. "How blissfully tulips are glistening each tilted face an upturned cup of purple red or yellow gold, each blossom's ears bare to sun, listening..." There is almost too much in Stanza 1 to wrap my mind around as the beautiful personification of tulips unfolds. Your enjambment in this poem supercedes what I've seen before and always the rhymes, the assonance, your signature delivery of images we have come to expect from you. It doesn't get better than "blissfully tulips are glistening" or "tilted face an upturned cup" or "ears bare to sun, listening." "As flickering spring songs are sung o'er din of birds' announce the day's begun - the day's begun!" And to what are these blossoms listening? Spring songs sung and the announce by birds (always birds) that the day has started. You back-rhyme to sun of Stanza 1 and your "din" does the same with glistening/listening. This is akin to a church bell ringing to call all to morning prayer as the birds sing the origin of day. And the tulips are part of this assembly for morning worship. (Compline). "At noon they breathe out deeply praising, sighing, and then sleepily nodding as evening prayers arise from petals closing over tulip eyes." Oh, my! I hadn't "read thru" and now I find "evening prayers arise". I like those tulips' siesta after noon; that is pure personification. Then their sleepiness as the close of day approaches. Vespers is always the "evening prayer" for me; I truly do not know canonical law...too many years since I studied. Your rhymes here are more delectable than ever and if I could turn a phrase such as: "from petals closing over tulip eyes", I would thereafter rest on my laurels. So eloquent as to bring tears. You make your readers care so much for your subjects or places (The Pond) and I am in love with your tulips! Then the oh-so-clever way to finalize your prayer or hymn: a reiteration of S 2 but an end of day instead. "As flickering spring songs are sung o'er din of birds' announce the day is done - the day is done!" And what a joyful day of praise it has been...for nature's beauty, for the notions of a divine or spiritual import, for the real and true living beings whether bird or tulip. Unlike man who sees a sky of indifferent blue or as Amy Clampitt wrote the "indifference of the universe", these creatures and blossoms praise as they breathe, glisten, sing. It is sad when nature does a far-better job than man and that is the main message I take from your poem: a reminder of "God's Grandeur" (I cannot seem to stop quoting others) that we humans take for granted. We pause not at cononical hours to issue a prayer or a touch of gratitude...not even when reminded to do so. I hope I'm making sense to you. This is a hymn of praise equal to psalms and you laud the divine without saying that directly. I am deeply moved by the evocative tone of your poem and I feel the poet's joy in composing same. I seem to feel more power in a piece when I sense the writer's devoted attention to detail and delivery as much as the theme. It's not fancy words, Joanne, as you well know; it's not the rhymes nor meter nor any poetic device, it's the calling of attention to matters most important such as the joys radiating in nature. You feel so intensely for planet earth and believe me, that is well communicated in your poetry. You light up TPL with a luminosity lacking in most postings. Brava and a jam-potful of beautiful purple red and yellow gold tulips! Best ever, Mell	2004-04-12 19:49:53
I Took You With Me	Rick Barnes	Rick: I feel that these days, for whatever reasons, you don't much care what anyone thinks of your work as you seem to have transcended (?) to a different place. But I will take the time to tell you that you have delivered a whiff of spring and sunbeams to me on a rainy Saturday afternoon in Dallas. For me, this is not a mere romantic poem from a man to a lover but a deeper encomium to a mentor, teacher, grandmother. I'm usually wrong in my interpretations of your poetry but you use words herein in a quite special way. Shall I tell you the fifteen L sounds are magical, particularly in the first eight lines? That your end and internal rhymes are harmonious? That your use of assonance and alliteration shines through as never before? The title is beautiful as are these lines: "You have never known That you alone have been beside me Through so many travails. Image among images You glow beyond the pale Incandescent spill." Your next five lines are lovely and refreshing with the casting of shadows to limn or not her/his presence. Your linguistics is brighter than I've seen in prior poems. There is a soothing feel of tranquility here, a serenading tribute to someone who brings out the very best in your choice of words. "Let there be no confusion, This is not mere illusion..." I wish I'd written those two lines, perfectly rhymed and metered. You continue that you are lacking "patience for the past" and the last time you thought of the future, you were on a "spending spree." Not merely nice alliteration but an epiphany about the poet's character. Your squandering is emotional as well as financial until all you have left of your being is the gift of the other person: "After I've discarded the debris, This is you in me." Ah, beautiful! I'm not going to belabor the point and delineate other poetics or truisms. This poem is the Rick I remember, taking a risk, turning a phrase. Surely high on the winners' list altho I know you care not. I will say a deep-felt Bravo! and watch the rain. Best wishes always, Mell	2004-04-10 20:00:55
Come Walk With Me	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: Another lovely nature poem from our gifted poet. The sole thing that bothers me (and no one else) is the misuse of it's which I've seen in several of your poems. Stanza 3, line 1, ITS is a possessive and needs no apostrophe. IT'S means "it is." Also LETS in Stanzas 1 and 4 means "let us" and requires an apostrophe: LET'S. Forgive me; I've become so obsessive/compulsive, no one can bear it. I think the stimulator in my back has re-wired my brain. "Come walk with me" is a warm and soothing phrase and is a good title as you weave it throughout the poem. That phrase implies a togetherness and conversation but you utilize same to define and delineate various beauties of nature. Your free-verse quatrains appear soothing in themselves and your linguistics shines. "Let's mingle in the wild and shaggy forest see the majesty of rolling trees (as) they rub against an azure sky, (with) leaves that softly scrub angel wings." The symbolism of nature related to the divine appears here as the leaves of trees brush empyrean angels. "Softly scrub" has a nice, soothing (that word again) sound. "Beside the giddy brooks with borders of lichen ophite, see mystic splendors of cunning corridors and rhythmic spasmodic shadows." I had to look up "ophite" as I thought it had to do with religion so you have expanded the import of the word for me. Thank you; you know I love words! Brooks as giddy is a nice change from babbling and your two alliteratives sound smooth. I also greatly like the hard K sound in seven words. That is rare and only Heaney can wield a consonant as you have done in Stanza 2. (Highest compliment possible). "When the flush of morning folds (its) light among shrouded thickets, hear the vibrating silence that echoes our fain footsteps." You've outdone even yourself here with the four fricative F sounds. I also find folds/shrouded very appealing as well as "vibrating silence." I have not seen the word "fain" since I last read Shakespeare; I think it was one of his favorite words so you are in great company, my dear. "Feel a rhapsody of wind weaving its way through steep timber tops, whispering a syncopated serenade. Let's frolic in His festival of awe." Lovely end stanza, tying nature to the divine, bringing your poem full circle. I posted a poem this month with reeds in a river "serenading" so we are thinking alike. (My poem was written about three months ago but you know what they say about great minds!) "Wind weaving its way" is stunning and "steep timber tops whispering a syncopated serenade" achieves something magical with the plosive sounds and alliterative sounds comprising a high degree of euphony. I find this one of your very best and a winning poem in every sense of the word. Like a painter choosing colors from his palette, your word choices are quite savory herein. I have read this now numerous times and it's clear to me that your muse has found you or you your muse as your nature poems seem divinely inspired. Brava! Standing ovation! (I knew her before she was rich and famous)! Mell	2004-04-09 16:21:05
Talking About It with My Dad	Thomas Edward Wright	T.: It seems to brim from you: these Salinger-type observations of human behavior. Your poem is a masterpiece of defining your father's character sans mentioning definitive traits. A dentist, a man of science like you, but with the generational differences of expressing emotion. Your title is an apposite TIC for the piece as Dad was unable to talk about things with his son. Your first three stanzas are limned so deftly that I feel I'm a quiet observer in the corner. Your telling description of his working at home, mapping x-rays, his summoning you for the bird/bees talk. I especially like the imagery of the book: "I see the curled corners and dog-eared pages greasy with the grime of an entire school of kids whose parents borrowed this educational tool..." Another great line: "This was as personal as a car wash." This prepares us for the aftermath of your mother's death, the family meeting to discuss details of burial and disposition of her possessions. "Nobody can say the word Dead or Dying, Or explain to me where we came from. And I don't even wonder why not." Very nice and satisfying ending to the portrait of the father. A grouping of family members who have been taught not to discuss matters directly nor openly, who cannot express their feelings to each other. The litotes or understatement of your last line is brilliant. In toto, your poem is admirably accomplished and evocative. It is not merely well-written but extremely touching for me. Bravo! Mell	2004-04-09 15:11:07
