Rachel F. Spinoza's E-Mail Address: vytas_@prodigy.net

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Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Rachel F. Spinoza	Critique Date
Nightmare At My Street	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Wow. Fascinting and indeed frightening! I used to be [if you use "afraid instead of "scared" you will have some assonance with "of" and "teenage" of Freddy Kruger [-He’s] Elm Street’s [teenage] is the character teenage or just the victims -this is unclear from the context ] serial killer With his deadly claw of bladed fingers [who]strikes and kills [teens while they slumber] Twelve years ago he visited [here instead of "our place" to avoid uneven rhyme or make it all rhyme as you do in the next stanza but not that clearly in some of the others] He cut the breath of our sleeping neighbor [very vivid expression!] I’ve heard this before but not face to face [the specific incident?} Like seeing Carl lifeless at twenty-four Then I remembered my dad’s old story ‘Bout his brother Ramon [who shared that] fate Grandma tried waking the young attorney But[for] uncle who’s thirty [who was thirty?]– it was too late Also [as recently as] few years ago At well-known beach resort[It would be good for you to name it ] with [a] group of friends [at] Twenty-seven, rising actor Rico Found his end in the comfort of his bed [great phrasing] For me, I think it is such a sweet death Quick, painless, peaceful - not by accident Not by sickness, old age or by bullet Not even a scratch and beautiful yet Will Freddy come and visit me tonight? Still thirty, just had my heavy dinner No roommate to wake me from my dream fight No weapon, no armor…just my boxer [is that a dog? [ The ending could be more dramatic but this is a really informative and interesting poem Erzahl and this is a type of poetry that I have not yet seen from you. Neat! Best, Rach	2004-12-16 14:39:48
Great Blue Heron Sighting	Joanne M Uppendahl	What a wonderful vision, Joanne Seen from the train This changes perspective as later there is a narrator's "I" [eye] but if you like the sound of the passive voice perhaps you could change it to Scene from the train to sort of frame it for us - or would that be too terrible a pun? blue herons on the pilings-- each limbless stub of water tree contains a stationary bird. wonderful - almost an haiku Except for one, who arches his stilt of neck, [lovely] turns his brushstroke head I can see the bird clearly - but not where it is - if it is not on a piling is it in the shallow water? On on the beach? as the scene passes by my view. [i don't think you need this line] interesting - the scene passes - rather than as "I" pass the scene! The point of vision is external whihc makes it even more theatrical a moment “But me! But me!” he seems to say, perhaps something like he "pleads" orI am not sure you need "seems to" if use a less specific word than "says" extending his painted wings as if he might embrace my fleeting face through the glass. embrace/face/glass -- lovely best, Rach	2004-12-02 10:39:34
Arioso	Rick Barnes	what a wonderful poem of longing with such tender language and sweet asides that I dare not touch a phoneme. Bravo, Rick	2004-11-30 11:41:16
Arioso	Rick Barnes	what a wonderful poem of longing with such tender language and sweet asides that I dare not touch a phoneme. Bravo, Rick	2004-11-30 11:41:16
verse 65 (Black Forest)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Eezhal Do you mean dessert of dessert or are you evoking the desert here? either way, the poem is delicious	2004-11-26 10:07:52
This Guy Walked into the Dover Beach Starbuck's	Thomas Edward Wright	Tom! Tom! what a great tribute! And said, “He’s dead.” OH ! I didn't know, I didn't know - thank you for telling me - that it is so I had seen the obituary, And knew for fact that he was gone. 'least what is "fact" in modern press The odor of coffee permeated us. The blue sky back-dropped it in. Six customers consumed blocks of latte religion- yep yep all cellular connections humming. Nanny-talk, lovers (of late) titillating, while three in black with face rings murdered napkins. The Suit WiFi’s the web. His cell 'Ode to Joy’s' us. Suede. It is still chique. I see - WONDERFUL _ I always get a cold chill hearing snippets of great music from cell phones - what a great ironic message you have captured - i hate you for writing about it before I did! I think that was the point of "Anthony Hecht is dead." yes..dead and still dead As if someone stole the Mona Lisa from - “Put it back, put it back,” they screamed. [WOW} In her absence they yammer on. The poets nail him to the cross. But he will not be held there by nails. [whew!