Joanne M Uppendahl's E-Mail Address: grizwiz@aol.com
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Displaying Critiques 151 to 200 out of 540 Total Critiques.| Poem Title | Poet Name | Critique Given by Joanne M Uppendahl | Critique Date |
| Contentment | Audrey R Donegan | Audrey: Can’t let this lunar poem of yours pass by me. You speak my language. I am enchanted by your moon in all her phases, and you’ve given an especially ecstatic reading of her moods, perhaps as metaphor. It is a highly sensual poem, and you allow your readers to sink into it fully. Capturing the moment as you have here, you have made it “deathless” in your mind, and our minds, too. Other readers with romantic souls will swoon, as well. Easily given to swooning at the sight of the moon, am I. And when reading or remembering her effects. Time will forget this moment allowing its endless linger, deathless in my mind. Especially delectable – “endless linger” – the sibilance, the sensual ‘n’ sounds, the liquid ‘r’ ending of L2 above. Likewise, the combined sounds of “endless/deathless” enhances your poetic artistry. Leaning back, bewitched at the sight staring fish eye and wide, entranced. I especially love this – “staring fish eye and wide” as it is startling to me, a new way to think about the moon. Touch of live eye to eye. Cool, like fish, but intent, entrancing. Other sensory cues, as well, given with great subtlety. I watch the moon explode into fuchsia-white light over an abysmal yearning sea, desperately eager in the night. Perhaps a metaphor for sexual climax. Associated thoughts are of the connection between the moon’s phases and all organic cycles --- oysters, tides, menstruation, (menses/month/moon all from the same root), pregnancy and birth. But the first flash is definitely ‘le petite mort’ in my view. Beautifully drawn. Tell me if I am wrong. ;) A starlit blaze of glory vibrating hemispheres, hovering bright. Again, I think that as the moon appears as a single globe, the allusions are to the connection between this luminous body and our bipartite ones. Sublime! Divine incandescence beaming with heroic might. Yes, time will forget this moment and linger it will, deathless in my mind. The moon in your poem changes, at least for this reader, from the ultimate feminine symbol to include and engulf the traditionally masculine symbol of the sun. The “incandescence” of the moon now belongs to her; she now beams with “heroic might” having joined in essence with her masculine counterpart. They are fused as one, their energies combined and combusting the sky. Luminescent writing, Audrey! This poem wows me to my toes. Lovely, lovely. Brava! Applause, Joanne | 2005-05-30 11:34:48 |
| Retail Therapy | stephen g skipper | Stephen:
I’m always happy to find another of your poems. This one a lyrical
tribute to feminine beauty, intensely drawn, with the focus on her
slim, elegant foot. You paint this portrait with vivid yet delicate
colors.
The title didn’t quite prepare me for the poem. I think because of my
own bias toward shopping – I don’t enjoy it unless in a bookstore, or
plant nursery. But as I read into the poem, I really got into it,
because of your very well-done visual, tactile and other sensual details.
""Lean forward and smell the leather"
her red full lips were slightly parted when this was said."
Leaning into life, inhaling the loveliness of scent,
with almost a child’s anticipation of Christmas. Giving the
speaker and the reader the cue that to be fully present
to life, one has to “lean forward” to receive it.
"The heady aroma of manicured skin hit me!"
Hmm, sounds as if you are prepared for the experience
but surprised by it. :)
"They lay in the open blue box,
on a crinkled bed of musical tissue."
“musical tissue” is lovely, the auditory image delicate
nice use of color, with ‘red full lips’ and ‘blue box’
"Excitement barely contained,
she lifted my gift as if they were the sacred chalice."
Splendid sounds of “lifted/gift” – the soft ‘f’ like a whisper
The reverence which the speaker (you?) hold for the woman
is shown with “sacred chalice.”
"This, the talisman to modern (femininity).
In her hands she had "the" shoes to die for."
| 2005-05-30 11:10:01 |
| Visions 6453 | hello haveaniceday | Barbara: You captivate me as a reader with another of your fine poems. This ‘feels’ familiar to me. There is a certain universality to romantic relationships, of suffering and joy. This poem’s very specific ones make it all the more authentic and poignantly sharp. Two lovers, with completely different rhythms. So close and yet so far away. “his touch too short” really carries the entire first stanza, IMO. But then, “never the dreamer/’til she waked” also aches with the unfulfilled potential of union for these two, so palpably not present in each other’s worlds. her span of love so wide she saw below a constellation as she cried This stanza seems to me to contain the essence of what cannot be said otherwise. The expansive love of the woman, taking her into the uttermost reaches of the galaxy, and yet, this love cannot bring her closer to true union with her beloved. And as an aside, does he comprehend? My sense is that he does not. You show much more in the progression of this piece, of these two lovers who seemed destined not to fulfill one another. no one had seen her god him blind now, queer rice paper ashtrays stale and odd I’m not overlooking the fine poetic-crafting. The enjambment in L-2 is remarkable. The images and textures are remarkably evocative. There seems an insubstantial quality to him, as if he is more than frail, but detached. You capture that in “rice paper ashtrays” and especially “state and odd.” How sorrowful this feels. He is her god, but inaccessible and not present. I wonder if he is blind in fact or if this is metaphor. No matter, as it works to deepen the tone of this poem. her toast and butter faith a daily taste persistent hunger never waked The sense of things suspended, in surreal fashion, is so pervasive. The speaker’s hunger does not seem excessive, with her “toast and butter faith” it would seem that she asks for little but his true presence, “daily taste.” the lack of fulfillment leaves a taste in her mouth like bitter ashes. What is the key to her release from this sense of suspension, of waiting for what will never happen? that signal lantern flash cove of her heart quick shuttered senses fear perhaps A sense of alarm builds to the climax of the poem. Subjectively I felt that death will part these two without the complete consummation. And yet the love remains. The sense of fear, of sensory impressions “shuttered” seem to fulfill a dual purpose. Maybe I misread, but feel that there are two major themes – love unrequited, and the possibility of death’s arrival without these two ever truly, deeply meeting one another. The final possibilities, extinguishment of hope. The candle blown. storm clouds laid on grasses blurred reflections nature teaches love life passes The enduring qualities of nature seem to form a backdrop of reluctant acceptance, or at least recognition, that “life passes” and so, perhaps, does sorrow. I have a sense of pre-grieving from this work, particularly the final two stanzas. This could be a projection on my part. I could not agree more that “nature teaches love” as it seems to be the crux of everything. Endurance, the “storm clouds laid on grasses” which will nourish them, rather than destroy them. Great tenderness expressed. The poet is alone with her “blurred reflections” which ties back with “him blind now.” Magnificent poem, Barbara. As I've observed to another poet, is seems ironic that our best work seems to come from our longing or suffering. But there it is. You honor us with this piece, and I hope I have not strayed too far from your intent for it. Brava! In everything, peace Joanne | 2005-05-29 11:31:07 |
| Island life | Mark Andrew Hislop | Mark: This poem, from title to final line is deeply compelling. A soliloquy of angst, in a surreal setting that matches the speaker’s mood. Not self-pity, but self-perception, a too-tight fitting of the skin. With “Island life” I think of one living as isolated, in a kind of existence that feels dreamlike, detached, and yet all-too-aware of what is lacking. A ‘morning after’ (mourning after) effect, to be sure. A certain sardonic humor informs S1’s L-1 and 2. I could not help but smile. How we find ourselves in certain situations, in which we sought to find surcease, and yet “still live! Never mind.” I smiled again at “Call me Jericho.” Funny how we outlive even our most drastic efforts to become numb. Or at least, not so keenly aware of what is missing. Did I tell you? I rode the pampas, once, Stole on horseback A king’s daughter, Conceived two dozen sons, Conquered Troy. And Berlin. Did I tell you? Self-mocking, yet with wry humor, once again. Life’s potential adventures, in reality or fantasy, are textures which the speaker uses to scourge himself. And he is not finished yet – but goes on as if to repeat a now meaningless mantra. Feeling unlike himself, but unable to summon anything other than his repetitious scourge. As an aside, at times in my life I have done this. When mistaken in judgment in close relationships, for example. Or feeling like an idiot because of some misstatement given by myself or another. It’s not like me to forget. Did I tell you? It’s not like me to forget. Driving the point home. A pervasive sense of ennui, pointlessness. The speaker tells us (the poet informs) that he is ‘unlike’ himself. I walk my sanded street again today Beside my big blue gutter. Example of a powerful metaphor, above. Another walk on the sanded street, with ‘my’ big blue gutter. The speaker owns the gutter, where we think of life’s detritus floating past continuously. “blue” seems a reference to the extreme lassitude and hopelessness that are this poem’s reflective tone. No insolence to parry No deference to pay The moon will wax and wane On my word. Utter isolation, so that the moon seems the only witness to this parody of self. Your voice is extremely strong here, your poetic crafting honed, in brilliant, sharply defined points. My word is incandescent. Burn, I say to you. Burn, I’ll wait- Until you’re burnt right through. Relentlessly, the speaker attempts to discard his incandescent word. To flame his thoughts into non-existence. Yet what castigation would remain without these words? I cannot see one toucan today. How familiar. Nothing of joy or comfort. Bleakness, everywhere. If there are toucans, the speaker would not see them, or at least they would be seen as colorless, less than disappointing. The horizon is as far away as ever. The final line gives the artist’s perspective on this state-of-mind poem: endless, endless hopelessness. Imprisonment within one’s thoughts and altered senses. It is a fine work, in every sense. If I have gone beyond, or stepped all over, your intent for the piece, I hope you’ll accept my response to it as I can only see it through my own filters. Intensely, scribed with utmost precision and authenticity. A fine work, once more. Bravo! Peace, Joanne | 2005-05-29 10:45:29 |