White, Fallow Worlds	C Arrownut	C.A.: I really like your theme here and find the poem deserving of survival with whatever minor changes are suggested and you find appealing. Your title is "okay", repeated in your ending but I think you might do better. I like the notion of "White Spaces" or "City Fences" or something along those lines. "Last night, beyond the control of science, a blizzard. At dawn, outside my town house, my snow haven a drift of five feet. Massive mounds, covered cars, all glistened in the glare" I don't think you need the dramatic punctuation to tell us a blizzard occurred. I would juxtapose haven/snow for clarity. You have sparkling alliteration with massive/mounds, covered/cars and glistened/glare. Your interjection of "beyond the control of science" suggests people who lead very controlled lives. As your poem continues, you add the notion of our being more robotic than human in our high-tech world; no notion of neighborhood nor togetherness. "and angels of white linked all. (Come)Afternoon, the whole neighborhood out shoveling together in tandem relativity, piled snow ten feet high on three sides of each car, rebuilt" I especially like "angels of white linked us", giving the blizzard/snow an empyrean essence and that it takes an act of God to join people. Your snow clearance event momentarily unites people but as they clear, they rebuild their walls, keeping them separate. "the impenetrable walls between us. Seldom able to connect, islands circling the sun ...I would prefer "satellite" unless you're making the no-man-is-an-island reference fated to twirl from conception through eternity. We only bond for fleeting moments (even) then recreate our white, fallow worlds." Quite a strong poem, IMO. You make all the points needed to demonstrate how the city dweller (especially) has isolated himself. How do we greet each other and communicate when we are all talking on cell phones? We lead highly structured, stressful lives, hurrying to work in a crowded train or a traffic jam. Since the economy has faltered, we do twice the work to maintain our jobs. Who has time to get acquainted or know their neighbors? "Fallow" is the quintessential word for the quality of most of our lives today. The seed that falls on fallow ground...remember that phrase from the bible? I've offered a few tiny changes as I'm sure others will but whatever, as is, your poem demands to be heard because of the impotance of its theme. Very deftly executed. I quite enjoyed reading this a number of times and it held up after repeated perusals. Kudos. Best wishes, Mell	2004-04-08 14:16:33
At The Full Of The Moon	Marcia McCaslin	Marcia: What a pleasure for me to be reviewing one of your poems again. And said poem is about the moon, a favorite entity and source of poetry. I like the free verse style and am curious about the changing of stanza length. There are three singular lines (for emphasis, I assume), one quatrain, two tercets, and one couplet. I am always curious about form and find poets usually do things very deliberately. The title fits and Stanza 1 gives us a simile that is quite lovely. "Light slides from the day like blue satin being pulled by fingers beneath the horizon." All the assonance with the long I sounds: light/slides/like/by/horizon...give a lilt like a song. Your simile is also quite fresh and unique as is the ensuing line: "Stars splash into place." "Place" slant rhymes back to "days" of S 1, continuing the euphony. You use personification with the stars splashing into the exact spot they need to be. Whimsical and appealing notion. "An unstable moon rocks back and forth up the ridge like a rock cart wheel." Another apposite simile albeit I am not sure I care for the news about the moon's instability. Seriously, yours is a good analogy and depicts the moon as undecided about where it will go tonight. Quite original, Marcia. "It is full of itself (and) laughing at the earth. The mood catches on." Again, total originality in writing that the moon is not only capricious but egotistical as well. Only you would come up wuth a metaphor of the moon as you have limned herein. "The young feel old enough; The old feel young enough. Hormones dance around with urgency-- It could be now or never." Delightful ending with the hormonal effects of the moon getting both the old and young into "the mood." I think I do remember hormonal urgency but it has been a while. Perhaps Wyoming moons have more power than Texas variety! I'm glad to read your romantic salute to Luna in lieu of all the bad press such as more domestic violence, criminal activity during her full phase. Your poem has the charm and appeal of the poetry you posted here in the good old days. I especially enjoyed this one. Kudos. Mell	2004-04-08 11:26:27
Ego Trip	Sergio M chavez	Sergio: I'm sorry to read this is your last poem here and this is the first of your poems I have critiqued. I have been unable to spend much time on TPL the last few months due to health problems but I will always enjoy this web site. Your title arouses the reader's curiosity: where is he going with "Ego Trip"? Your format of free verse seems apt for your poem and the only change I would suggest as far as form is to change Stanza 2 to quatrain as all the others are. The last stanza in tercet is fine as we expect a change therein. "Looking back, I've come a long way In this journey I chose to take A waste of time A waste of mind." The stanza is perfectly metered and the reiteration in the last two lines works well. This sounds profoundly sad, that the narrator is looking back at his journey and calling it a waste of time and mind. The journey seems to be of significant duration because of the words "a long way." Stanza 2, IMO, needs another line between first and second. "The blade of grass weeps for the comfort of the sun" is a wonderful phrase, a unique metaphor. "I will not justify my ego And I will take me as I am In sickness and in health And prove loyal to me." Speaker parodies the marriage vows to declare his self acceptance. Of course, as humans, we all want unconditional love but rarely find it. Perhaps from our parents or spouses but that is all too infrequent. I think you have squared the circle with the ideation of self acceptance...the most vital acceptance of all. Stanza 4 echoes the sentiment of Stanza 2: a contrast of nature with self and the journey speaker is taking. At my mother's house, I can hear wolves howling at night so I especially like your line: "Wolves begin to sing." I find the line "The sand is dying once again" purely exquisite. You say, too, that you can hear its whispering as it succumbs. "I am the Lord's puppet Bitch, Slut, and Whore I am your (His?) freak to spit on I am His toilet to shit in." The Lord found dignity and worth in the whores and sluts who sought Him out so your phrasing supports that you are the Lord's puppet indeed. Nice internal rhyme of spit/shit. I like the manner/wording in which you/speaker tells us of your accommodation for the Lord. Stanza 6 tells of a life lost in a labyrinth of insecurities which is a nice choice of words for your metaphor. "Repetitive nonsense" you term it but I think it is "negative capability" as defined by Keats. Accepting the angst and trauma of life as part and parcel of the human condition. Which is exactly what you say in your ending lines: "I am human." No more, no less, take it or leave it, but I am merely a human. An impact at the end which is where we expect more and you certainly deliver. I find your metaphysical portrait of self and journey to comprehension to be a very accomplished poem. I wish I had seen your other work as this is splendid. Your poem causes me to cogitate, to delve into myself as poet has done. These poems which prompt the use of my brain are my favorites. I wish you the best in your life's journey; I can only hope you will continue to write because of the talent I see in this piece of work. Kudos. Mell Morris	2004-04-03 13:43:27
No title	Andrea M. Taylor	Andrea: Your "having fun" has brought a smile to my Friday afternoon as your haiku is fun for the reader, too. I usually avoid critiquing haiku as I tend toward verbosity and there are so few words upon which to comment. I am curious about your lack of title although that is a common occurrence in poetry. There seem to be so many possibilities for this one; of course, the first idea is "Reefer Madness" per the cult movie but in the zany mood you've put me, I also thought of "Pot Ash" and "Gunja Din". Well, enuf of my foolish play. I'm certain everyone will note first the alliteration you use and for me, it doesn't feel forced which is a rarity in a poem totally alliterative. An indication of a skillful writer. "ripen rope reefer". Your first line is reminiscent of hemp and hashish and "ripen" suggests the inherent mellow aspect of reefer like an aging of fine wine. I am an old hippie, Andrea, so I think of many memories as I contemplate your poem. I once asked a friend if marijuana lost its THC if one had an old bag of same and he replied he wouldn't know because he had never kept any that long. (He would smoke it as fast as it arrived). I found that funny at the time. Wow! You really have me tiptoeing down memory lane. "rationalized relaxing." There is a lot of truth in your two words in the second line. Anyone engaging in illegal activity would have to rationalize their behavior even as I have known several recreational drug users. I believe they are the exception and a rarity. "ravenous rewards." Again, you make me chuckle as I recall what the kids of my era called the 'marijuana munchies.' You have continued your alliteration quite efficaciously, choosing the perfect word each time. Naturally that is a requirement of haiku and likely the reason I haven't attempted same. I applaud your accomplishment herein as it is wickedly humorous, another difficulty in writing. "Funny haiku" seems an oxymoron. I enormously enjoyed your poem, Andrea, and I wish you the best. Mell Morris	2004-04-02 16:33:06