} Skim milk steam rising Rising like Christ from The Tomb There in the light on a Thursday afternoon. Illness took him home to Mr. Arnold's poodle pisses on a tire; steaming, the big black Cadillac backs out, (the cardboard liner protects him from the heat), heads down toward the beach. takes us smash into the cardboard moment of our throw away age spins us and deposits us on Dover beach. god i hate you - No one is so distraught; and they go on with their lives. Dover. An eye on France. Remember what that’s like? He reminded me of that, and then left. That was all he could have hoped for, given what he had to work with. hmmmm Did I mention the bottle of Nuit d' Amour? In the bottom of the bottle was a proposition, Preceded by a long slow wave of demolition. What he was saying - One Juvenal knoweth that what he sayeth was at once true, though somewhat burnt on the outside, not unlike the Guatemalan roast with which I slink away. i would go after you but my head is bursting with images! You MUST submit this to this website which is looking for coffee-house poems - if you win - you win this picture from the Icelandic artist Thorberg – a turn of reward which Hecht would have found vastly amusing http://www.thorberg.is/poetry_contest.html Rach – green with envy – salutes you	2004-11-09 10:52:27
Tree haiku #1	Joanne M Uppendahl	This is lovely, Jo. In order for it to be perfect though, there should not be personification as in "your" dance. At least not in traditional haiku. Perhaps "delicately dance?"	2004-10-12 09:16:53
Seattle	Michael J. Cluff	I think there is hope for the world when I read this kind of protest poetry. Corpses are not camera shy [incredible beginning } do not mind their coffins being viewed [-by others I think "others" is understood]. It does not insult them, [to be]blanketed warm, at least to the standards of the living, [great great play on "standards of living" and finally safe inviolate from the vagrancies of peace and.... war. good reversal of the phrase [-And] photographers are fired for taking pictures, snapshots, of flag-draped closed caskets returning from war-zoned[neat expression] Iraq. The "Seattle Times" published the photos at possible 'government upset' yet.... you can't fire a newspaper only people..... "älack the day" thinks the military on this issue and most likely definitely so on other points of any disagreement. yes, just so hey, Mikey How is the acting coming? What happened at the chance audition? Stop by sat morning and get aomw Kerry Kake and join our discussion about the war.	2004-10-06 08:38:05
The Jester's Prayers	Karen Ann Jacobs	H Karen delightful piece as I told you earlier! Do you behold the longing in my eyes or Glimpse the fealty [ neat word - isn't used much] beneath my mischief? Is my countenance the riddle that works your mind? Twinkle twaddle, twaddle a twinkle. cute nonsense syllables as medieval verse Dear Brush, With all that might flourish Upon your canvas, a vase of hellebore [great] A twist of mug-wort or even a simple rose, Why such scurrility for this blatherskite? why indeed! Clever wording! Dear Lord, Wilt thou not let yon painter know That mine ineffable love doth wail To be’eth revealed. Please lord, Let yon brush guide M’lady Painter. clever and more clever see you soon R	2004-09-22 15:30:13
The Bearers of Vision	Rick Barnes	Dear Rick This poem is amazing Brechtian in its play of light and darkness – profound in its implications and written with the skill of a master poet. If I thought for a minute that I was the Roni to whom it is dedicated I would pleased beyond measure. The Bearers of Vision For we ever journey onward through the darkness, as if we were wearing the very darkness, carrying the very darkness, sharing, all of us, sharing the very darkness that has defined our vision, combined our vision refined our vision, into a small, thin, dim blue beam of light. Even so, there are those among us who somehow know, we have all the light we need.	2004-09-20 11:17:10