| Child in the distance | Mark Andrew Hislop | Mark: It's difficult to choose among your recent poems, to find the one which most powerfully speaks to me. But without question, this one pierces deeply, makes my responsive heart ache, reverberating with almost unbearable anguish. It is poetry like this one of yours that stays with me for much longer than the reading. It seems ironic that the best poetry comes from mournfulness. My son is far from me Just beyond one arm’s reach In a photo frame, An impossible distance. The contrast of distance of L1 with L2 is complete in L4. The stanza could stand alone as a poem unto itself. The aching across that distance is so palpable here. I feel it, as often readers will, in the context of my own missing of my son. Quite an unendurable sensation, at times. The soft fricatives of "photo frame" are resonant with tenderness. I can imagine, easily, running my finger lightly over the frame, yearning for the child whose face is so close and yet so far. "An impossible distance." Some day I’ll hold him close to me again But now he’s there with his one cheeky smile Fixed, and somehow fixing all his smiles Mark, I'm not going to be able to give the kinds of comments that this poem deserves, because I am so moved emotionally. The hope in the first line keeps me from completely folding up and being unable to write at all. You will hold him close again. The third line I have copied and pasted above is what shreds me. I have some photos like that. More precious than anything I own. More painful to look at at times than I can possibly describe. "his one cheeky smile" makes him so very visible to us. Since he was poured from his mother’s tender crucible Firmly in my mind, sprung in a matrix of joy I thought I was too small to contain, Thinking I was an misanthrope, When all I needed was a child To laugh at my spreading gut. How children enlighten us to the importance of laughter. I love the phrases "tender crucible" and "matrix of joy" -- Rich textured sounds in "thinking/misanthrope" as well. I used to hide his face ‘To concentrate,” I said and it’s true, Because now, in this distracted view, His head forces itself upon my shoulder’s memory The weary memory of my legs, my arms That lofted him into the nightly womb of his bed. Your tactile memory of your son is by far, to me, the most moving part of this piece. For me it is mixture (with my experience of loss) of agony and cell memory. So much a part of me as to be inseparable. Forgive me here, for going off on my own tangent -- I don't think it is 'appropriate' but I can't seem to stop. "I used to hide his face" -- I did this after my son died. Because I didn't want to lose the more accurate visual memory and substitute a photographic image. You capture that exquisitely, for anyone who has been separated from or lost a child. And because the true distance numbers miles by five thousand Each thousand must be satisfied with one tear, Or I must hide his face again. Poignance, at times the most insupportable of feelings. How can I not give a personal response. I ache for your aching, Mark. How can I not? All he wants is all I ever wanted Without, he tells me, knowing how to enjoy. And his naughty eyes have it, I see that now, That irritating plea to lighten up. He wants Not a mother’s worship nor the rod of fatherhood But a space to leave his messy crayons Spill his milk, then go on To the all other innocences of his fun. You show us your son in many shadings, permutations -- almost as if turning a jewel in the sun to catch its scintillating lights. And how ephemeral they are, unless we capture them somehow, as you have done in this poem. Mine was a jealous rod, sometimes, And he laughed at it to my face Crackling with the voltage of youth. The image before me after these lines is of a lightning rod and of crackling voltage. The two of you joined in your father-son relationship in ways that will withstand the present circumstances. Because you are part of each other, of the same blood and fire. Some day I’ll hold him close to me again, And until I do I’ll show him to everyone, I’ll show them all I’ll show them all My one good deed. ------ You show us here, Mark. You show us your "one good deed" and beyond that, your passion as a poet and the strong core of your fatherhood. I feel honored to have read and commented on this. I hope you'll understand my inability to respond to your poem without re-experiencing so many of my own emotions. Bravo! Remarkable, in every sense of that word. Peace, always Joanne | 2005-05-28 11:28:21 |
| Between Duties and Demons | Latorial D. Faison | Latorial: I've long appreciated your poetic voice. These personal poems, of marriage and children, of keeping everything in place until your husband returns, touch me most deeply of anything that you have written recently. These evoke strong emotion, and greater understanding for all those who must endure similar "duties and demons." No one asks you if you want to you're just pushed (great enjambment here) (forward) without recourse, remorse or the option of divorce The 'force' of "forward/recourse/remorse/divorce" is compelling and energetic. I get the sense of effort and a falling into a situation from which there is no possible retreat. Involuntary, unacknowledged. for twelve months It feels like twelve years or twelve decades, the way you single out the line for emphasis. Longer than it takes to have a baby. kids hollering asking, seeking, begging, treading on thin ice Mommy, mommy, MOMMY! This is the stanza which really got to me! The entreaty, constancy of demans, needing of and no feeding of the mother who gives beyond her endurance to do so. The 'last nerve' ready to snap. Having to be two parents in one, when she misses her husband and life companion in a way that is as sharp as fresh grief. Balancing on thin ice, without slipping and falling, the children riding on your shoulders. That's what you show me here, Latorial. They configure fifty million ways to annoy the "other you" -- WONDERFUL! "the other you" -- brilliant way of showing that the 'real you' is the loving, always adoring of her children, woman - but for a time, she seems recessive, in retreat from the overwhelming responsibilities before her. Somewhere between duties and demons the line appears, while we stand observing the pulse of humanity praying not for heartbeats but for an ushering in of life. Here you turn, facing the reader(s), to point out that this is more than a personal struggle, that our hearts beat together, that we are all, all of once substance. I hear this last line as the strongest in the poem. You unite us with more than the observation of "the pulse of humanity" -- you bring it to use, we feel it. It beats. Magnificent poetry, once more. Your strong voice, true and real, and very much appreciated. Brava! My best to you, always Joanne | 2005-05-28 10:47:23 |
| Early May, the Motherless | Thomas Edward Wright | Tom: What can I say? This poem says everything. It cleaves my heart. You have struck every note on the scale for me, as I see my own father once more, behaving exactly as you describe. We didn't have mint juleps, but I wish we had. The last line is the one which left me ragged. I've read this several times and not been able to respond until today. Your gift always amazes me. I hear much more in it, many shades of overtone, and your signature dark humor. It's pure "Tom" -- wish this chapter did not have to end as it will. In the meantime, we are with it. Must endure. Bravo! My best always, Joanne | 2005-05-28 09:57:10 |
| senryu | Rachel F. Spinoza | Rachel: No one can infuse the short form with more passion than you do here. this penal complex, this cold-blooded, scapegoated, soldier, this England The sounds and sentiments expressed are so very powerfully done. The repeated "this" is so vividly, evocatively pronounced. I visualize hands raised, emphatic gestures made. Heart-thumping work, once more! Wonderful. Brava! Peace always, Joanne | 2005-05-28 09:49:11 |
| Soul Axis | Kenneth R. Patton | Ken: I am sitting here smiling. You write here with such voice, a subtlety (always a hallmark of your work), and a poem that could have been written for me or by me if circumstances were different. I have to say I feel that this poem of yours is like a gift. A recognition of so much that is internal for this reader. You've given life to a marvel here, Ken. I'm not going to hold back my appreciation of any of it. Of course anything astronomical/mystical is food and drink to me, the very personal way in which you have expressed this makes it an inner soul song. Let my detractors shake their heads, "There she goes, being effusive again." Damn right! I am!! I absolutely love the poem, did I mention that? You wonder does everyone have a core? You lead into the work with a spiritual/philosophical question, but more than that, a personal statement, a question you ask yourself, and are now asking us as readers. Poetics are not neglected, with the soft 'r' sounds in L1-3. And your slow pacing, like a walk. Time enough to consider the question. Does everyone have a center where their soul resides? In one of my poems here recently, I spoke to a similar issue. My answer to you if we were talking would be something like, "Of course they do, Ken. That's what we are." But thinking again, some seem to have forgotten about that center or are cut off from it. In a sense, this is one of the ineffable mysteries -- we do not know. Though I love to think I know. (I really know nothing, whatsoever.) It just seems that so many are filled with asteroids As I read this quickly the first time, this is where I laughed -- with happiness and recognition. And of course the term, those little fragmented rock bodies hurling around in loops -- what a visual image! And their names!! Persephone, Ceres, Vesta, Pallas, Juno. Hygeia. A wealth of mythology. Some people seem to be spinning stony fragments. At times I feel like this - but they are not stones for me but meteorites, combusting when they reach earth's atmosphere. Asteroids do not connect, seem impervious, shed no light. No Sun Nothing orbiting Just drifting You have said it better than I ever could. Your sustained metaphor works extremely well. I’m thankful After my Big Bang (Spiritual experience? And the thankfulness, I hear that!) I’ve coalesced Last line is out of this world. The fruits of this coalescence are seen in your poem, Ken. The center of it is present in your words. Shedding light. Marvelously done. A great gift with which to start my poetic day. Bravo!! Best always, Joanne | 2005-05-28 08:37:37 |
| The Crow Haiku | Duane J Jackson | Duane: I'm so happy you plunged in! You show the sometimes unappreciated, raucous crow, simplest of nature's messengers, worthy of singing praise! How you have dressed him in his elegant finery, twilight. He picks a high perch, holding back nothing in his appreciation of Creation. Let his voice, and yours, be heard! Very well done! Now I am going to be anticipating more. Thank you for your comment in the additional notes. We three and more are joyous that you've begun with this one. Bravo! Hugs, and best always, Joanne | 2005-05-27 08:49:19 |
| Silly Me | Claire H. Currier | Claire: A word to the wise ... is sufficient. I forget who said that. But you give several words to the wise here. And I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed with lack of critiquing guilt. :) It's no good just to take and not give. And it's horrible to wait for critiques when there are none or few. We place our souls out there (I mean this literally) for everyone to view. If few or none reply, does that really mean that we have failed, or that our unfamiliar (or too familiar) name does not appeal? These thoughts triggered by your poem are well worth pursuing. And the poem is good, and how happy I am to find another one from you. Your commitment and real concern are showing here, as well as a bit of dark humor (which I enjoy, by the way, unless it's too scary). So, to keep things in balance must be our goal. Oh there you are I thought I was all alone Not written for some time I forgot what it was like Chagrin! This applies as well to correspondence, as well as critique replies. Anytime we forget responsibility in communication. A fair exchange. Your pacing is once again completely captivating -- the words personal, direct. I tend to write too much, all at once, then silence for a mysterious while. Consistency is better. Took allot of nerve you know To let my feelings flow Then post for all to see On the link below Your first line is so completely RIGHT. It does take a lot of nerve, we both know -- I think everyone knows, but forgets. It is scary stuff. I remember when I submitted my first poem here. Writing it, then submitting it, seeing it there, bare for all to see, or not. My guts poured out. People were kind, right away. It wasn't a very good poem, in my opinion, but it was me, taking a risk. I had to actually look away when I clicked the submit button, and immediately felt, What have I done now? Now I am going to find out that no one will want to read this stuff that I've been writing and rewriting and collecting for years. I am shy though don't appear to be so. I think that most writers have a shyness to them, of course not all, but people who have a lot going on on the inside sometimes do not express it as well face to face, as in an art form, particularly this one. I know what you mean When I read the line that said Where are those who read And give us their feedback This is what this link is all about. Write, read, respond, reply. It is all of a piece. And reminders are welcome. Placing this in poem form expresses it powerfully. Right here, right now. Silly me for thinking It would be different this time My hubby always says In his testy old way (smiling -- I hear many things in the last two lines above -- many things) Same old stuff dear Just a different day As he adds his sinister ...hehehe... You got me again with the final stanza's punch! You kept the first line clean -- I've heard a different version of that saying often. The 'hehehe' at the end, a sardonic note. Pause to make one think. And think. And feel. Claire, you've done it again. :) Caught me offguard, spoken to my need to hear a reminder of why we are here, on this link. I like it -- a lot -- for twenty-hundred different reasons. Brava! Hugs. My very best always, Joanne | 2005-05-26 19:38:32 |
| Letter to My Friend | Claire H. Currier | Claire:
*You* are my treasure. I could not be more astonished for the gift of this poem.