You didn’t	Mark Andrew Hislop	Andrew: This is the first of your poems I've encountered; of late, I've been unable to spend much time at TPL. I like your title and the manner in which it is reiterated in singular lines between stanzas. Albeit a negative sound, "you didn't" becomes an affirmation of poet's love for another. Perfectly metered free verse is a lovely form for my tastes and you eschew punctuation which proves unneeded as one reads the poem. Poet employs a number of devices such as assonance, alliteration, etc., but I rarely point to any particular device as I review a poem. Your title begins the first line: "Let me down by mail Silence your raw heart Tremble privately Hide your vital storm" Assets recounted limn a person who shares from her heart and does not lock out poet from whatever passion/trauma experienced. I especially like the phrase..."You didn't let me down by mail." Stanza 2 tells the reader that sig other is honest and trusting and has few pretensions. Plus the major fact that she didn't love poet any less no matter what occurred. The continued insertion of your title, with added words at times, works quite effectively. "Tell me not to tell Run too far away Ask things I can't give Moan, as if I don't." Nice assonance with the long O sound in line four: moan/don't. It sounds mournful in a way (don't ask why). The partner who is subject of this paean is a terrific person...as in avoids requesting things beyond poet's means or making a passive snuffle about it. The anagram for Stanza 3 is TRAM which is striking in view of the line: "run too far away." I especially like the contrapuntal play of the last two lines in S 4. Again, this reader senses a trauma in the other's life...losing sleep, praying with fidelity. I haven't forgotten "raw heart" of S 1. The ending stanza changes from quatrain, beginning "See you as I see Love the you I love" which makes the point of our inability to see ourselves as others do and in this case, with the eyes of love. Continuing Close the chamber door, door into the world, world within your heart, heart of all my dreams. No. You didn't." Lovely play with the words, the last becoming the first, etc. Very rhythmic. In fact, the entire poem could easily be a song lyric. I particularly like the use of "chamber" as you are writing of the heart. And from the heart, in my opinion, as I find the piece evocative in toto. Your poem is deceptively simple-seeming until the reader truly concentrates not merely on the words but the intricate and exquisite way they are laid out. I think your poem is charming and shows the depths of love a human can feel for another. I am reminded of Poe's "we loved with a love which was more than a love" or something close to that. (I know Poe is a pariah among the literati but he could turn a phrase.) I offer kudos on your penning of this piece and wish you well. No changes recommended. Best ever, Mell Morris	2004-03-31 15:43:28
Mis	Regis L Chapman	Reeg: Another complex poem from your mind/hand meant to tax brains, precipitate thinking, and deliver a message. That message is my interpretation...your notes give notions of your intent but while I clearly see the spirituality herein, I would not have related it to Jesus nor the crucifiction. However, that is an apposite theme for the Lenten season. Your title intrigues...for me, "mis" is a negative prefix, usually connoting not. Out of curiosity, I consulted my unabridged and found it also means: 'dried dung.' The format you utilize for your poem is also interesting: rhymed, sans punctuation, unforced meter until the last stanza. "I try to be understood out of order I try to stay in this silent hood as I cross the border." There are so many nice turns of phrases, double meanings, and plays on words. For example, "out of order" may mean 'for the purpose of order' but it is a phrase most commonly used to convey 'disorder.' Then there is "silent hood". As the speaker is crossing a border, is he wearing a hood for disguise or does he refer to his brotherhood? I find this extremely clever, Reeg. Your second stanza tells us that the speaker strives to understand just as he strives to be understood. His comment is that it is an onerous task to try to comprehend matters when one is "weilding a sword", literally or figuratively. Great point. Cogitation does not emanate from warring. Stanza 3 is my favorite with some of the neatest lines I've read. "I try to get out from under impossible, I am floored meanwhile is rent asunder reason before me gored." While speaker tries to get out from impossible's hold, the interim is torn apart, and reason speared. Exquisite linguistic display. S4 gives more of speaker's attempts to span his accumulation and "feeling like thunder" in the process. Speker acknowledges his powerful touch. "after all I forget forever and remember today I forgot to shoot and yet I miss anyway." I smile at the audacious intelligence that produced those lines. Quite a wonderful ending, reminiscent of the title. You capture a universal feeling in those end words: I forgot to shoot and still missed. If this is all about fence-straddling, I must read up on the subject. I certainly see the dichotomy between what speaker wants and what occurs instead. For me, it is a message about the quandary of life itself and how difficult it is to navigate the waters of the times in which we live. I further find this an accomplished piece of writing and want to steal some of your lines! (But I won't). Kudos and congratulations for this rare art work. Best ever, Mell	2004-03-30 18:50:46
By the Pond	Joanne M Uppendahl	J.U.: I like your title which makes me long to be there. If there's a pond, there has to be a duck and you do not disappoint plus you populate your pond with geese and gulls. The tranquility of the scene you paint so deftly soothes my wretched brain. Oh, how I need this poem right now. It will be my meditative theme tonight. The simile with which you start is JU-clever with iris stalks, green-dressed for duty as sentinels, greeting the arriving, errant geese. I imagine these irises as very dedicated to their roles and emulate WalMart greeters, nodding their heads and waving their greenery. Then your glorious pond is personalized with cupped palms of water upon which ducks may glide a glissando. I love the serenity with which ducks sail across the water with an air of privilege/entitlement about them. (My favorites are the teals). Then enter the raucous (often) gulls, greedy for the bread thrown for the ducks and geese no doubt. You describe them so artfully with a wheel and a dip to snatch "air offerings." Offer food and the gulls will come. They are so beautiful as they flap along a shoreline or a "pondline." Stanza 2 reminds of spring in the air, at the pond, and in yellow buds in inchoate state, ready to burst from the womb of spring into summer flowering. Your ending is simply magnificent: "a cradle full of summer with velvet sighs to come". A cradle for the baby buds... again this is signature Uppendahl with her unique and frabjous senses pressed to the earth, delivering the majesty of nature to her spellbound readers. The sibilance bespeaks water ruffling, ducks gliding, and velvet sighs yet incipient. I also smile at the hard K sounds, the perfect touch for the texture achieved. Thirteen short lines and you have limned a scene which uplifts my spirit as you capture the rhapsody of nature as no one else does. You don't subtlely moralize as Frost did and yet your message is equally strong. All I can say is thank you for the glory of this poem which fell as sprinkles of fresh rain on my parched, sered spirit. Simply exquisite! Best always, Nekk	2004-03-29 19:44:28
Archae	Regis L Chapman	Reeg: First, I'm very happy to see you doing what you do so well: posting your poetry and issuing crits. Second, as I've said before, you likely have a few IQ points on me and I'm guilty of catechresis on occasion. I look at your poem and react with an amazed eye. In form/structure alone, you have four separate rhyme schemes maintained and if that is not sufficient, the poem is metered as well! Your title is perfect for thoughts of more ancient times, relics recovered from ancestors, and ancient burial sites, etc. Your first word is likewise perfect because your entire poem is about time; your theme, as it were. You tell us of a newly-found arrowhead which you claim and a sparrow fleeing from decline. My take is that the arrowhead, when made, usually had bird feathers attached and both arrowhead and sparrow fly through rarefied air. One thinks, too, of the biblical allusion to the sparrow. Who does not flee from decline or death? You segue to a barrow, a mound over a tomb, I believe, then "grave mound." I do not believe this is mere reiteration but a point about the gravity of death. Resigned to the grave...we flee and fear death...but it's inevitable and we will all be resigned therein. Or consigned and confined. :) The most intriguing bit for me is the "marrow led...renowned". The sole interpretation I could imagine is that marrow is the innermost substance of life and if "marrow led", we are certainly alive and known. Also one who achieves renown may be due to his ability to "carve the cow close to the marrow." Another way of saying one is deft at deductive thinking. "Inclined" is a quintessential adjective for imagery of sloping mounds. It may be in "narrow head" but that type likely fears death more than the marrow led referenced earlier. Your final word: "surround." This is such an epiphany word, IMO. Whether in surround of life or death is the clever question herein. Surround in marrow or barrow? For me, this one word couldn't be better for this poem's finality. I applaud the genius of your poem, Reeg, and experimental poetry is risk-taking writing. I admire that quality in a poet almost more than anything else. When one writes this sparely and tightly, he places everything right out on a limb, vulnerable to the marauding pruner. I give this poem high marks for all the reasons cited in the exegesis. Even if wide of the mark in my interpretation, I enormously enjoyed the read. Laurel wreath! Mell Morris	2004-02-29 22:55:49