Stones Will Sing	Joanne M Uppendahl	I think this would be clearer if it began: All that I [plan and am] amounts because [plan amounts sounds] like a phrase and it stopped me for a second but perhaps it is just me] in the hours of darkness I have searched. There I’ve met the wordless, truer me lovely who doesn’t flinch at little accidents--[good assonance with with astrolabe] the one who’s full of fire and floats above Earth’s astrolabe and waits for bells to stop Wow downright E. dickinsonian! their longing, pulsing, pining metal sounds to hear the softer part of boundless voice: [wonderful] your song is part of me and mine of you. Stones will sing the sounds that we compose when we no longer hear with woven bones. incredible ending to a soft and meaningful piece.	2004-09-15 17:53:50
1000 DEAD AMERICANS	Mark D. Kilburn	Bravo Mark - yes - it is a horrible tragegy of enormous loss. All the deaths, American and Iraqi and the devastation - under the guise of fighting terror. Well written, powerful and so very sad. you might look over this line: I’ll fight no more forever and see if it could be be clearer, something like I'll never fight again or I'll be a pacifist forever The conclusion is heart felt and powerful accepting nothing less my friends than a warless world’s release	2004-09-08 12:22:20
Here in the Dark	Patricia Gibson-Williams	It is certainly good that he is doing better. Fine poem - a couple of minor suggestions: Your heart forgets a beat # [space a line here for a dramatic pause?] Silence overwhelms me as I grasp your wrist besieged by vacant nightmares Here in the dark Shadowy demons haunt troubled halls once pulsing with cosmic vigor Spectral desires desert the temple As foreign armies attack Anguish courses through my veins I can’t control my turmoil Here in the dark I strain to see past oblivion [While] you wander through halcyon dreams Your heart skips a beat [add a line space?] And I hold my breath Here in the dark	2004-09-07 20:49:22
UNTITLED	JACK M HRINIAK	What a moving and lovely tribute to a beloved father, I take his heart in my hand and burn into dust, The passionate intensity with which this son loved his father is evident in the first lines of this powerful piece riding on a midnight wind. I whisper his dying sounds to sleep amazing and tears burn in the passion of one. My father is dead. Endless waitings out of sightless windows the word "sightless" is poignant here and [then] he dies alone under a silent sky dreaming of fate. A lone chord moves in my ear echoing between the folds of time. My father is dead. Excellent. And the music still plays... would like to see more of your work Best Rachel	2004-09-07 20:43:52
The Counsel Of The Trees	Nancy Ann Hemsworth	With moonlight bright and twinkling so while spilling shadowed trees below [nice alliteration] the valley stretched in silhouette and visions formed from long ago among the laden trees. [good strong adjective] Really interesting and lyrical poem filled with bright images and fresh language as it engages our senses. The shadows rose as moonlight passed and told of stories, drawn from the past I like the rhythm of this poem and the jolt of the interesting slant rhymes of past/passed/danced in soft sweet whispers, voices danced they spoke in rustled rumbles low their hosts the evergreens [the personification of the trees as “hosts is fascinating] nice assonance and alliteration here and throughout this piece Across this frigid open book the winds with words did [“place” instead of “lay” would give you more assonance with “ancient”] an ancient text, embossed in snow with visions of a different day.[lovely] Ah!... such sweet dreams in lullabies did play. But in this vision filled with light had anyone, witnessed the sight or heard the wisdom [“spoken” or if that is a beat too long perhaps “shared?” ] that night among the counsel trees? “The council trees” is a marvelous phrase. This poem is a treat for the senses as well as the intellect. Thank you Nancy	2004-09-01 11:22:44
japanese verse 56 (Lilac)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Let the purple blow[-s] Breath of fragrance in the air Perfumes the garden Indeed it does. I remeber how lilacs scented the gardens of my youth - although I have not smelled one for years. There is no other flower so evocative I think. Thanks for the finely crafted reminder of that scent. Best Rach	2004-08-31 18:06:05