Of course, you know me well enough to know that I am weeping as I write this.
Friendship is one of those things that surpasses any expectations of what life
can hold. It is one of the deep mysteries of life I think that the Creator gives
us as gifts to one another, to hold one another through difficult times and in
joy. I can't decide which is more thrilling, that you are writing poetry again,
or that you wrote this poem for me. I am completely overwhelmed.
What a lovely surprise
Your smiling face upon my screen
Allowing me a glimpse
Of your home as you welcome me in
And I do welcome you into it, Claire! I will send you the picture via email.
Maybe some other ones, too, of my flower garden, so you can see where I spend
a lot of time. We've shared so much. I wish we could sit by the pond and have
a glass of iced tea today. It's going to be really hot here (for us) about 90º
or more.
My eyes quickly scan the area
Of this warm inviting room
Did your husband make the bookshelf
Holding your treasures behind you
No, he didn't make it, but painted it. You catch the signature (bookshelf) in my
home. Bookshelves, everywhere. Full to brimming. I cleared this one out in order
make room for some treasures, which you spotted. | 2005-05-26 10:05:27 |
| verse 70 (Candle) | Erzahl Leo M. Espino | Erzahl: You excel so much with this, that you have exceeded even yourself! I am swept away with the mysticism in this, the subtlety. Truly, it would not be excessive praise for me to say that this is your masterpiece. Incredible. I'm sorry this critique is a little brief, but I wanted to let you know how this haiku has affected me. It is clear that you have been continuing to write poetry even though you have been away from TPL for awhile. Your poetic vision in this simply takes my breath away. I think that, to loosely quote someone, poetry is how you write life. Much appreciation coming from this admirer. My best always, Joanne | 2005-05-25 20:10:47 |
| Two Souls | marilyn terwilleger | mt: I had to tumble down to the bottom of my page to find you, but -- oh, how worthwhile is the tumbling!;) It's lovely in every way. I need to catch up with myself for a moment. LOL! This is exquisite: Two souls join in language of love, trust, and passion melding together forming a bold bond You show how language is much more than words -- how two souls exchange much more than words, as physical and emotional expression transform both to spiritual heights. But you have said it much better! I love romantic poetry and this is a sublime example of it, as well as of your gifted versatility. It's going to be a very difficult month for voting! There are so many truly outstanding poems this month - and this is one of them. Brief, intense -- the cadence perfect for the sweet dance of these two souls. It lacks nothing. It holds everything of the sense of "love, trust, and passion" reflected by you, so reverently here. Brava! A bouquet of tiger lilies, tossed... My best always, Joanne | 2005-05-25 13:47:06 |
| Treasury of Bitter Herbs | Jana Buck Hanks | Jana: Unprepared was I for this exquisite poem. I recall your previous writing, but this is a new voice. Stronger, fulminating, beauteous. The poem itself a treasury. Only a few moments into reading it, I was utterly gone. (Does not happen easily for this multi-tasking, fleeting consciousness of mine.) But you pull the reader into total awareness of your voice. I skimmed through it first for the sheer rapture of your poetic voice. Then I slowed to accept the pain of the “stark reality” – the shocking memories of the past. I feel something different taking place here. Not easily defined. I’m going to give it a lot of thought and reflection – for a very long time. More immediately, I must respond to your lyricism – it feeds me still, as it has before. (But nicely non-caloric!) OK, now to the poem -- LOL! Unrestrained sagacious memory conjures peals of girlish laughter ringing out merrily in childishly concocted games of Hide and Seek. You bring us into the moment, the memories, with you. As if all time were now. As if our childhoods happen simultaneously. “Ghostly sun-dust weeping trough window lights brighten paths set in lacy web wisp shadows thrown into remote corners of long ago.” Oh I love this! It sings. It sings. Though ‘weeping’ is not lost on me, your foreshadowing a gentle preparation. “Hump-backed trunks cradle ancient leather-bound yellowed torn pages crowded amid pairs of high buttoned shoes. “ “Hump-backed” brings allusions of hump-backed whales, and ‘humping’ – such organic texture here. I always have appreciated the ways of your enjambment, the way you keep energy flowing at such a high rate. I am swept into this – (May have said that already.) "Feathered woolen hats exude humid perfumes for dry rotting dresses." --dry, rotting as the past, connection with the feminine element of dresses. Incredibly visual/tactile. “silk time prisoners” —one of your phrases which will haunt me. Magical. I could only love it more if I wrote it. LOL! forms stored in upstairs walk-in closets warm from summer beams. Dirt-daubers drone familiar –oh, yes! concerts within eaves at dusk lulling drowsy underpinned counter-point to Croakers and Katydids heralding the coming of twilight. (I have to slow down now and thank you for the Croakers and the Katydids. I love them so much. Once when I lived in Tennessee, I was so in love with the Katydids that I almost didn’t want to return to Washington. But we have more Croakers, and they will always be my first live.) “Fabrics of Time interwoven with man-kind’s sticky crystalline” –very strong allusion, I caught it. “Ice water freezes veins of the soul trying to recall” –here I feel the extreme cold, amazing you are Jana, as much as before, but truly even more so. Am I making sense? “smiling summer days and nights of clear and precious light before closeted fears reappear raging like weeds” Yes, what lives in the basement, I read somewhere, thrives and grows. Until brought before the light, as you are doing. “in a patch of lovely lilting Lady Slippers. When did the illusive hours of seemingly innocence dances become immersed in Holy Trinity waters of stark reality?” Hits powerfully, compellingly. The contrast of the purity of Lady Slippers with the “stark reality” of what was done to this truly innocent child. There is a fury in me now, as I recall so many things from my years of work with survivors. I cannot express just now. I will have to go work in the flower beds for a while. Jana, this is truly magnificent. It is you, back with the strongest voice so far. I am in amaze. Brava, Brava! Blessings always, Joanne | 2005-05-25 13:24:16 |
| Traces of War | Latorial D. Faison | Latorial: As always, I draw so much from your poetry. I always read it, although I haven’t responded to many of your poems lately, but not because I have not been absorbing them, drawing strength from them, and listening to your poet’s heart. they have been strewn all about me my bed, my children, my home, my life dusty pieces of denial that cling to us You show how life is fragmented when we are separated from loved ones, though the ‘dusty pieces’ still need tending, are life, are alive and alive in us, though we may be a thousand miles away. as my children wander into our kitchen for cool glasses of milk and into our arms for comfort, the memories “stick like grit” – incredible onomatopoeia The return, your husband’s return, only eases the pain somewhat, because I think you show us here, the reality sinks in more slowly than the fear retreats. The comfort of your closeness feels a bit like a shelter in the aftermath of a tidal wave. You are close but still very much in shock for the possibilities and the endless worry and denial of what might have happened. as we caress one another from head to toe we still feel the fear of yesterdays filled with so much unknown, uncertainty, unrest Beautifully stated, simply, directly. Your immediate, authentic vision, gives a strong sense of the emotional unrest, takes hold of me as I read. there are too many sands of sadness, yet we pick up the pieces every day to move on from what carried us so far away Latorial, you have a way of delving into the reality of things, with many layers, but much simplicity. I never read a poem of yours without feeling changed, without considering life and all it holds more reverently. Again, as always, you write with your soul. I feel as though you are well and truly back. I am joyous for you and your children, for your husband’s safe return. Blessings always, Joanne | 2005-05-25 10:26:30 |
| Golden Moment | Mark D. Kilburn | Mark:
It’s wonderful of you to share this poem with us. You know how much
I love ‘bird poems’ and even have one somewhere entitled, “Evening
Grosbeak.” But this one, far from reading as if from the birder’s guidebook
(like the one I wrote) is immediate, real. It is much more about being present
in life, absorbing the fullness of it. I love the title you have chosen, as it
asks the reader to pause and enter in to timelessness. Simply lovely.
An Evening Grosbeak
fed this morning
from my frozen feeder
highlighted by first rays
of the golden hour…
Your cadence is soft and reverent. So appreciative of those delights offered
by nature to the soul in readiness to receive. I love the sort of oxymoron, if
you will of an Evening Grosbeak feeding in the morning. How evening and
morning are tied together in a cyclical way. And your fricatives in
“fed/frozen/feeder” enhance the softness of your approach. As we stand
there with you, appreciating the delicacy of the moment.
We locked eyes
both mesmerized
until reality’s warmth
chased us both to our day-
Eye to eye contact with a bird is one life’s most magical experiences, and you
show us this fully – give us the sense of this angelic-seeming contact. At times,
it is sad, you also show here, when the contact is broken and ‘reality’ steps in.
But it is the very brief quality of these moments that makes them what they
are.