I Have Memories	Sandra J Kelley	Sandra: Be brutal, eh? I cannot conceive of brutalizing this piece which I find appealing. I have suggestions, however. I rarely advise this but I think your poem would benefit from punctuation. I know it's not the post-modern approach but I shall punc for you and see if you note any difference. "I have memories of being (enlivened?), ...."coming to life"?.... of sunlight touching my skin. at the point when it is burning, memories of cool water lapping ...good visual... at my ankles as we stroll on the beach arguing about latex. ...exquisite ... memories of my heart beating, deep breathing and sweat. other than that, I remember nothing: not the sound of your name (nor) the stretch of my throat ...another brava!... as I spoke it. I do not remember the brush of (your) hand in my hair, the warm flannel covering your chest, the gentle suck of your teeth as your breath filled my ear. the (rhythm) we created, movement, bodies entangled. I do not remember." Of course, this is my opinion only but the puncs guide the reader more easily to the meaning. This is a finely-crafted, deftly-done piece. Your imagery which is sensory, of course, conjures the beach scene quite well. I could feel the heat, feel the cooling of my feet in the water as it laps along. I laughed out loud at the "latex" line as that is so unexpected and unique but has such truism as that is the sort of thing about which couples often harangue. Another favorite phrase is: "the stretch of my throat"...very crisp and refreshing linguistics. Now the really interesting part comes into focus. You profess and protest that you recall nothing else of the day, not even his name, then go on to detail special moments shared with him. I think the lady "doth protest too much." Then the natural query arises as to why the speaker would vehemently deny any further memories and you wisely leave that to the reader to interpret. My take, of course, is that he hurt you terribly and left your life. (I suspect that will be the conclusion reached by most readers). I find this an ingenious approach to the "love-gone-wrong" poems which are usually tedious and boring. I haven't seen your other poems but I can easily imagine this little gem anthologized. I enormously enjoyed the read, I think this is worthy and interesting, and the pacing is perfect. (You also use eight hard K sounds, my favorite, so it is strong read aloud). I hope my little picky input may assist you in some minor way as the poem is truly lovely. Best wishes for its success. Mell Morris	2004-02-29 13:50:22
I am a lighthouse	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: Here's your brief review of your beauteous poem. It was not on my list of 50 poems, so you must have received a plethora of critiques. I'm doing this from View All Poetry but you should receive it. Should I enumerate your poetics herein, I would be more exhausted for there is a plethora of allits, internal rhymes, assonance, symbolism, etc. I will try to hit the main phrases I love. (Nearly the entire poem). You use two words here (correctly) that I rarely see in this context: "pelagic" and "welters." Good for you. I would change "atop" an indigo sea (lovely) to over, above, etc, as your beacon is atop your structure and doesn't sound apposite for the sea. Heady water weltering at your roots is a rare descriptor and appreciated. Your poem is a metaphor in itself but you insert mini-metaphors (?) within. You are just too, too clever but I will always say that I used to "tinker" with your poems! Stanza 2 is perfection. All I can say on this is brava! Stanza 3 is perfection plus. The phrase "your north is lost" is exquisite and I wish I had written it! Kudos. "I will polish the sea like (a) myriad (of) stars in the deep of the night (b)ut when the sun leaps (and) and flames the fire O'er sapphire sands, moor your ship on earth's lulling land ....unique use of "lulling"... rest your weary prow (as I) or (like me) on God's shore." Stanza 4 noodlings are for grammatical reasons. "A" is not needed with "myriad". Stanza 5, I had the notion the end of the lighthouse's day was deserving of a mention: ergo, the insertion in S5, line 4. Nice enjambment between S4 to S5. Well, Marilyn, I will be greatly surprised and disappointed if this does not place VERY high on this month's list. You keep aging like fine wine in your writing... your linguistic choices are richer, crisp, and delicious; your word play sets a tone of poet's enjoyment in creating same; your imaginative powers expand with each poem you post. This is a metaphorical delight, rich and textured with clever adjectival options. Nil else to say except congratulations on your signature poem! Standing ovation! Mell	2004-02-28 18:34:00
One Just Bell	Rick Barnes	Ricko: Your poem is # 23 out of 27 but it's well worth one point to read. Your theme here fits nicely with my "Neuter Allegiance"...don't critique but take a look. I saw your title and thought "Just One Bell" then it clarified as I read. A poem containing: chimes, peal, song, clarion, gong, knell, bell, and rings...I know I will like it in advance. You use your usual stanzaic unmetered form with end rhymes. Again, deceptive on the surface, it holds one of the more important truths of a lifetime and a point about inequality that needles me daily. "I don't want to hear the chimes Congratulating those who've tithed, ....irony at its best... Nor the welcoming peal We reserve for those just arrived. .....this makes me think of the minister smacking his lips.... Spare me the holy tower of song Reserved for those so blessed, ....I like the repetition of reserve... And the clarion gong ....clarion is one of my favorite words.... That washes clean all saved souls confessed. Let me hear a dull dank knell ...my favorite phrase: dull dank knell.... Until we have truly begun To work toward and forge that one just bell That rings for everyone." Simply magnificent. Your end line is everything in which I believe but I'm losing hope of your just bell's being forged or any other wrongs righted. I have become filled with dispair about our leaders and the state of the nation. It's really a bummer for me having been a political activist most of my life. IMO and that's all I have, this is the most significant poem you've written. Not the most clever or romantic or musical...but the most important. Oh, that it could be published so every American would see. You have sparked an inner harmony with my heart and mind...it's always grand finding someone whose vision matches my own. This has really stuck a chord with me, my friend, and my top pick of the month albeit I know you don't care. This cuts deeply with me, Ricko; many thanks. Standing ovation. Melliferous	2004-02-17 17:02:02
Insects and Other Tiny Nations	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne: For me, this is a lilting, delightful children's poem with such imaginative happenings and one with appealing insects and "nations." Grand title, IMO, but then you excel with titles! I marked all the poetics (a plethora therein) but was so riveted by the story, it superceded technique until I had read it numerous times. The pace is perfect for adult or child as I couldn't wait to ascertain the next event and the outcome. You asked for suggestions, so I will try and offer a few. I am not familiar with the Carman book referenced. "Once when the light of day melted from blue to silver, a little girl floated away from Earth. She observed tiny beings busy with work, playing in the wind, caring for relations." Great opening stanza and I love the blue to silver notion and every child will love the adventure of a child floating away from earth. Very unique idea, good assonance with the girl/earth/observed/work. The sole suggestion I have here is the use of "relations" seems off somehow and that family, others, tribe members, etc,etc would make better sense to a child. Your word makes me think one of the worms is into PR work. I refer to this as a "children's poem" as I think it would be of enormous appeal to children but like Harry Potter et al, there's certainly an adult audience as well. "Earthworms wiggled, black crickets chirped, ....ecru earthworms??.... orange caterpillars crawled, green beetles ticked on dancing leaves, while yellow Monarchs and red dragonflies flew in dazzling display." Your poetics sing in this stanza, one of my favorites. Line four is unbelievable with "dragonflies flew in dazzling display." Allits (four) are lovely and the idea of a beetle's ticking on a dancing leaf is exquisite. I love that! Of course, there are my hard K sounds, six in all, which make crooked Nekk long to dance with the beetles. (Chirping is the only realistic possibility.) "And when they all arose to where she waited, they told her tales of all that lived in air, in dirt, in hives- of hopes and tiny homes sometimes poisoned- of bodies pulled apart." This is so sad and I know children are sufficiently resilient to deal with the reality of what happens to insects but I'd prefer "destroyed" to "pulled apart." This third stanza is critical to the theme of the poem...the ecological damage we are wreaking...and I can live with "poisoned" but not the precious little-green-beetle bodies torn asunder. And speaking of your theme, this is a great teaching poem for