The Great Divide	Rick Barnes	Standing slightly lop-sided, looking at the slope of the hill I like the way both the narrator and the hill echo each other in being sloped. beyond the crevasse [this is one of my ten favorite words] where water’s flow will run down to fill [nice orphan rhyme] the long ignored and deeply weathered cavity, I’ve already decided that I need to alter my view; looking first at the mass, giving angles their due; great great theological pun here with the plays on mass and the hint of angels/angels! This is sophisticated writing! calculate you and constant force of your gravity, ah yes – that pulling and yet another pun then either cross the divide or stay on this side of loving and living with you neat ending which brings it all home. Really fine poem, Rick! You amaze me	2004-08-31 18:01:42
Undaunted Soul	marilyn terwilleger	It is good to get to another one of your poems Marilyn! Tear drops of rain like tiny pointed darts fall nearby but strike me not. This is a remarkable beginning as one can almost see the tiny darts as described The wind, austere, pure, [wonderful slant rhyme!} and ghostlike blows about, but I am standing still. I like the double meaning of “still” which suggests both; I am still here and I am standing quietly. This is excellent writing Thunder resounds speaking in quarrelsome tongue it rumbles and clangs aloud but my ears are deaf to the drowning sound, even the mountains expound and brooks abound. What richness in the aloud/sound/expound/abound word play! [perhaps I don’t feel..}the sky born pelting rain only stings of vacant pain that stab at my shivering frame. In defiance of ravishing sky my undaunted soul is dry. Rain/pain /frame/ excellent as they are nicely placed in the stanza an the idea of a “dry soul” is astounding. This is a grand poem , Marilyn	2004-08-31 17:55:30
The Rock of Heaven	Gene Dixon	Hi, Gene We have all missed you here and it is good to see your work again in this lovely tribute to Mark's new son. Unseen by ordinary eyes, you arrived with a splash like a rock in a river. Wonderful and appropriate metoaphor for this new Peter! Some stood in awe, some sighed and some trembled at the sight of God's mighty hand. yes, each new birth is a miracle of that magnitude You are as welcome as Spring; as warmly loved as Summer. You will be all the colors of Autumn; all the brilliance of Winter. May he flourish in this garden where certainly he is being cherished Your world is covered by virgin snow. a blank page for him to write upon - lovely Your paths are marked by wildflowers and blackberries. all that is fresh and alive and possible. Peter the Rock. May he be as a blessing to his family and may he bring them only joy. Peace Roni	2004-08-31 11:07:20
A Rose for You	Wayne R. Leach	So much has been written about the rose that it is difficult to write something entirely new without all the old symbolism crowding the page - but your poem brings fresh breath to a an old subject. When morrow comes to kiss my freckled nose the idea of "freckles" somehow suggests a blithe winsomeness. Excelled word choice And hands of time have shown their dreadful pace, It’s time to send a red and blushing rose To one who dwells in distant far-off place. the poem deepens in intent - good rhyme and rhythm is maintained throughout the piece. When friendship calls across the ocean waves And fantasy is all that we can share, The tender petals of the rose she craves Shall travel swiftly to the foreign air. Seems a little more powerful an imperative than the narrators opinion of "friendship" in the wish that “fantasy” is only what can be shared. That is - if friendship is, as some scholars have maintained, the highest human relationship attainable and the solid part of any kind of love, fantasy seems a pale shadow. Sorry – Wayne – but your poem – like all good poems – is taking me off the page and into my own thoughts, And when she breathes the sweetness of that rose She’ll [be assured that?] that someone thinks of her More dearly than he really should disclose For fear of love that never could occur. For fear of love? But love, in its purest form asks nothing. Perhaps for fear of entanglement or human error or some shorter than that wording for acting on impulse or being denied the physical manifestation of love in the face of an enormous attraction? So, travel swiftly ‘cross the giant sea To let her know how sweet a rose can be. Ah, fine ending for a very passionate and heart felt poem	2004-08-31 10:58:54