A Morning Dove
called this evening
her partner came
two sunset silhouettes
in short pink minutes
of the golden hour.
| 2005-05-25 10:11:42 |
| The Opposite Side Of Life | marilyn terwilleger | Hi mt:
OK, be prepared, I am launched!! | 2005-05-24 17:17:52 |
| Blood Run's Cold | Claire H. Currier | Claire: Your title is well-chosen for that is to come. It fills me with dread and I want to reach out to you and simply hold you. I am as stunned as I could possibly be. I hope you will not hide this poem, for it reveals something important about suffering, our human bond, and your willingness to trust us with your deepest anguish. It is an outcry of pain such as I have seldom heard. “The sun fades over Mount Tully Though it has not been bright These past few months” The cadence of walking in the woods. The tone of the poem is established as you show us that the “sun fades” and “it has not been bright.” “In my mind I see myself Taking a walk deep into the woods Surrounding our home” ---I sense the importance of ‘our’ here Your pace is deliberate, almost methodical, as though you see the beauty but are numb inside. “I catch a glimpse of the deer drinking from a nearby brook Knowing the bears live deeper in I tend to turn the other way” That glimpse quickens the heart, nearly as much as the bears’ presence does. Your humor shines through here. But there is a foreshadowing in the words “tend to turn away” as if you hold the possibility in mind to go deeper, knowing the bears are there, full well. The birds are chirping their heavenly songs The Lord is most happy This time of day You give a glimpse of everything as it should be – a kind of perfection rarely seen, exactly this way, except by those whose hearts have been ripped open. I often think of what it would be like To be free as a bird Yet here I am Alone with my tortured mind Now the more than melancholy note, the one I've also heard, so very poignant the midst of such beauty. The contrast the peacefulness, the birds chirping, with your suffering is anguished, so moving. But I was unprepared for the implosive impact the of stanzas to come. My God, Claire, what you show us here with the thoughts of shooting your feet. You show the pain of your bleeding as far less than the pain of your losses. I do understand this, but must reject the actual deed. It is a horrifying thought – but written with such clarity that I know you may have considered it. I will write more to you offline. I have my trusted gun by my side Just in case I told myself Yet I know when I find the place I will stop and take a rest It is then I will begin to shoot holes perhaps in a foot or two and just sit back Watching my blood run Claire – remember all that you have written to me and to others, and know that you are loved by your TPL family. I understand this as metaphor, but also know you hold it as a possibility, at least in thought. Bold and brave to show us how you really hurt, you who give and have given so much to others. You are in my prayers already, but more continuously now, until this passes. More later. Much love, Joanne | 2005-05-24 16:06:43 |
| Summoned By A Kiss | Erzahl Leo M. Espino | Erzahl~~! What a great delight to find that you have come back, and not only that, with a FROG poem!! I feel as though you wrote it just for me (Frog or Bird Lady, I can't decide)! ;) It is positively glowing with your signature voice -- incredible appreciation for beauty, nature, and plenty of humor. I love it to pieces. But before I get carried away, I need to slow down a bit and savor more. If you could see my fingers flying across the keyboard, you'd know how very happy this poem makes me. OK, slowing down to observe the gems within this piece: First, the title: "Summoned By A Kiss" -- now what romantic like me is not going to leap at this (pun intended)? :) First Stanza: I really appreciated the underlying melancholy in the words "lost moment" in L1. I was pondering along, wondering what was making Erzahl a bit morose, when I fell into L3 and realized -- my alter ego is speaking! Nothing yummier than flies and mosquitoes for certain lovable characters. And you observed perfectly the exquisite perfume of "the murky aroma of the pond." My pond gets that way in late summer, and truthfully, I really enjoy it. Don't worry about me -- I am funny about stuff like that. Very sentimental and I don't care who knows it! ;) As nightfall comes and conquers my world I look upon the staring eye of the sky As I leap from lily pad to another lily pad I hope to find the magic lips of my princess Again in L1 above, a touch of melancholy. And then in L2, your sublime descriptor of the moon, as "the staring eye of the sky" -- wonderful! And all of your artful articulation, alliteration and assonance -- that almost goes without saying, but not without my appreciation. L4 is really my favorite one, despite how much I love all of the other ones. The Grimms' story of the frog king is my favorite. Your poem brings these lines to mind: "Open the door, my princess dear, Open the door to thy true love here! And mind the words that thou and I said By the fountain cool in the greenwood shade." It is so wonderful to read your poem from the frog's point of view. You bring a lot of magic to this work -- no surprise -- and delight for me. I have a 'thing' about frogs and most who know me know about it. I wear a frog pin (though I don't wear brooches) on whatever jacket I happen to have on at the moment. I think of him as my Prince. It would be fun to collect our frog, bird and insect poems from TPL and make a kind of collaborative chapbook. I am dreaming on, for who has time for projects such as this? But it would be fun and I think your title could be the title of the chapbook, and this poem the first one in the collection. Back to the poem: I'm a frog croaking back again Letting my sonata be heard once more Little Frog, we have missed your 'croaking' and I, for one, am delighted that you are "letting your sonata be heard once more." And may you find the "magic lips" of your princess, whoever she may be. Again, thank you for this treat! I hope you will send us more. We've missed you! Best always, Joanne | 2005-05-20 10:30:22 |
| Every Other Night, At The Paradise Cafe | Rick Barnes | Rick: This is right down to glass splinters in the (writer's)nail beds. The way I want to write -- to the bone, pared. And I would like to have seen 'one of those looks' as I well can imagine it. ;) But you don't spare yourself here, nor the reader, but you respect the woman "who was a novel unto herself." That kind of respect is part of what makes life worth living, for me. This is Rick Barnes "no bullshit" and I love it. It's like a challenge to me, to offer up something of such clarity. You always inspire me -- for this, and for the poem, my thanks. You honor the woman of whom it was said “She’s a junkie whore man!” I've know women with this description who did tell me their stories a few years ago. You honor all of our humanity with yours. Honored, Joanne | 2005-05-17 17:07:47 |
| Around the Block | Mell W. Morris | Dearest Mell-O: I will try to behave myself and act serious, because that is the kind of respect that this ars poetica deserves. You must know that I am thrilled to find it today as to read any of your poems is a wondrous experience, but particularly this one, as I know you haven’t been feeling well. But your poetic spirit is stronger than ever. Throughout the poem you speak to this. Your soulful nature radiates from this poem, it's luminous and – what is the word I want – transcendent. No that’s too big a one – it makes me feel something, many, many things too deep for words. It's said that poetry is a dualism of spirituality and worldliness and one poet called it, "That weird word world." For many, poetry charms, inspires, and resonates like a few bars of hesitation blues. Someone whose opinion I deeply respect said that poetry is the highest art form. Your poem is an example of why that is so. It captures something of each world in which we dwell – an ethereal one and a material one. Your friend said it very well. Hard to say “That weird word world” without laughing and breaking into smiles. I am thinking hard on this though (always a sign of wordiness on its way). I will think hard on it for a long time, because it contains more than I can absorb in one sitting, like a great feast of music, laughter, food, love, candlelight, tea and honey. I need to get back to your divine metaphor, however. I love the line below, as you include both raptor and rapture. It is sheer sensuality and also soul music, the very duality that you referred to in L1 of S1. Raptors are predators who feed on the physical bodies of other birds. (I am thinking out loud again.) Birds are so often symbols of the spiritual, but here is a bird who is going for blood and will eat the entrails, too. Out of necessity for its own life and for that of its progeny. They contribute to the ecology or whole life of the surrounding area. Poetry seems to capture both the strength and raw beauty of the raptor and the seeming vulnerability and ethereal nature of the songbird. But then, while my mind is going over these your scintillating words again, I am caught for a while in “rapture reel and radiate from an eerie.” You know I am thinking Coltrane, and Wynton Marsalis, and YoYo Ma. Those words make my heart beat to a rhythm that is close to ecstatic. I just want to say them over and over again and inhale them. Feel them circulate in my blood. Fill my aura with purple light. :) Many queries thrum through our poetry and the answers produce knowledge, my most important need. Yes, knowledge – that is what we are here for, isn’t it? And, dear Mell-O, you wisely know that it comes from listening to the God-given spirit within. How to find those answers? You show us below, again in a heart-startling way. You have, as another poet has written, submitted to your poetic voice. What comes from that is something that elevates us all to a new level, a new mesa. Your sharing that here makes me have more knowledge of you and of poetry and of myself. Beyond knowledge it increases my heart’s ability to enfold it, absorb it. I can’t get that, even from Mitsuko Uchida’s and Mark Steinberg’s recording of Mozart’s Sonata for Keyboard and Violin No.25 in F K377. OK, I’ll stop rhapsodizing, but only for a few minutes. (Calming) Whatever style or form we use, come the days when poets are silent and quiet, wordless and maimed by self-doubt into a sadness of no seasons. –Oh, yes! You are going deeper. I am listening. The darkness occludes spontaneity, insouciance and however long the block lasts, we are united in this problem and the union seems to render strength. You have written of it brilliantly – that anguished waiting, doubting, laboring – a dry birth – and eventually emerging from the chrysalis of something which strengthens and illuminates. The light after the long, long, dark night. Into the white no-thing-ness. (forgive me, I'm way out in the stratosphere) Poets' hands find pens and our lives return to a degree of normalcy from that which we learned. You’ve pinned it down precisely here, and beautifully. How can we be normal when we are not submitting to our poetry, our voice? It is scary sometimes how urgent that need is! The writings in the backs of books, on napkins, even on the sides of paper cups. Scrawled anywhere or said over and over again by the ocean waves and our hearts race as we try to get to the pen and paper. It is as necessary for life as … Namely, if muses mutiny or a curtain falls mid-rhyme, all we need do is bide our time as we exist for poetry... ...and poetry exists. You make me weep, Mell. It is the hope within the hopelessness, a light within sheer misery – as we struggle to see past that curtain which inevitably falls in “mid-rhyme” -- I am within those two space before the last line. Existing. Waiting for the poetry. Longing for more of your poetry. Brava, my beloved friend! And for you I am holding woven basket filled up with bright purple imp trailing double petunias, deep blue lobelia, Grecian windflowers, and a glowing, apricot, Camellia-flowered begonia. And listening, learning to bide my time. With love, Joanne | 2005-05-13 14:26:36 |
| Black Satin | Audrey R Donegan | Audrey:
Very sensual and sizzling! But tasteful. | 2005-05-09 14:20:59 |
| Crested Swift | Nancy Ann Hemsworth | Ohhh, Nancy!!