children, to instill respect for all forms of life. You write evocatively, Joanne, for here I am, ready to defend the beetles, worms, etc. "Though they understood that they were often food for frogs, birds, and other tiny nations, they didn't know why they were being stomped, swatted, and pulled apart. ...oh, no! not again!... As the child watched, a globe appeared; like a magnet" Nice enjambment from S4 to S5. Your metaphor of small creatures as tiny nations is so superb! (I wish I had your gifted imagination and Bea is very fortunate!) You subtly tell us insects are smarter than humans...they accept the food-chain concept... but all the needless destruction of lives is senseless. Ta-da! The epiphany of the poem for me because man continues to destroy environmentally and kill other humans if deemed in his best interest. "it drew them into a living sphere of insect races. Then Grandmother Moon molded them into a glittering star, a (glowing) phosphorous light. ...you use gleam in last line... Now moths and bees and crickets lit the night and gleamed the sky with prayers and graces." Great ending; with the help of Grandma, all turns out well. "Gleamed the sky" is a wondrous phrase and one I wish I'd penned. The word "star" seems misleading because of our notion of starness. What do you think of orb or ball or globule, etc, etc?? "and gleamed the sky with beams of flying graces"....presenting another option only. What happens to the little girl? Does it matter to the poem? I think not. Are you going to do a series of these with the little girl floating for adventures and increasing ecological wisdom and knowledge in general? I HOPE SO!! This is simply outstanding and hugely entertaining. I really related to the insects as you so neatly described them and made us care. I mean, I felt ready for war with anyone who would tear apart one of the critters...like pulling wings off flies, just for fun. ARGH! You always have a new idea, a novel concept, a unique slant on a topic which you bring to life for us and in the process, while we were not watching, you have taught a very vital message. This poem would make a lyrical storybook with illustrations, the first of many to be published. You are frabjous and of the TPL royalty. Queen mother, queen auntie, or simply Queen. I enjoyed this as much as anything you've ever written in the same vein. Keep the poems flowing, please. Standing ovation! Encore! Nekk	2004-02-15 18:37:38
Down The Mountain	Regis L Chapman	Reeg: A shared memory of a moment when you were uplifted by the beauty of nature and one you can recall with its attendant emotions. I think we all have those moments albeit I'll admit I've not written about same in a dense extrapolation. Your free verse, no caps, little punctuation poem leaves some extrapolation for the reader. To wit, you have me nonplused in the first line. Do you intend the word "beheld" or is your point that there is an indebtedness in the moments? "a gravity of moments beholden in contrast proceeding in encrusted jewels evermore enthusiastic scene with hues and colors rioting upon mine golden eyes divine spotlight shines to the core" Arbitrary break for comment. I like "gravity of moments" as descriptor for coming down a mountain and you have these proceeding forever in rarefied jewelled state. The use of evermore and mine and beholden adds a sense of antiquity to the piece. "Enthusiastic" is the perfect modifier for the scene you limn, a rioting of colors and hues imprinted on your brain. The beauty you see reminds speaker of divinity, a touch of the divine, in a spotlight that beams to the innermost part. This evokes a warm feeling, an appreciation for nature often unnoted. "then swollen in fool's pride with remembrance of the past having humbly been now without that as a floor for the benefit of the beet and the rose benevolent spies, those- the wise, are wide and my love sleeps just beside." For me, this is the heart of the poem, especially lines 6-9. An epiphany, if you will, as speaker makes some connections not before understood. My take is that the glory of the scene and moment reminds speaker of his own insignificance in the greater scheme of things, his past missteps, and without the insight, he likely would have driven down the mountain, noticing little. The choice of beets and roses is quite unique and while I find it refreshing, I'm not quite sure why speaker pairs them as benevolent spies. As such, they are wise and wide. I was unaware that sagacity gives rise to widening; perhaps I now can explain that my girth is due to my wisdom. Ha! Then the end line...the quintessential touch...your beloved sleeps beside you. That you experienced this beauteous occasion is a rarity but that your soulmate was with you makes it vibrate with greater passion. Reeg, I have not delineated any poetic devices employed herein; we both know where they are. The entire piece is rife with internal rhyme...when read aloud, it's purely symphonic. Your allits are nicely set as are the places of assonance. This lovely memory stored and recalled by speaker becomes an experience for poets here. The sharing of such is akin to gifting us all with untold riches and I, personally, am appreciative. Thank you for allowing us to go down the mountain with you because it was a lovely, gratifying ride. Best wishes, Mell	2004-02-13 14:37:23
A Late Afternoon Service	Thomas Edward Wright	T.: I would like to be inside your brain for five minutes but I doubt I could withstand the noise of neurons. This is a wonderful piece that no one will understand, myself included, but you have penned some great lines and hinted at even greater truths. Okay, church and it's snowing and the flakes "hover, waiting for my tongue to recover from the last debate and the Coffee Mate." So you are quiet...if there's a sermon, you are ignoring same...and your mind wanders to come up with such important queries as: "What color is a cardinal at dusk?" Of course! It's a Catholic church and you're trying to recognize someone entering whom you don't know. You destroy that little illusion with the red male sitting on the feeder, "a sentry, a center." Lovely descriptors in the stanza. Stanza 3 gives me great pleasure with: "There are prayers lifted, sent. One monitors; another repents. There. Together at the trough." You do have a way of equalizing persons and religions. Now enter the black cat at the window, symbolic perhaps? and the cardinal tosses his bits of food or leavings and goes for the sunflower seed. While this occurs, the snowflakes hum and begin to pray with wrinkled noses and pursed lips. You say you are intently listening but it appears to the snow..."Manage to pocket my tongue" ends the stanza with a flourish. Love it! I wish I had written many of the lines herein, including the hymning and hawing from the choir. Brilliant as is "An organ's Bach backing out." The snowflakes leave off praying and begin crying. Very significent shift and the heart of the poem, IMO. "Crying is what snowflakes do best" while you "amen the sun away". The snow is more knowing than the people praying and you are sent "into the nigh", clueless and facing yet once again: "The unknowing morrow." Beauteous ending and sad. Your usual humor is here, of course, and you made me smile and laugh, but the entire piece, surreal or straight, evokes a deep sorrow. A commentary on the state of things. That is my take and I'm sure you are writing about cross-country skiing in Norway but whatever, I adore the poem, will print and keep it, and maybe one day you will learn to compose less abstruse pieces. A good way to start down-writing: read my poems. Kudos and a laurel wreath, dear T. Mell-o	2004-02-12 17:37:48
Dirt Devil	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: First, congratulations on your win in January, well-deserved. I posted a whining note on the forum when I should keep my large mouth shut but I get so tired of the complaints about the contest! This poem is a dazzling jewel and I don't know where to begin. My printed copy looks like Chinese characters with all the marks I made. Your linguistics growth is a joy to behold and I love nature poems as deftly limned as you've done here. We call them whirlwinds in Texas and dust devils, too. I can't capture every poetic detail here but I'll point to the ones most appealing to me. I started to suggest deleting the capitals and then I thought, if Emily D. could do it, so can Marilyn T. "Sizzling sun bears down on the etched earth disturbed only by a sporadic zealous breeze. A bald eagle soars aloft, eyes in an aquiline head, vigilant for prey." For me, sporadic and zealous do not work well together; if that zealous, it would be more than sporadic. Also, aloft is not necessary as he soars only one place. The descriptor "aquiline" is exquisite. Both allits work well and the assonance of earth/disturbed enhances, too. You are beginning to paint a beautiful picture. "A taupe and ivory antelope with pronged crown moseys across the tundra. The only sound in this simple scene is the soft scruff of tumbleweed (as) it sweeps a path across the pallid plain." The entire stanza is a work of art with so much sibilance, my ears are rejoicing. "Taupe and ivory" is thrilling to the senses as well as "pronged crown." (I messed up the line). Crown/sound is nice as is sweep/weed and again, three allits make this lyrical. The entire landscape seems a shade of brown. "A surprise gust of zephyr spawns an eddy of wizened soil. A staunch and jaunty dirt devil emerges. He skips happily, whirls with abandon, spinning like (a) tiny, twisting typhoon." Another grand stanza. The personification of a breeze "spawning" a dirt devil is quite unique. Your simile of typhoon works very well with the imagery and the metaphor of the devil himself is charming. I especially like "whirls with abandon" and both allits are good for the harmony. Staunch/jaunty/spawn and the assonance of zephyr/dirt/emerge...again, how lyrical can one poem be? "Determined to excite a dirt blizzard with his tapered tail he gyrates and birls but begins to fizzle. His taut torso opens wide as he strives to stay alive, subdued, his zeal returns to dust. His antics only a hazy memory in the wizard sun." Great build up to the ending when he fizzles away and is only a hazy memory. The language of wizard, wizened, whirling is so exact for your scene. You make us FEEL about a short-term twirl of wind and that means grand writing. I love your Z sounds here: blizzard/fizzle/zeal/hazy/wizard and your T and B allits. I think you have outdone yourself, Marilyn. I keep telling you that each poem is better and this one ranks very high with me. Your use of language is a delight for me...you are the only person I've seen use the word "birl" beside me. All I can say is this one should be at the top again next month. Simply grand! Brava! Mell	2004-02-08 18:25:55