America	marilyn terwilleger	It is good to read a poem about what is good about America. With the sweep of His brush He painted this land of many colors that tint the drifting sand with strokes of copper, and dabs of crimson on wheated grasses. lovely description. Takes me back to my Canadian prairie days. Capricious seasons [luscious phrase]blush His palette with ice blue sky, amber leaves, and rowdy flowers kissed by His chandelier, then drenched with shimmering moonbeams. ah, lovely Eagles soar, seabirds flutter and meadowlarks warble in unison. His rainbows limn [Love that word choice! I once did a soap opera parody called "On Life to Limn] the heavens, moist from a tempest, and [an]ardent sun [casts] elusive shadows. From the awe of its multifarious splendors to the sapphire seas that cradle it perhaps -to te cradle of saphhire seas] , to the imperial sky jutting heaps that center and hold it firm, wonderful His [be-gemed] eventide lends calm to the ever changing land beneath, [good "be.." alliteration] and reminds us we are forever free in this grandeur we call America. Yes, well, that is the dream anyway Marvelous poem Marilyn	2004-08-31 10:16:27
The Hand that Fills Your Cup	Joanne M Uppendahl	The Hand that Fills Your Cup Great evocative title for a lovely piece/peace. Chipping sparrow under my bench, I like "chipping" better than "chirping" as it is a fresh word and closer to the actual bird sound. Neat switch. you drink from puddles on the porch-- look up, lifting your soft gray throat to lilt your chip-chip pulse of praise. to "lilt your chirp" wonderful use of verb form! (I think you see me, so I hold my breath.) Steller’s jay, you rasp remarks from tall pine‘s peak, and pause to scan bird-feeder’s banquet then swoop down to scoop your split of sunflower seeds. great alliteration and assonance in that stanza As you each fill your cup of joy, you spill grace notes so transient I cannot summarize them here. But surely the hand that fills your cup has filled my own once more. ah, something greater than the act itself. This poem is a remarkable hymn. One small suggetion; I think I want to see the bird a little more clearly - its size, colors etc. Congrats on another fine poem. Best Roni	2004-08-30 09:24:18
Conception	G. Donald Cribbs	Magnificent tribute to your wife and to the coming birth of your child. Congratulations! My lips against yours like every vow promised, curled around its finger's namesake. 'namesake" seems a beat too long for this lovely passage We flicker amidst fireplace flames as hot as passion[,] peeling distances in a swirling of bedclothes. wonderful Reclining against each other we plunge into the eternal, our souls bathed in good sweat. fresh use of image and a sensory delight We are reliving the embrace that charged us to the water's edge, giddy, desire welling up to the highest purpose -yes like laughter, our tongues gasping at the shore of our mouths. Long drenched before coming I love the way tyou sustain this water metaphor to our senses, we climb back up the shoreline away from risen tide. Now we surface like flowers pressing supine shoots against the earth's underbelly, shuddering as it reaches the sun's radiance. We are like Jacob, WOW who wrestled God, stunned his hip went out of its socket. Our eyes burst open like stars clustered and eager to put on flesh. yes yes - and to invite a whole new life into the bliss. Incredible piece.	2004-08-29 16:34:16
The Ephod	G. Donald Cribbs	Deep night and I am winding, measuring the wheat field’s gentle incense, drawing out Urim and Thummim— this is an example of why engambmnet works so very well to get and turn our attention and I come upon two or more deer quite suddenly. perhaps just "two? " The "or more" makes me wonder if the deer are not clear or simply not yet in the clearing I have invaded a space not mine, yet they bound off, retreating to the fog-shrouded horizon where I now see more of the startled philosophers. Wonderful! Warily, I fumble with doctrine and truth, stepping closer or away—and I notice the dark sloping sycamore, and the sky above, and the wheat beneath, and the deer, great language use here and throughout this remarkable piece guarding the field’s edge, white puffs from their panting. there seems to be an unclear modifier at the end of that line perhaps" whit puffs from their pantinf rising? Or some other word to end the phrase? They are waiting for my leave, as I hesitate back along the path, away from epiphanies in fathomless dark That last couplet is is worthy of an Eliot or Auden!	2004-08-29 12:11:26