How did you know exactly what I was longing for? I love the way the contents of this
poem exceed its limits! Last evening I watched a documentary on wolves, and in it,
there was a scene with iridescent humming birds. It set up a craving I couldn't
satisfy! | 2005-05-09 13:35:35 |
| Who Are We? | Helen C DOWNEY | Helen: This poem works well as a metaphor for mentor/mentoree, parent/child relationship, or as I experienced it, a mythic journey. Perhaps it is Apollo who speaks, or the Sun, personified. I think of the Earth as swallowing the tears of the clouds, or atmosphere. The alternation of "I/You" seems like a Self-Other exchange. Perhaps it is a romantic duo, Eros and a lover. In early mythology he was represented as one of the primeval forces of nature, son of Chaos, and the embodiment of the harmony and creative power of the universe. In any case, I heartily enjoyed the originality of it, the interesting interplay of sounds and images. I think that your final line, "I shall forever bloom" is a phenomenal credo for poets everywhere. As long as poets continue to write, and readers read, they shall "forever bloom." If I have missed your intent, I nevertheless have greatly enjoyed the opportunity to read and comment. Best wishes, Joanne | 2005-05-05 13:55:38 |
| One a Day | Thomas Edward Wright | Tom: I dunno, I think I might have missed the point of this one. But I like it. As usual for me, it reminds me of a lot of things. Caring for an elderly man with dementia, for one. Playing chess with someone who can no longer win, but nevertheless realizes it, who becomes someone who can't distinguish between the white and black chess pieces. Complimenting the chef on the food, on 'cruise' we are taking via his hospital room to Japan. The surgeon is the Captain, the nurse is the chef, and I am my own mother. Each of us listening to an opera singer on the radio, a few weeks later, when I think he is far gone, and him, out of what I thought was sleep, saying "She really had to reach for that one!" referring to an especially high note. Realizing he was still 'in there' and feeling simultaneously glad and sad. Nice one. Good to read what you write. You may be the most original poet on this site. Kudos. Joanne | 2005-05-05 13:43:21 |
| The Times | Audrey R Donegan | Audrey: As I've said before in response to another of your poems, you were born to write! You may do many other things, but this is something I feel strongly. There is much commentary on the contemporary scene here in this rather sardonic piece, but, as well, there is a wealth of poetry-craft and some lines to die for. These poems do not feel belabored, but sometimes the best poems *seem* to have flowed effortlessly from the writer's pen, while in reality they have been revised and reworked carefully, to make every word and syllable count. Sleep now through this century overrated where lives lie limp –wonderful! and dreams die [in] dormant destitute unborn unexecuted. Dual interpretation of “unexecuted” yields many possibilities – not performed, incomplete, unfinished, not ‘killed’ or put to death. ‘Unborn’ yields potential: Some life remaining, forming, but not allowed to mature, to birth, breathe. Poets seem to be the ones who can see and articulate the times in which we live, as you have done here. Sleep now escape monotony’s bite where the visionless and vain and all those contrite construe mystery for madness –indeed! leaving brilliance bitter and behind. Sleep now and romance times raging- (time’s raging?) revolutionary raw, ripe and ready –delicious phrasing to revive our insides, tame the tin tides –exquisite! and confide with youth’s devotion. Your alliteration of the ‘v’ fricative in L4, 5, and 8 above lends vigor to the work. “tame the tin tides” is a line I wish I had written! Sleep now, leave today for the “hollow hounds “ – marvelous! (“You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, howlin’ all the time.”) that pound mute sounds through reckless lips and pass judgment through fingertips. –- critics at the keyboard? You end this intense poem with hope. “Tomorrow’s time seems to hold much more for the “sweet child” who is yet “unborn, unexecuted” and who will live “free and “wide-eyed” and “in wonder” of “what is” and “what will be.” Splendid writing, once more! Brava! All my best, Joanne | 2005-05-03 11:31:22 |
| A Fester of Cherry Blossoms | Rachel F. Spinoza | Rachel: You have addressed the current political situation with intelligence, verve, amazing poetics and stunning accuracy. No one could say it better than you have here, IMO. It was involuntary, officer, A gut reaction to the mendacity of a particular moment, that, and a monument’s gaze. -- you capture the moment with unerring eye Lincoln himself would have done it Rising – expanding to his full height: - nineteen feet of Georgia Marble, -- what a sight this would be! his stone arm grabbing the passing senator shaking and shaking him until all the deceptions in his pocket clattered against the colonnades and scattered Though it seems a lot like saying, "Nice painting, Mr. Rembrandt" I have to pause here and comment. "clattered/scattered" for example, and "mendacity/moment/monument's gaze" --truly trademark Spinoza artistry. Then "grabbing/passing" as well as the hard k sounds of "shaking/clattered/colonnades" too. into the reflecting pool making impotent wish after wish I stand up and cheer! 'impotent', indeed! -- unimportant, pompous -- but you have said it better! It was involuntary, officer, the spitting and the thrust finger. -- yes! You see, there he was strolling along redistricting my freedoms, bankrupting my future de'laying all hopes for a better world Amen Surely Lincoln would have done the same thing -- how ashamed he would be of what has happened to his beloved Union Brava! Best always, Joanne | 2005-04-28 21:39:15 |
| Eye to Eye | Dellena Rovito | Dellena:
Fantastic title! It can be taken as ‘eye to eye’ or ‘I to I’ or ‘eye to I’ –!
A conscious being speaking to another conscious being – you speaking
to the Creator, you speaking to the reader.
This one really caught me by surprise. You are the philosopher of
TPL, so I should not have been surprised by the surprise. But I was
asleep again. | 2005-04-28 21:08:15 |
| Second Avenue | Rick Barnes | Rick: There is an eerie feeling that suffuses this work as if time's been suspended. Not being stuck in a time warp, like “Ground Hog Day” but pausing in no-time, when “nothing” is open. Time is usually feels as if it is flowing, except when we are at a moment of turning, of reconsidering, or perhaps, wanting to escape, i.e., the dentist’s chair. Even dependable ‘night’, personified, “refuses” to become morning. (Turn to ‘mourning’?) The streets even seem very reluctant to let go of what has been, releasing the 'heat' of activity, pressure, as in the 'heat' is on. Is it ‘the heat of passion’ in which they wish to linger? The reason for this reluctance appears to be an existential dilemma. Existentialism denies that the universe has any inherent meaning or rationale and requires individuals to take accountability for their own actions and form their own destinies. Their skies are not filled with cherubim and seraphim, but are really empty, “gone far beyond blue.” The implication here could be dual: the sky is so devoid of reference as to have lost its ‘blueness’, that is, it’s symbolism of happy times, of promise. Or, perhaps as ‘blue’ is a synonym for melancholy, the sky may represent a state of being that is “far beyond blue” into utter hopelessness and despair. This poem seems the obverse of “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening” but elicits it, at least for me. The speaker in this poem has “all of these things/ that I had promised/ in the light of day/ I would do.” Frost declares: “But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.” Some interpret this as a kind of credo, or promise to the future. But because he has repeated the hypnotic statement, he could be referencing a state of suspended animation. Perhaps he wishes more than anything to enter into sleep, trying to shake himself back into coherent reality by invoking his ‘promises’ and his responsibilities. And in your poem, the speaker also considers the potential for action, based on “all of these things that I had promised.” He sees the streets as “deserted” rather that “lovely” as Frost’s woods. That the streets “are not asleep” but rather “abandoned because it is too late” sets a theme that is deeply melancholic. The sentient streets are aware, bare of traffic, profoundly deserted. Wide awake in the universe, but empty of purpose and even of that necessary quality for streets to maintain their identity: direction. The speaker seems wide awake in a state of mind that hesitates between hope and hopelessness. “Tomorrow may not need them done.” What is “too late” for the streets to continue their cycle of warmth and release, in night which refuses to turn into day? What are the promises, made “in the light of day” which seem futile now? The pervasive sense of purposelessness is overwhelming here. I cannot feel it as a freedom or a letting go with relief. That violates my world view (though here I am abandoning the speaker’s ‘world view’ for a few moments) in that ‘it is never too late to turn things around.’ But for the speaker, at least at this juncture, “it is too late.” I feel a sense of uneasy resignation just now, as if I have accepted the situation ‘as is’ when in fact everything in me fights for a different outcome. This is the moment when I will have to realize I cannot separate my emotions from my analysis of the poem, nor will my desire for the speaker to see things differently (as I interpret this poem) let me off the hook. As always, your poetry’s complexity, intensity, and candor have maximum effect. This also convinces me of another maxim: great poetry is simply written. Only you, Rick. Incredible. Bravo! My best always, Joanne | 2005-04-26 11:08:06 |