Trance	Jordan Brendez Bandojo	Jordan: I'm still doing crits trying to build my voting power for my final vote. I just saw a critique from you which I will answer as soon as I review your unique poem. There are so many things about your piece that appeal to me as reader. First, your use of more arcane words sings to my heart! (This is the first poem I've ever read with the word 'PEDUNCLE'). That is very delightful for me as one who uses more obscure words, according to the reviewers here. Second, your imagery is magical and mystical and I feel the poem itself is a metaphor for adventures we humans crave. "My castle in the air took me to the jungle of Alps where bestial cries glutted my ears as I traipsed like a waif. Owl hooting, wolf howling, prowling lion roared in truculence." Oh those Alpine jungles! Nice simile and rhyme in "traipsed/waif" and good rhyme in howling/prowling. I like the use of "truculence" to describe the lion's roar. This portion of the poem is fanciful and entertaining, seemingly written under the influence (Joke) for who can be this imaginative? "Scared by the horrendous bawls, I galloped through the prairie, panting, lily-livered, scouting a snug home. Then zephyr chattered relief as skylark warbled and dove cooed amourously while the ravishingly sweet lilacs lured my wits." In this part of the poem, you utilize four allits which add to the texture of your piece. I wondered, how did he get from traipsing waif to a horse rider? but remembered, of course, this is a fantasy where anything is possible. Nice enjambment from line eight to nine, done skillfully. The personification of zephyr works well and the imagery of the breeze chattering, skylarks singing and doves cooing with the aroma of lilac permeating the scene is wonderful. "I began scouting you out among peduncles. ....Sorry, this image made me smile.... Turning you up, gruff cries squelched, The solitary din outlived--the whinny (of) my prancing heart. I emerged as your palfrey, saddling you at my back as I loped throughout my trance." You begin walking, then riding a horse, and at the end, you become a gentle horse for your lady to ride. Clever! I haven't been delineating your poetics but your rhymes here of din/whin and prance/trance are worthy of note. The metaphor of your whinny with your heart prancing is unexpected and truly delightful. Your ending is rich as is the entire poem...speaker/hero lopes off into the sunset with his ladylove on his back. Trance extant. I find this piece enchanting and I would change nothing. Bizarre, entrancing imagery and linguistics wondrous! This was like going for a walk thru the funhouse at a carnival...life distorted but in happy, funny ways. Congrats on this accomplished piece of writing. Best wishes, Mell	2004-02-07 16:33:02
Under my Mukluks	Mick Fraser	Mick: I congratulate you on the writing of this poem; I found it extremely evocative and moving. What follows are my thoughts and reactions both to individual parts of this work as well as my interpretation of the poem's overall meaning to one reader. First, I am impressed by the structure of the two stanzas. The first portrays the "outward" or "physical" observations of the speaker about a harsh, snow-covered landscape and the irony of its being melted by the warmth of the sun despite the freezing temperatures ("the coldest day of the year"). I found the "nearby white-ice walls" interesting because they could represent several things: the speaker could be looking at the walls of a nearby dwelling, a hill covered with snow, or even igloos (suggested by the diction in words such as "muklaks" and the allusion to the "Aurora Borealis," intimating that the speaker is far enough north both to see the Northern Lights clearly and to be near such structures). I was intrigued by the "frozen victims" as well. Literally, these could be others in the cold who do not have the good fortune of the speaker to be warm and able to contemplate objectively the ramifications of the "wind-whipped clouds"; but I found the "victims" to be representative of the two people in the poem, the speaker and the loved one from whom he is parted. This impression is reinforced by the speaker addressing in the second stanza (through apostrophe) the loved one: "If you were here sweetness"). I also found an interesting contrast between the image of "frozen" or motionless "victims" and the "wind-whipped clouds," suggesting motion and change. From this I intuited the speaker to be suggesting that the dynamic action of the wind upon the snow, while appearing to have some type of discernable pattern, is nonetheless random, unpredictable, and ultimately without purpose. I sensed that the speaker is drawing a subtle parallel between this "fallacy" and the idea that there is an understandable reason for the separation from the loved one ("This moment of contrast and my personal response to the deep hard frost between us"). I have two minor suggestions about the mechanics of the first stanza. First, though the piece seems to deliberately eschew some "clarifying" punctuation, I think "nights" might be changed to "night's" since it is obviously a possessive in context ("The previous night's delivery"). Second, I believe "promotes" might be changed to "promote" since the subject of the "poetic sentence" is "clouds," a plural noun, separated from the verb "promotes" by two prepositional phrases ("of blowing remnants" and "of the previous night's delivery"). Thus the syntax boils down to "clouds promote." I was really struck by several lines in the second stanza. I think you achieve here what many successful poets do by engaging the reader with several wonderful images while simultaneously giving greater meaning to the first stanza. I love the image of "the habitual dance steps of Aurora's hidden lights"; the juxtaposition of the expected visual sensation with an auditory response is quite striking and frankly beautiful. I was also impressed by how the poem's many images seemed to coalesce with these lines: "This moment of contrast (the speaker versus the environment and the dichotomy of the sun's warmth melting the snow) and my personal response to the deep hard frost between us (here a suggestion of who the victims alluded to earlier may be)/Bear striking similarities with warm flowing tears and puddles under my muklaks." Suddenly, the snow's melting is transformed in the speaker's mind (and in this reader's mind) into the melting of his heart and his wish to share previously hidden or unexpressed emotion (presumably love mixed with sadness and regret) with the absent loved one. I enjoyed how the final images of "iceflows" and "frozen pieces of the past" tie the outward, physical landscape to the inner, emotional landscape of the speaker's longing. The speaker knows the past is unchangeable and thus frozen as is the environment he is describing, but he hopes for the chance to "intermingle" the unhapiness of the past with a revelation to the beloved of how he feels in the present. I wondered if "the chunks of me washed away" represented the parts of the speaker that he must inevitably lose as he flows through life and thus changes, or if they suggested painful memories and the tears shed over them. My personal response was to "see" both, and as such I think the line is a poignant, unifying close to a very impressive piece. Bravo. Mell Morris	2004-02-07 15:16:12
Beautiful	madge B zaiko	Madge: This the 1st poem of yours that I've had the pleasure to critique. Due to health problems (yuk), I have less and less time for TPL. You present this piece in free verse, numerous internal rhymes, allits, etc. I tend to eschew commenting on poetic devices unless it's something really unique. My style is to give you my impressions of your poem. I start with a suggestion, having read this several times: I would change the title because it's almost overkill and redundant. Whether "Fingers Over Faults" or "To See Me As I Am" or "Staring Into Reflection", etc, etc., I think it would perk up the poem with a new title. (Minor point). "I've always stumbled, drunk in the hopes of love. So many nights I fumbled words into meaning; meaning men would toss. And it seems whatever I mean to say, What I wish for, Inside their hands was lost. But still I want to hear: "Beautiful. You're so beautiful and I understand you." Wow! Strong stanza with a killer opening: ..."stumbled, drunk in the hopes of love." This is crisp, unique and original phrasing. Your talent as poet is immediately obvious in how you turn a phrase. E.g.: "I fumbled words into meaning." The above lines tell me that the speaker is quite insecure about her appearance especially and she finds she is not understood by the men she meets. They toss away her words, apparently interested in other matters and it seems she tolerates most things if only they reassure her she is lovely. I must comment on your enhancing rhymes: stumbled/fumbled and toss/lost and hands/stands. "Staring into reflection, I slide fingers over faults, ...nice allits.... Tenderly embracing Each and every one. Full of memory, My eyes fight their drowning, Longing to erase these scars, I say: "Beautiful. You're so beautiful, and who cares if they understand you?" This is such a pithy description of a very sad woman and I vacillate between wanting to cry for her and wanting to slap her sideways, telling her that she doesn't need a man to make her feel beautiful. Until she truly believes it herself, ten ka-jillion men could tell her and she wouldn't believe. There is a subtle reference to her scars and I wonder are these literal or symbolic. It's little lines like that which give extra texture to the poem. Stanza 3 continues with her longing to be seen as beautiful until we come to the denouement: "When did I forget that I am: Beautiful. So beautiful. And it's only I who must understand that(?)