japanese verse 58 (Rooster)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Wings can’t reach the clouds Just the roof where it can crow The beauty of dawn Intersting concept of a sort of "roof" of the skies. The subject/object is a little off as it is - one would guess - the bearer of the wings- not the wing themselvs - which can "crow" the beauty of dawn. Excellent image Erzhal - jut needs a lttle clarification.	2004-08-24 08:56:20
Wading with the muse	Lynda G Smith	I think this is more than wading with the muse – I think it is it is diving right in! Olympic diving at that! I’m addicted to this high that floats my mind upon a sea of soul. “sea of soul” amazing turn of phrase I wade through thoughts in hypnotizing ripples finding echo in my blood to flood some crazed theme Love the way you sustain that metaphor of sea movements in schemes none can suspect. For I alone within this mara-thought of muse [not sure what that word }mara=thought means] is it cognate with marathon? It is neologism =a sort of a city-state of mind rue and fear what’s left behind upon the dock of deference, [love it] reference to what’s framed and stored, unused abused and lost forever. Give me pain, that driving fuel, that feeds and seeds the power of creation. Indeed = the muscle soreness of creation and creativity! Draw me, paint me, sing me, write me, send me skimming over waves to dip my staves in passions’ water. [I think either passion’s water or [passions’ waters] for this amazing section For all the agony of apprehension inspired invention of the image the song, the writ, will buoy me to the next. Excellent ending which brings home the sea metaphor with a resounding radiant splash! Brava Lynda	2004-08-23 22:34:34
Moonlight	marilyn terwilleger	moonlight on shadows diamonds sparkle on snow-caps His wonders endure this is lovely and visual and haiku-like in its structure - if it only presented the scene without the telling as in: "His wonders endure" it would meet all classic haiku qualifications but certainly it would qualify as a modern or "western" haiku. lovely piece Rach	2004-08-23 10:14:42
A life in the day of a gutter-girl	Lynda G Smith	Hi, Lynda Another amazing poem. The irony of the title - a woman named for a diseased place and infantilized by the off-hand use of the word “girl” is not lost on me. Amazing. Time had stayed her thoughts in corsets of rigid-boned rules, Good opening which draws us the poem with its rich metaphor yet she coveted the sensual, craved the carnal with its secret canons, wonderful c and v assonance but the metaphor is lost here and a new one begun which would be okay except the use of the conjunction “yet” makes us sort of expect a direct continuation of the corset allusion. fearing the release of the gutter-girl within. [one wonders how she cam to use such disparaging terms for her own freedom of expression – very complex and interesting poem. Her genesis erupted with the explosion of a magma confined by a lifetime of stricture. [great rich writing and g assonance] Here the metaphor is picked up again – and wonderfully well! She forged her spirit with her heritage, and heated her imagination with possibilities and lusty histories. [interesting but this seems like a new route] She dressed her mind in a gown of contempt and unlaced all limitations. If you reverse the last two lines you will have subtly continued the corset theme and the “undressing “ would be smoother. With the seduction of expectation, she tempted contemplations [WOW} from the secret privy of her being and poured her energy upon the earth in the baptism of birth. Great great ending!	2004-08-22 14:33:15
japanese verse 57 (Photographs)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Really interesting thought is captured here. Windows from the past Captured that special moment Forever to keep perhaps if it were: windows from the past "Capture" that special moment Forever to keep the present tense would add to the idea that the moment is not gone. It is good to see your work again Erzahl. Best, Rachel	2004-08-22 13:08:23