| Daddy | Audrey R Donegan | Audrey: I cannot pass by without comment on this poem. With my background of years as a therapist for abused children and adults, I recognize the anguish and anger in every syllable. I am also an advocate for poetry-as-therapy and former Crime Victim's Advocate). As someone who reads poetry for several hours every day, I have to say that this pome is probably the most powerful one I have ever read by a survivor. It is shocking, and IMO the words you use are the 'right' words, because they are your words, and they are accurate. There comes a time for speaking out, for the truth of one's experience, and even for setting aside some of the traditions of writing. One memoir I read by a writer, advising readers who aspire to becoming writers included the advice summed as 'don't ever leave reader's with a dead dog in the road' or similar words. This is poem as shocking as that, but the dog isn't dead, and in fact is standing up, with a shining coat and sound heart, though with deep sadness around the eyes for what has been. I am also reminded of Ophelia's soliloquy in "Hamlet" -- "O, woe is me /T' have seen what I have seen, see what I see!" What has been lived has been lived, and in a sense lives on. And the speaker comes to grip with it by not keeping the secret imposed upon her by "Daddy" of the title. I think your formatting serves the purpose of allowing the reader to feel the impact of your words, as those at the ends S1's lines contain almost nuclear power, imploding into the reader's consciousness" -- Especially How "crushing" the "plunge", your weight "collapsing" my "kindergarten bones." -- fragile, heart-breaking image Your number one girl six at best learned love comes with a price attached to a "cock." Invading me wholly again and again branding me with the dis-ease of obligation. What is love if not the lust in your eyes? You have summed years of experience into a few lines (and for this reader, years of notes, of dialogue in therapy, of attempting to undo the programming). The repetition of "again" and the splitting of "dis-ease" and the confusion of love with lust --- excellently done and truth spoken with unmistakable veracity. Did I plea and beg and scratch and gnaw for you to stop? These lines bring me to tears, for your experience (if the poem is your own experience) and for all of the hundreds of children I know of personally who struggled or acquiesced, with the lifetime's load of guilt and self-recrimination, and adults with a pattern of seeking relationships that 'made sense' in terms of what had been taught by the perpetrator. Lust=love. Or, at times, "pain"=love. Was my obedience dependable? Was it good for you? The irony of the line above makes this likely the most evocative line in the poem. Taking one's life back, one's body, one's ability to be open to the possibility of sincere, non exploitative relationships is the task you allow reader's to consider. What was done for the sake of survival, and to keep the 'love' of the adult perpetrator was endured as a mechanism to keep sanity, as well. Looking back, the rage can overwhelm all other feelings for a time. But it needs its day, its expression, so that all of life is not subsumed under its rulership. Now at twenty-three with eyes the age of time herself --brilliant, remarkable imagery I am beginning to remember: you are double fudge chocolate cake and I am diabetic. In summary, Audrey, you write of the double-edged sword of "beginning to remember"-- full awareness of what has happened, what the cost has been and continues to be means experiencing all of the attendant emotions. A high-cost endeavor, and yet, the surest road to reclaiming the self and healing. As a poem it is arresting, shocking and --- necessary! --- for many among your readers will have experienced something similar. Perhaps not the identical circumstances, but similar feelings of being overwhelmed by sexual abuse and its long-term effects. You offer the poem for our consideration, and my response is: Brava, brava, brava! Standing ovation! May the writing of it and our responses bring you closer to healing and peace. My best always, Joanne | 2005-04-24 12:22:45 |
| 8 p.m.: The Saturday Evening Post | Thomas Edward Wright | Tom: I'm assuming it finally happened, and as a doctor you got mistaken for a patient and kept somewhat against your will, to look after Henry. I think you must write these as sort of smuggled notes to Mark S, who will definitely see it, and take some legal actions to get you out. In the meantime, if you are really ill, I am not unsympathetic, but I just doubt that you're serious. But probably are in a hospital, writing on your down time, waiting for someone who needs your soothing presence. If you are ill, please let me have your snail mail address as I have some hand-made get well cards I will send to you, along with my best wishes for a full recovery. Pass the merlot, Joanne | 2005-04-23 21:39:42 |
| Your Best Guess | Rick Barnes | Rick: A fine spring day it is to come across a poem of yours! The inadequacy of words seems to be the theme. Or, the inability of our words to cover all contingencies, though we are completely sincere. The shades of meaning, the ramifications of time, place and person. Incompleteness of language seems one of the best reasons for poetry as with the addition of shape, movement, voice and nuance, language becomes the fine- tuned tool which conveys meaning in ways that are inconceivable otherwise. Yes, I can imagine you thinking, and spoken language has sound, facial expression, context and the presence of the one to whom we speak. That presence communicates much that is so subtle as to be indefinable. And over time and contemplation, and subsequent events, the meanings of words undergo transformation or alteration, so that what was said originally has an overlay of reverberation -- endless echo, as we replay the words in our minds, responding with different emotions than the ones we felt when the words were first spoken. “Will you wait?” And you must have meant yes When you said, “Yes!” The speaker assumes good will and honest intent, unless his words are ironic. The music in them -- with "must/much" and the rhymes of "then/when" and the soft sounds of 'ch' and 'wh' and 'th' are almost soothing. My favorite lines are the final two -- because they expand on those limitations of language I was speaking of earlier. "The depth of how, Or the length of when." These interrogative pronouns ask finite questions in an arena of infinite variance. I think I hear forgiveness in the poem, for the other's approximation or intent, which turned out to be inaccurate, or her "best guess." Maybe that is all we can give, ever, even under the most stringent of circumstances. A wedding ceremony, for example, in which we promise unending fealty and care, "'til death do us part." With a very high percentage of marriages failing these days, we could assume that those who took these vows were either overly optimistic or perhaps equivocating. My sense is that we are sincere at the time. Events, developments at times beyond our control intervene, so that stepping away from the vows does not seem incongruent. There is a melancholy sense of resignation about the poem, perhaps acceptance of what is, rather than faulting the other for what is not to be. As the poem does end with a question, the possibility occurs to me that the speaker may be open to an answer, some further communication. As a poem it leaves me wondering about what might have been. About what I meant when I gave promises or answers to questions extending into an unknown future. I think of these lines from Bobbie Burn's lines from "To A Mouse" -- "But Mousie, thou art no thy lane In proving foresight may be vain The best-laid schemes o' mice an’ men Gang aft agley An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain For promis'd joy!" As always, a Rick Barnes poem leaves me pondering for hours and days. And longing for more. Sadly, I think our best poetry comes from life's most painful learnings. Bravo! My best always, Joanne | 2005-04-23 11:03:21 |
| Your Passion | marilyn terwilleger | Marilyn: You absolutely astonish me with this poem. It is so masterfully done and your style reminds me somewhat of one of my favorite poets, Anna Akhmatova. Brilliant phrases throughout, such as "sky over-brimmed", "checkered silence" and most startlingly brilliant -- "spangled sun shatters blue" -- remarkable! To have written such a poem is worth years of writing, even of suffering. What a romantic masterpiece this is. "I drink deep of coming spring" is like immersing oneself in a clear, cool, rushing spring after a sweaty ten-mile hike. Hard 'c' plosives of "clamor/confounds" and the 'p' sound in "passion" add to the sense that the speaker is filled with energy that can only find expression with the one to whom she addresses these words. Your muse has visited and left you with a stellar gift! Congratulations on one of the very best poems you have written so far. And that's saying quite a lot, indeed. Simply -- WOW!!! Dazzled, Joanne | 2005-04-22 16:32:45 |
| Light | marilyn terwilleger | Marilyn: Now we're cooking! I'm getting over my blue funk, when I find a poem like this one with your name attached to it. It is lovely in every way. I could go on and on with the sounds you've incorporated into this eloquent, lustrous, Japanese-style poem. You entitle it "Light" and it is 'light' in weight, in the sense of few words, and it emanates 'light' on its subject, light. Luminous writing, once more - and no pun unintended. You cover the moods and colors of light itself in this very brief, intense work. I see the mountain tops of your locale woven in brilliantly. Enough -- I promised not to be so wordy! But it's difficult to restrain myself when I've savored poetic feast like this one. Fabulous! Best always, Joanne Did I mention that I LOVE this poem? | 2005-04-21 17:07:09 |
| Reflections in an Unpolished Stone | Gene Dixon | Gene: The nebulous sense of a presence – the lack of a clear image makes this poem all the more haunting. It is elegiac in tone, yet not specific – allowing readers to fill in details while the speaker reflects upon a woman remembered. One of your poetic gifts has always been the evocation of emotion – and this no exception. What it evokes for me is a sense of longing for what is missing. I think of the fading memory I have of my mother. It is not three-dimensional except in dream. your words “no depth” describe a memory and perhaps as well, a relationship which was not as deep or rich as one longs to have. Images of “pale blue shaded eye” and “splash of light” are soft as smoke and as difficult to hold. There’s a hint of Irish in it, at least for me, in “like a breath of morning mist.” On a personal aside, my beloved fourth grade teacher’s compliment comes back to me with this line, “You look like the breath of spring this morning, Joanne.” She was from Dublin. I took out her jeweled words on many childhood rain-filled, gray days to remember her kindness. This poem seems to invoke a gentle reminder that we need to photograph those we cherish with our minds as intensely, as vividly as we can while they are near, for when they have gone, what remains will be “ethereal.” “Somewhere, in a vague memory, you might see traces of a face, the pale blue of a shaded eye, a splash of light on dark hair.” The long ‘a’ in “vague/traces/face/pale/shaded” suggests an intense emotion of painful longing, which is belied by the pastel-shaded colors. “One would think you would recall, ever so clearly, a moment of such significance.” One would think, indeed. Inwardly (where else is there?) I scramble for images of those I have loved who are no longer present. Whether in the body, or perhaps only in a distant location. The images are torturously vague. Most likely you'll remember fading images and unpolished stones. The “unpolished stone” for may symbolizes someone natural, who lives and speaks simply and directly. A rare, precious gem reflected within the mirror of your exquisite poem. I love the poem, Gene, though it affords me much longing which will remain unfulfilled on this side of the grave. What a sheer pleasure it is to comment on a poem of yours once more. All my best, Joanne | 2005-04-21 16:55:16 |
| A Bird in a Pear Tree | Dellena Rovito | Hi Dellena!
Title: A Bird in a Pear Tree
I can’t tell right away if this poem is an extended metaphor,
which I rather suspect, or an actual event. In either case, I
heartily enjoyed it. Birds are a favorite species for me,
and in this case, the spunky rooster stands out with
his ‘tude of “loud” and his “sight to be seen.” I really
love the pun of “his very life was at steak.” [chicken] Funny!
What a sight to be seen! He had come from
his nearby abode. Pen opened and he
hit the road. He flew hard and he traveled fast…
And terrific internal rhymes of “abode/road” as well.
“Arriving here with great squawking flourish.
Hiding upon my fence, nestled beside the pear tree.”
He announced his presence, but hid on your fence!