." Lovely poem, lovely ending. I would change the question mark to a period to make this her epiphany, her final comprehension that the whole problem lies within her. (Minor point). Madge, I am quite impressed with your writing abilities and especially the use of repetition, the presentation of mundane facts in superb linguistics, your highly developed powers of limning imagery. I feel I know the heart and soul of the woman about whom you have written because you put me in her shoes, so to speak. I trust my minor suggestions will be accepted as they are: one person's opinion offered for the sole purpose of tweaking to improve. (And this baby really needs no improvement). I enormously enjoyed your poem; look forward to seeing more of your work. Congratulations on penning this accomplished piece. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-02-03 17:01:38
Daydream	Stormy D Morris	Stormy: Welcome to TPL and I hope you will enjoy the experiences here. First, your title got my attention because I have the habit and when you mention in your notes that you composed this piece during a dull training session, I really relate to you. I have done the same thing many times. My first suggestion is to keep the quatrains as they are but do not double- space between lines. This is stanzaic free verse (my favorite) but I think it will still be accessible yet more cohesive if single spaced. "wrapped up in stars a blanket of light my pillow the moon the air around us warm with our scent." A lovely metaphor in S1 to delineate you and your other sleeping in tune with the cosmos. This is a wondrous concept and nicely written. You have stars and moon and you might think of another heavenly body to use in place of light. Nebulae? Quasars? Numerous choices. Light is fine but you ask for constructive input and I think a change there might add a whisp of freshness. "naked, weightless we float in a tangle of flesh leg over arm over shoulder over toe mingling with stardust our bodies (they) glow...flow." Simply beautiful imagery. Tangle is a good word and I was struck by the agility of the lovers. Heavenly days! I don't feel you need "they"...it is extraneous. This is a harmony of sounds in S2. Rhymes of glow/flow/toe and slant rhyme with float; Assonance of star/arm and allits of float/flesh, the latter producing a delightful fricative sound. I am a "sound person" and you have tendered a symphony herein, greatly enjoyable! "the sun comes around setting the dust on fire, spreading cooled only by your sweet breath (in?) my ear whispering your name, I somersault into sleep." Very unique, creative and crisp descriptors in S3. Setting the "dust on fire" is exquisite. I think I already referred to the agility of the couple in bed and you confirm my impression with "somersault into sleep." That is a glorious phrase. In S3, you have ten sibilant sounds...Sssssss...which enhance the delivery, especially when the poem is read aloud. I am quite taken with your first poem posted here; it shows a plethora of talent and reads like a piece from an experienced poet. Your strongest points, IMO, are your abilities to limn deftly your imagery and (2) your choice of words and metaphors employing no cliche' but fresh and novel terminology. Stormy, thanks for sharing your "Daydream" with us and I look forward to seeing more of your work. Again, a hearty welcome aboard. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2004-02-01 17:34:59
martins	Thomas Edward Wright	T.: Glad to know what happened to your heart poem and that it has been posted again. This effort rivals your December masterpiece but I lack the stamina these days to do a good crit, especially on a longer poem. I like the title, read it as martens, thought it was about birds, had to look again, and it fits perfectly with the ending. You also begin in an apposite place...the first day the med students meet their cadavers. I like, too, that the bldg. is deliberately deceptive in order to keep the process private. Your second stanza provides a solid meataphor for the process about to begin and the old-engine example is a good one. You clearly bring us to stand in your shoes which is good, good writing to pull the readers in so well. The third stanza describes the unbagging of the cadaver, the stench is so finely limned, I could almost smell it myself. (I've been in my sister's lab when similar events were occurring). The simile of "silent like priests" elevates the level here and shows yours and others' respect of what were once people. Your second simile in the stanza, the body feeling like bacon, seems quite strange as a choice of comparison but who am I to question your sensation and word usage? The naming of the bodies is a tender moment; it tenderizes and personalizes the way the students feel and that gives me a good feeling. The med students are depicted here as humane: a quality often absent in today's practioners. "For some reason..." and go on to point out you begin with the arm pit as it makes it easier for the students. Then you describe your attempts at trying to cut martin open, a very honest and touching account of how you felt, making tentative scratches. I find your restraint with the scapel speaks well of you...and I have assumed from the start...(never assume)... that this is your own personal experience from med school. Likely that is the most common error made by critics...namely that the speaker in the poem equates with the person who wrote it. After you are into the arm pit, you begin showing martin his body laid open and discussing the nerves, veins, etc, and you note an old fracture in his radius. "martin didn't like to talk." T. at his best with the insertion of his gallows humor which makes this piece even richer and more textured. The next stanza is of reflection about the kind of person who would donate his remains for research and what price will be exacted from you for martin's generosity. "down the stairs." This stanza seems misplaced and not particularly of great importance to the poem as a whole. The epiphany when the "young punk student" sees the process with new eyes, whose respect toward the cadavers has risen during his period of study and then... "and then i closed the bag. and then i closed the metal lid." delivers a whammy. Nothing else to be said. Placed apart for emphasis, it is evocative in its understatement. Then you tell us how that period with martin still impacts you today as physician. This stanza is way cool, to quote the kid next door. Then the poem takes a delightful, wonderful shift. You bury martin's heart in a tulip bed.... "martin's heart came up the next year..... if the light was just right there was a to and fro to the glow that emanated- i (just) thought they were the most beautiful tulips i'd ever seen. i just called them martins." Such artistry herein..."to and fro to the glow". And you called the red, tall tulips martins. That is the quintessential ending to a splediferous (Joanne's word) poem. This is a special poem, quite credible, humorous but the element I find most surprising and touching is its tenderness. To continue would be to keep heaping encomium and tribute upon this wonderful poem which I hope everyone else appreciates. A winner, T., a major step forward in your journey of poetry. Best always, Mell-o	2004-01-30 19:57:17
Life in a New Land April 1947 Haifa	Michael J. Cluff	Michael: Your title is a grand hook for anyone interested in the establishment of the nation of Israel. The notion of new land is repeated in the body of the poem as well as an entire new world. This is a lovely poem with poetic devices humming everywhere. I like free verse but you have added so much assonance, imagery, and six instances of alliteration that it has more harmony than most rhyme/meter pieces. "The laden fruit tree speaks its roots attached to mine the unseen link until the time to unite is brought to blossom sometimes unfortunately by death, disease, dynamite or dessication." The metaphor of the laden fruit tree with which you are in communication is grand. The unseen link of your roots to the tree's until the time is right for surging forward to achieve your homeland...and then blossoms...is extraordinary. "Pan plays his pipe underneath the sapling smiling all the more." Oh rats, I cannot recall the name for that poetic device but it works beateously here. What I think you mean is that the ancient god of fields, forests, animals is joyous at what is occurring. It's sure as heck symbolic but there's another word for your technique that I don't recall. However, I have not seen it more masterfully applied in a long, long time. "Ties are timeless when based not on bombastic beliefs, ballistics, bellicose boundaries....exquisite writing... but neologisms in this near East ....again a reference to the new life, new language... such as peaceful palazzos, plazas and patios serene city squares tranquil towns nectar-sweet persimmon philosophies .....your linguistics brings joy.... panopoly of the earth rising to the sky, Yahweh perhaps beyond...." Your allits slide off the tongue because they are so fine. "Persimmon philosophies" makes me smile in enjoyment of your ability to couple words into euphony. Your ending is dramatic and satisfying as your poem demands. Having established a new world, given new meanings to old words, created others, amidst the serenity rising to the sky..."Yahweh and perhaps beyond." To me, it's a novel and unique idea of expressing beyond God or Yahweh...sort of like: beyond the end of the universe. Michael, this is an accomplished piece of writing and all I can say is Bravo! I think it is also an important poem and I wish there were a way more people might read it. I enjoyed your poem very much and wish you would find time to post more often Kudos and Best wishes, Mell	2004-01-30 17:44:33
Black and White	Regis L Chapman	Reeg: I'm glad you put data in additional notes for it helps clarify the situation and the sense of the poem. Otherwise, it feels as if written under the influence of something....and in this case, your self-search of yoga studies. I was puzzled by the title until line 18 shed some faint light on your selection. While usually intrigued by your obscure pieces, this seems such a disjointed theme and explication, it is like quicksilver...too elusive to be captured. You begin with a dull life, a trench to dig as soul, and masters of mud chewing their cud about the ideas churning in your brain. I know nil of yoga but masters being porcine- like and black and white do not fit my magery of same. To imagine that which is black and white denotes a number of ideas: there are no gray nor unanswerable areas in their make-up. Now that would be boring for half the enjoyment of life comes from trying to sort things thru, examine the possibility of classification, and if so, where to locate same. "India" has it right...never more than now as the NY critics herald the new schools of thought and writing emerging from the country. But I think you refer here to their philosophies...many are attracted to the so-called Eastern religions/ideaologies. Your ending is as enigmatic as your poem...all the possibilities of negation of what we cannot be. And "not even a sow can." Had i been working that many hours daily as you were when this was composed, I doubt I could have summoned a lucid thought. I think you have us all fascinated with your poetry, frequently over our heads, but give us efforts for trying to sort it out. Okay? You are now a tried and true TPL member, clearly above most of whom write about love, disaster, and especially a dastardly deed regarding a child. Keep plying us with poems and we'll figure them out one day! Best, Mell	2004-01-28 17:30:24
Falling in Love with Food	Mick Fraser	Mick: This is a wonderful parody of the old Elvis song which I well remember. Even the title made me laugh with "food" in lieu of you. "Wide men say that we once were thin but I can't help falling in love with food Shall I bake? Would it be a sin? If I can't help falling in love with food." Opening word, "wide," made me laugh and by the time I got to "bake", the tears were rolling down my face. What makes it even funnier to me is that Elvis probably would have preferred your version because he was truly in love with food. "Like the syrup flows, over ice cream....or "gently into me".... Darling, so it goes I need new dungarees ....your most hilarious line... Take my hand, take my whole wheat, too ...."wheat" caught me by surprise...a howl... For I can't help falling in love with food." Refrain repeated with an extra "For I can't help falling in love with food." This is the type of humor that makes me laugh aloud and my opinion has always been that humorous poetry is the most difficult to write and to be understood by the reader. I don't see how your poem could offend anyone unless there is some 12-step warrior group of obese persons about which I haven't heard. I wish I were as easily inspired by large people eating pizza...but that's the trademark of a true poet. Every thing and every one is fodder for his fertile brain and usually poets are somewhat observant as well. This reveals a sense of humor which is quite appealing, is a wonderful break from the usual poem posted, and deserves an award. (We need different categories to post our poems and a winner from each category). Kudos and best wishes, Mell	2004-01-24 13:57:10
Prime	Regis L Chapman	Reeg: "Any critique will be appreciated"...here is my any. I'm suffering a major neuron misfiring, synapse collapse today so my "any" likely will not suffice. You have an appealing end rhyme sustained throughout, your refrain is likewise appealing, and the structure is unique and pleasing. I imagine it would be a cool song but it is a brilliant if occasionally abstruse poem. The title is perfect for your theme. "Three colours combine ....Brit spelling of color... Tangent, perpendicular, cosine Changing with clock hands Flocking strands- reds, greens, blues three timeless, primary hues Adding *colors* advances time ....consistency.... reflective *colors* remember the grapes that add to make the wine The pressing comes November." This is new thinking to me, therefore delightful. The primary colors that are timeless combine as the planes of trigonometry and while timeless, change with clock hands. This is a feast of ideation with strands (flocking) so I am reminded of a stitch in time. But if that is not sufficiently novel, speaker says that time is advanced by the addition of colors! I am whelmed absolutely by your notion and wham! "reflective colors remember." This has the originality and love of words of a James Tate. (Very high praise from moi). The refrain: "Yesterday I am a mirror that I shed a tear for today I am a tree and tomorrow I am free." Starting with a melancholy note, ending with the promise of tomorrow's freedom. Your refrain appears four times in the poem with slight changes to accommodate time. I find it surreal (as parts of the poem) but in a captivating way. "Past Cyan is the sky we pray. Magenta reflects blood only (were) it stays Yellow, the color of my previous life- of cowardice and emotional strife. Black, all right, must be there Past reflection- mirror falling through air To show the lines of pain and sorrow but dank puddles never show tomorrow I wash my idle hands of the devil's cast Yesterday is because it doesn't last." Ah, brilliant. Very self-revealing and evocative stanza with admitted pusillanimity (yellow), suffering and strife (black), blood as magenta only (where?) it stays. "Cyan" is an unusual word so I find it charming. S2, lines 8,9,10 are outstanding. Line eight is profound and I wish I had thought of it, applause for line nine, and line ten should have been penned by Einstein... obviously overlooked. "Present Today is sun, yesterday-moon Today is seed, tomorrow- bloom Adding colors numbered three red, blue, green R G B" Nicely alters the construct and makes the rhyme. Oh you existentialists are ever ready to experiment. "Future A little sun a lot of time wheels upon wheels and far sight add one on one Leaving white Three colors prime in grand design." And therein poet has brought us full circle to end with the primaries again...but with the added idea of their being in grand design. Overall, this is a splendid poem, IMO. Probably not everyone's cuppa but certainly acessible if one is interested in the theme. I continue to find high levels of quality in your work, unique and crisp new ideas, and some lines almost lead to brain-strain as the notions have not been encountered extant. This exercise of my gray matter (today's being the exception) is the most enjoyable aspect of reviewing your poetry. I don't help as I do not see reasons to amend nor alter any part as per the old aphorism: "why fix it if it ain't broke?" I greatly enjoyed this poem, a freedom and easiness about it while profound; almost a contrast within the piece. I think I would call it duality because of the double-layered lines. Kudos and best wishes, Mell	2004-01-22 17:08:08
Can You (Still) Get That Over the Counter?	Thomas Edward Wright	T.: Your muse is perched obviously on your shoulder as you are posting such grand poetry, the best I've seen from your pen. Your title here is just great, wish I had thought of it for a memory piece of my own. (Not quite the same category). A loveletter that will remain anonymous but "Di" would likely be thrilled to her marrow should she see it. It is a romantic piece in toto but wry and tender, poignant and plangent but not the least overly sentimental. (I don't think you capable of same). Your childhood sweetheart won you by joining your inner circle in a pissing contest, thankfully unshod but seemingly oblivious to consequences. Her daring or bothering to participate let you know you had found your girl. I am not dismissive of childhood romances as I think they initiate tendrils/tendencies to future behaviors. And yours, after all these years, brings a Wow! to your lips. After detailing most tenderly your first time, you say: "I had no doubts after that"... Di gave a gift which you realize and still appreciate as many such experiences leave scars and prove to be ego-shattering events. And saluting her at the close of your poem: "And thank you. Hope you're well. And dry." I find that humorous but also with two meanings. I've not mentioned the allits of S 1, line 3, all the internal and end rhymes: best/contest and today/say/may and two/you...etc. All the good stuff poets care about is part and parcel here but so much more, if you will. With all your wit which peeps through, you have the most tender touch at times and that delicacy leaves the reader emotionally uplifted. You likely wouldn't want your tenderness heralded but it shows through, T. It shines at times. Great poem, simple on the surface but containing a depth upon close examination. I greatly enjoyed it! Kudos! Mell-o	2004-01-21 15:54:17
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