I am tempted to take time out for a chicken story. Are
you up for that? | 2005-04-21 12:37:36 |
| Bethany Revisited | Paul R Lindenmeyer | Paul: Hello! I think that your brief, spiritually uplifting poems could certainly be a welcome additional to any Christian's library. Have you already published them in chapbook form? If not, please consider doing so. Each has a simple but profound theme, and all turn the reader's gaze both inward and to the object of our worship and praise. For proof of His deity, Jesus resurrection of Lazarus is not needed by Christians, but is a prototype of His resurrection and the hope of all who follow Him. I thought it was interesting that you frame the appearance of the new Pope in this context: Summoned by white smoke and clanging cathedrals chimes, Lazarus appears on the balcony. That Pope John Paul II's death preceded this event seems only a part of the implied meaning. I think that the many scandals which have damaged credibility and trust in the Catholic church also imply a 'death' from which revival seems all but impossible. It will be of great interest to the world to observe whether or not healing can take place. "Oremus Pro Pontifice, nostro Benedictus." Let us pray, and indeed, we shall. Well done, once more! Best always, Joanne | 2005-04-21 11:58:36 |
| Promised Sight | Paul R Lindenmeyer | Dear Paul: It's always refreshing to have one of your poems before me! This poem of faith is inspiring, and gave me food for a morning's meditation on the "pool of Siloam." Then, in my subsequent readings I learned these things: The Pool of Siloam was the single permanent water source for Jerusalem in the first century AD, fed by Gihon Spring, diverted through Hezekiah's Tunnel. Jesus told the blind man to go wash at the Pool of Siloam, and after doing so, the blind man received his sight. The Hebrew word 'Siloam' means 'sent' -- Jesus as Messiah was 'sent' from heaven. Poetically, this poem is brief, but full with bright hope. I especially enjoyed the alliterations in "spiritual/spittle" as well as the phrase "redemptive/mandate". I don't see how anything could be more descriptive of what is needed at the present time of 'blindness' in the world we see around us and the faith that is needed to receive grace. Bravo! Best always, Joanne | 2005-04-21 11:11:54 |
| In your wake (an afterthought) | Audrey R Donegan | Audrey: I love this poem! Title: In your wake (an afterthought) Wonderful free verse poem, consisting of 97 words formatted in short lines. I love the way the poem seems to pour down the page, leading the reader’s eye to the final line with ease. I especially enjoyed your fresh, vivacious use of verbs – for example: “rhyme/bend/unravel/tie/trip/sip/stand/settle” and especially “panting, begging, screaming”. Minds, moons, times, are bent, plots are unraveled and humility is strongly affirmed “upon mountain tops.” The poem has a powerful ‘beat’ generation motif. This is ecstatic imagery with melancholy undertone of missing “a you”, one who inspires such exalted writing. My favorite line: “dynamo, dynamo, thou art me starry dynamo!” This elicits a line from Ginsberg’s “Howl” – “angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night” Your final lines portray loss of connection with “a you” -- all the more reason reason lives leaving spontaneity lonely and I without a you. And thus we are ‘reasonable’ and ‘rational’ creatures, without the spontaneous spark. However, your poem glows with spark, and as such is one of the finest to grace this site for the month. It is legendary that Ginsberg kept many slogans over his desk, including “no revisions” and that is my suggestion for this poem. As is, is right on the beat! Brava! Best to you, Joanne | 2005-04-21 10:33:26 |
| Fog Removal | Helen C DOWNEY | Dear Helen: Title: Fog Removal I have the sense that the first poem I read and this one might form companion pieces in a collection. There is a shared them of fog and mist, a sense of things which are mourned yet of an easing of the sense of loss, perhaps recovery from wounds of the past. I can only imagine “fog removal” as achievement of clarity after confounding, confusing events. We can sometimes not see our way clear to understand what is occurring at the time it happens, but only later, with the passage of time gain our bearings, you seem to be showing us here. The pain always crushing against temporal walls, Years wasted on remedies. Time lost in a dark closet Tears can not relieve the pressure. The yielding consonants of w and y in “walls/years/wasted” suggest surrender to what has been lost over the years whilst one struggled for “remedies” of one kind or another. There are many plosive t’s which suggest energy expended with small bursts of sound, as in “temporal/time/tears” et al. The “dark closet” echoes for me the previous poem’s ships passing at dawn (the release of darkness) as we can assume that the speaker has emerged from the confines of the closet. The sense of transformation is very strong in this poem. But not before a ‘chrysalis’ period has been endured, in which all hope seems smothered, efforts wasted “on remedies” of various kinds. A hardy oak grows in the front yard No one notices how it spreads its' limbs Gathering strength from the energy from above. No one observes how alone it is. In the meantime, the strong inner core, the “hardy oak” of the speaker has been growing unobserved, as “no one notices” how it has “spread its limbs” and gathered strength “from the energy above.” The “front yard” is a place which is usually visible to the outside world, as compared to the closet. The suggestion is given that this growth occurred in the presence of those who would have kept the speaker confined to the dark closet, but she (or he) grewstrong with spiritual help and protection. Attempting to ease the throbbing Forward and up Travels begin Remembering has begun. This may allude to traumatic events, because “remembering has begun” and I am aware that often when things are unbearably painful they are not easily brought to consciousness, much as mothers are said to forget the pain of childbirth until the next delivery. The mind has its ways of protecting us from overload or disintegration – one of these protections is forgetting. When healing and safety are sufficient, remembering begins, I think you show us here. The removal of the worm nest New sprouting of buds The might oak reaches further up, Leaves, larger and whole. “worm nest” has a sinister implication. There are varieties of worms – some helpful, as they aerate the soil, some harmful, as they can cause the death of the organism which they invade and consume. There are maggots, and there are caterpillars! The energetic “new sprouting of buds” suggests life that now flourishes, as the oak “reaches further up” and the tree (person) regains wholeness and health. Cob webs now brushed away The pain has gone A rusted old door opened The fog has drifted. Three metaphors for confusing past experiences are in the last stanza: cobwebs, a rusted door and fog. The first is brushed away, the second has been opened, and the last has “drifted” away. There is finality about the triple implication of these allusions – three is a number associated with the ‘three-in-one’ or trinity of divine beings, but also, body, mind and spirit, and also the saying, “The third time’s a charm.” As noted previously, there are many open ‘o’ sounds in this last strophe, this time giving a sense of openness to new experience and healing. Again, I’ve really enjoyed lingering with your poem, enjoying the sense of growth and aliveness that I sensed when reading it, and your facility with language. Thank you for the privilege of commenting! Best wishes, Joanne | 2005-04-20 13:58:09 |
| Forlorn | Helen C DOWNEY | Helen: This is the first of your poems I’ve come to on my list to critique. I’m truly delighted to hear a ‘new voice’ like yours. While ships that meet and pass is a familiar theme; you have addressed it in a fresh, intriguing way. The title, “Forlorn” almost sounds like a ship’s lonely call. a steamship foghorn, which echoes the open vowel sounds of the word. I do love the sonics put forth in the first two lines: “No one” – again, an echo of the ‘o’ vowel sounds of the title and the foghorn. As a poet, you pay careful attention to sound, which is one of the elegant features of this poem. Once more, I note the o’s in “desolation/cold” – and that in just two lines and the title you have artfully employed both long and short vowel sound and combine that with nasal ‘n’ and liquid ‘l’ as well. ”Reflections of themselves ripple upon the glass They watch as if it appears that each will collide” The speaker’s viewpoint seems omnipresent. As if from above, observing the fates of these two ships. There is a certain detachment combined with the mournful quality of the title and your opening lines which gives me a sense of being in suspended animation. Two huge ships on an apparent collision course. What can one do, but hold one’s breath and await the disaster in-the-making? Perhaps omitting 'if' might intensify this line. ”The thick mist deceives them (Passage) is undetermined at this time” I love the sound and feel of “thick mist” as I read it aloud. There is also a handsome companionship of “undetermined/time” as a somewhat detached tone implies that Fate has not yet spoken. That the ships are metaphoric for two individuals seems evident. "In the blink of an owl's eye the ships pass on A harsh cold wind chills those on board The mist thickens as the ships depart" The owl’s eye appears, with a blink that reminds me of a camera, photographing the scene. The ‘sh’ and ‘ch’ sounds add to the sense of things shrouded in mystery, of wind (force) accompanying the ships as they pass one another. I think the reversal of “thick mist” in L6, to L10’s “mist thickens” artfully suggests the reversal of positions of the ships. In my mind’s eye, I see one approaching from the west, one from the east. As they pass one another, the first ship is now east of the second, and vice versa. The passengers are affected by this near-collision, and the unknown of what might have happened had the ships collided is still shrouded in mystery. The suggestion, at least for this reader, is that the collision might have resulted in upheaval in the lives of those represented by the ships. The tone of the poem is mournful, as though that meeting would have meant greater understanding, a risk taken, a ‘voyage’ into the unknown that for whatever reason, was attenuated. I have thoroughly enjoyed reading and commenting on this. I’m looking forward to hearing from you! My very best to you, Joanne | 2005-04-20 13:25:17 |
| Several Days after the Taxes Had Been Paid | Thomas Edward Wright | Hi Tom: Ah, boat season! Sailor, do you want to dance? I see several poets (unless I am hallucinating) in the poem, but not myself. That I could recognize. If you'd only put something in there about the birdies in the trees, or maybe ducks walking in pairs. But I couldn't quite wrap my mind around parts of this poem, because as you know, I don't speak Midwest very fluently. I really smiled at the dimpled derrieres, though. And they smiled back. I was only a boat person for a short time, but I recall the exhilaration of that first trip out on Puget Sound in spring. A latté cheer! Joanne | 2005-04-19 17:33:23 |
| The Shepard | marilyn terwilleger | Marilyn: I absolutely love this! It is, I think, a metaphor for the Great Shepherd. I know you will have realized this by now, but the title is misspelled. That is so minor compared to the glories in this poem that it's almost inconsequential. He is a humble man who needs little to survive. He loves grassy plateaus, his burlap topped wagon, icy streams and his flock. Burlap is the humblest of cloths, well-fitting for the man of humility you have described here. A 'man of the cloth' chooses the simplest, utilitarian covering for his wagon. The "grassy plateaus" remind me of "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures" from Psalm 23. I think that the solid-sounding consonant 'g' in "grassy/wagon" add to the image of this man as down-to-earth. He is the Shepard Just before dawn, when sky is crimson and sunrise "likens" lemon "rind", he sits --maybe 'is like'? on a verdant knoll and waits for flush of "light" when -deft assonance of long i's his sheep awake from "night". He sees suckling lambs, patient ewes with curly fleece, and restless rams Love the internal rhymes of "needs/streams/sheep/fleece" and end-rhymes of "lambs/rams"! that shake horned heads and look about. --An allusion to something less benign with horns? He feeds his sheep, patrols the fold, bewilders big cats and wolves, and ponders death. Who will tend his sheep? Will little lambs still play and leap? He knows life goes not backward nor dallies in yesterday but swells forward to live in tomorrow. This seems like a human man, but a leader. I am guessing that perhaps you refer to the new Pope, just elected. When you wrote this, that had not been decided as yet. But the world awaits the decision, for even non-Catholic Christians are concerned and hope that the new 'shepherd' will move "forward to live in tomorrow." He is steward of the land Keeper of the gate ---this is why I think you may refer to the new Pope. Savior of the flock Much will need to occur to keep the current Catholic church (flock) from failing, given recent events and declining enrollment in western nations. But of course, the poem could likely refer to Christ, the Good Shepherd: "He is the [Shepherd]" In either case, I think you have an excellent poem! Brava! My best always, Joanne | 2005-04-19 11:53:10 |
| Saluting Robert Creeley Redux | Mell W. Morris | Mell: I can almost recall what I said before when you submitted this the first time. It affected me then, as now, with its sparse eloquence. With the power of few words as opposed to many. I especially love “Smoke signals/ are indiscreet compared to his spare speech.” Reading this again today sent me on a search for some of Creeley’s work, and I reread “Water Music” and from “The Conspiracy” -- “You send me your poems, I'll send you mine.” This is food. Your poem is food and rereading Creeley is deeply nourishing. As always your poetry is strong in sound – “indiscreet/spare speech” – splendid words! I particularly love the final two lines for their nonpareil imagery. “To find emptiness is to fill it, even his words with aching holes.” There is so much thought embraced in these lines above that I can spend the day with them and need no other. It feels prophetic. Maybe I said this last time, about how it is the silences between notes of music that define it, or the empty spaces around a sculpture that give the figure its definition. I feel a little self-conscious right now, as my tendency is to try to find a lot of words to say what can be best said simply. ;) Simply said: Magnificent tribute to a great poet! Thank you for presenting it once more. Kudos, and a bouquet of asphodel extended. As always, LL EM. | 2005-04-18 13:32:45 |
| Of Stormy Climes | Lennard J. McIntosh | Len: I read this like a telegram. It is, I think, condensed to bring a message. Again, it seems to reach out to tap the sleeping, this reader among them. That I live in denial of what seems fast approaching, like a locomotive, cannot be denied. If I can stand in for a ‘universal reader’ so to speak, there is contained herein a warning. The poetics are, once more, sublime. Part of me wants a ‘pretty picture’ – a pastoral scene to soothe my aches. But here it is, as is, reality. The one which makes me turn away from the evening news. The growing body of evidence, as my grandmother might once have said, “As plain as the nose on your face!” The “stormy times” in which we live are illustrated by this poem. That the weather’s storming can be seen as a message is made abundantly clear in this superbly-crafted work. Like ravens croak pre-flight calls that over-reach the crests of height in waves of worried clatter – An example of ‘wonderful’ are the combined sounds of “ravens/waves” and the hard ‘k’ consonant in “croak/crests/clatter” among many other samples. ”vomited out of the filth of time” --pungent language, indeed! Events in nature parallel the rising of the “War Lords” with “chills that yawn to shiver stone.” Hurried lightening explodes to festoon life in missed motion. Wide-eyed and muted fright – a stun of speechless, of drums thriving a thunder –exquisite, esp. “thriving a thunder” to arraign mankind as wrapped. Identifies mankind as ‘wrapped’ like a package to be delivered? I think of synonyms like ‘bound’ or ‘swathed’ and it’s difficult to see the picture of so many who seem so innocent – among them, at least for this reader, the have-nots who suffer at every cataclysm, while the wealthier among us go unscathed, for now. As storm clouds riot in angry columns - chosen to deny a count of nonviolent days – to bequeath youth, to tribute elderly, to give to frail ones, quartered in the equinox of a world at war with peace. This last is your most powerful stanza. I cannot deny its truth, though I truly long to do so. Now I see those innocents who tenderly care for their dead, with respect for the aged, frail, and young. They are innocent of the decisions for war made by the powerful nations. I’m not certain I fully understand, but I will continue to ponder the meaning. Does the poem say that there have been no ‘nonviolent days’ at all? Or is this state of ‘war’ just becoming apparent because of extremes which become more and more evident to the observant, including the extremes of weather? The poem seems true whether taken as a metaphoric or a literal accounting. It’s difficult to sit with my uneasiness, as I want to turn away to daily concerns. Len, your poetry is so powerful that if I take this poem correctly, I am forced to see things differently. Will I do so and act upon my vision? That is what you leave each reader to decide. Beyond excellent, but very disturbing, my friend. My warmest good wishes, Joanne | 2005-04-18 10:16:34 |
| Half | Latorial D. Faison | Latorial: The brevity of this senryu poem is in inverse proportion to its impact. It goes on giving its message after a first, second, third, fourth reading and endlessly after that. I imagined the concept of 'half' of someone, and 'all' and what that means. The conundrum within the poem just makes it all the more powerful. The speaker has spoken with the partial self left (though she gave 'all') to the absent one, who left 'half' of himself. There isn't much left to speak with, if you will, so the poem is very terse and powerful. I am thinking now of two joined into one. Then divided into halves. Two separate but combined. When the one leaves the two, then the remaining half feels that emptiness as would not have been possible had there never been a joining. The pain of this absence is magnified by the other's having left. Whether this was a willful leaving or a circumstantial one doesn't seem to matter because the suggestion of a surgical removal remains. One leg missing the other, one arm trying to lift a child, etc. How can we adapt to what has become essential being removed from us? Like a phantom limb, this poem aches. The soft fricatives in "after/half/enough" seem spoken softly as the speaker's voice almost whispers, it is so diminished (though the voice is strong and the poem is very strong). Latorial, I always enjoy reading your poems. This one is startling in its different feel, in a tone I am unaccustomed to hearing in your previous poems. It makes me want to hear more like this. I have a feeling, though, that this is a poem which happens when it will. It has a life of its own. And I look forward to reading much more of your way of speaking. My best wishes always, Joanne | 2005-04-16 12:28:41 |
| Last Night | Kenneth R. Patton | Ken: Wow! This is a stunning poem. It is evidence of a maturing poetic voice. I missed the leaps and bounds you've crossed to reach this point. I really love everything about this poem. There is nothing not to love. It is subtle, has terrific sounds, evokes strong emotions, and it allows me as a reader to reach into my fund of experiences and stored memories and pull out my own "special beach stone." As well, it reads aloud beautifully. I think that this poem is a striking example of what happens when we write on the crest of emotion. Good poetry gets written. It is in free verse style, with a simple, evocative title. It drew me in right away, as I wondered what "Last Night" would reveal. I love poems about personal experiences. Then, the simply formatted tercets, and finally the last line's reference back the L2 of S5 simply left me feeling warm, joyful, replete. How you accomplished this in a rather short poem is impressive. It is the authentic voice and the sparseness of the work, along with your talent for imagery as shown here, I believe, that makes this one of the most memorable poems I have read in a long while here. I’ve been keeping last night in my pocket like a special beach stone The metaphor is captivating. I love "in my pocket" especially. Now and then I feel it My fingers tracing a story in secret Braille --- WONDERFUL! My favorite stanza, though they are all scrumptious I’ve been tasting last night Rich and sweet like a chocolate truffle Terrific assonance in "tracing/tasting" "Nibbling tiny bits" --and again here, with the short and long 'i' sounds so it "will" last I struggle not to gorge --great use of 'g' which adds a very visceral feeling I’ve been living last night over and over So it never will be That last line just enthralls me all over again! Knowing when to stop is another writing tool that you have employed expertly here. Not one more word is necessary. You knew that. Sigh ... Applause! Ken --- take a bow. I believe you have a winner here, without doubt! And I hope that the experience of 'last night' will be repeated for as long as you both want it to, including forever. My best always, Joanne | 2005-04-16 11:28:12 |
| Herzog | Rachel F. Spinoza | Rachel: This tribute to a great man holds both sorrow and appreciation for all he meant to so many. Bellow, bellow, bellow )Wonderful play on his name and his outcry! against both huge injustices and daily lies The daily lies are the hardest to confront, I think. You lifted us into an air most rarified. Discussions Bloomed, --reference to Allan Bloom -- The Closing of the American Mind? world wide, and teams of miners came to chip away at darkened caves until a trace of light appeared among the tiers --Beautiful The century’s obscenities boomed and bellowed in your ear. --Connects L1 of S1 and L3 of S2 brilliantly, IMO Your voice responded loud and near so powerful and pliable it pulled us clear into our minds to learn to cast a shield against the unrelenting din of times That so great a voice is now silent is a great loss, though his writing is a permanent legacy. I remember reading "The Adventures of Augie March" as a teen-ager, hiding it from my parents who would have thought it too 'adventuresome' for this somewhat sheltered reader. Thank you for this -- it reminds me to go back and read with greater appreciation what was so easily taken for granted at the time. Best always, Joanne | 2005-04-15 12:47:17 |
| Wings Unclipped | John Dean | Hi John! This poem fascinates me as it allows me to vicariously experience what it might be like to be a hawk, with human-like internal dialogue. I think that it could be understood as a metaphor -- but I am so taken with the idea of feeling what a bird of prey feels that I can't read it any other way without drifting back to my original take on it. It seems as though the bird's acitivity must be limited as he 'speaks' of never having been "that high before." I can only imagine that he's spent a long while encaged, given his acute enjoyment of the "freedom of unrestrained flight" and his description of his joints as having been stiff. You allowed me as a reader to sense what it might be like to soar on a "rising thermal" at one thousand feet, and see in minute detail. As an aside, this is really a novel thought for me as myopia limits my vision. I am seeing the rabbit below as if through a movie camera that swoops and dips as does the bird. "Hunger and loneliness drove me back To a place where I was safe" This undoubtedly is the only place the bird has known, hence I suspect he was raised here. The suggestion is given that he has bonded with his human handlers. Since hunger was something that drove him back, I also wonder if he was prevented from capturing prey and eating it. I know absolutely nothing about falconry or hawking, nor which is the proper term. But I will now want to learn much more about it, since birds are among my favorite species of animals. Owls are the only birds of prey with which I have any familiarity and that is limited. Not loved, not hated Merely admired and maintained But restless now for more I'll do it again some day soon Take my chances When they forget to lock the cage. I appreciate the last line, particularly. The unrelenting desire of the bird to be what he is - a wild animal, taking his own chances. Feeling the "freedom of unrestrained flight" once more seems well worth it, at least to this reader. A life of one's own with its inherent risks seems preferable to the safe and confined one. Perhaps if the poem is meant at metaphor, that's what its message may be. If we live in an overly 'domesticated' or 'captive' way, we lose something of what it is to be alive, perhaps I can infer from the poem. When one thinks about it, we are only removed by a slight bit of distance, time-wise, from our ancestors who undoubtedly would find our lives not only restrictive but frightening -- more so than daily encounters with wild animals who considered them a food source. At least then one might die providing a meal for someone. My goodness! Your poem has really stimulated a lot of contemplation for me. Thank you for the poem and for the chance to give you my thoughts on it. I wouldn't suggest changing anything -- it seems a complete entity unto itself. I'm looking forward to learning more about its subject. Many thanks, once more Joanne | 2005-04-14 17:14:22 |
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