Revelry	Joanne M Uppendahl	Ah! A perfect haiku! I don't remember your doing haiku before - so this really is a wonderful surprise. The nature/human connection is ably made by the word "celebrating" we can see these little birds fliting =a fine evocative word for sparrows with their little wings.	2004-08-21 11:06:55
Maundy Thursday	G. Donald Cribbs	Timor mortis conturbat me Well, yes the fear of death has confounded all mere mortals, before and after Dunbar but yours is a fine addition to the literature of the enormous subject. Rippling algae drifts across the creekbed like stigmata from the body of the world. perhaps - something like blood or emission or excretion from stigmata? The word stigmata itself seems to solid a wound to “float” even, metaphorically. I have come to listen for deer hooves digging into the soft saturated earth. In the hillcrest Lovely I spot the muscular umberture of four prancing and angular does. I can nearly smell their moist noses, How does one “nearly smell?” I think one does or does not. Perhaps – I imagined I smell or I think I smell? their hairy hide[s], eyes darting ferociously. [the narrator’s or the deer’s} I straddle a fallen trunk massive enough to have rooted itself in the stream on its side. Perhaps laid down in oblation, the moss shroud sealed by stones rolling over the .....wheat field and come upon a deer skull. I turn it over and peer into its eye sockets where insects happily feast like apostles on the manna of brains and bits of skin This is a lot like my poem recently posted on the poeticlinkweb Swimming with Fishes The silver goldfish I bought at Petco went belly-up last night. Even more translucent now, it rests under the bougainvillea swaddled in gluttonous swarms of teeming angels who furiously reshape fins and gills into primordial mulch - glorious resurrection Don, are you certain you were not unconsciously influenced by my piece, or is it just a matter of “great minds” thinking alike? ….of the deer has gone, my hand cradling underneath the lower jaw as if the deer were feeding straight from my palm! I knew him, Horatio - neat picture! There is no laud or Tenebrae here, no palm [fronds] passing over [absent? For the meter?] tongue and throat. I feel my own jaw and this is what I know: the pull of tendon which snapped as I lifted this jaw from its skull has clenched The Word, His Eucharist, from my mouth as surely as the body lifted up from this world, very visceral and interesting description finding a wheat field to fill the space between soul and bone. "finding" – seems soomhow the wrong word somehow but I can suggest anything else Splendid piece, Don ark the tree is threadbare as I in the amber sunlight spackling the water rushing by me. After an hour of repast I climb back onto dirt, push back through thorns and trees to the wheat field and come upon a deer skull.[perhaps –the skull of a deer?”i I turn it over and peer into its eye sockets where insects happily feast like apostles on the manna of brains and bits of skin flesh still matted to bones. This is a lot like my poem I pull the lower jaw free like a wishbone and count ten teeth on each side and eight on the crest. I think of where the rest of the deer has gone, my hand cradling underneath the lower jaw as if the deer were feeding straight from my palm! There is no laud or Tenebrae here, no palm branches passing over missing tongue and throat. I feel my own jaw and this is what I know: the pull of tendon which snapped as I lifted this jaw from its skull has clenched The Word, His Eucharist, from my mouth as surely as the body lifted up from this world, finding a wheat field to fill the space between soul and bone.	2004-08-17 11:49:31
Speed Metal	Jeff Green	Wow - spectacular ending - the god of "speed" would have to be Mercury. With brilliant ironic asides[rent the night][suspiciously quick crown victorias] [even get their kids back] this poem of social commentary gives lie to the maxim that it is impossible to write a really good social poem because polemics always get in the way.	2004-08-14 10:31:57
Word Pirate	Karen Ann Jacobs	What a delightful mix of new technology and archaic language to create a poem that is fresh and alive with images Harsh words shot off without a care, Across a sea-scaped screen, [marvelous phrase] Careening from miles away. “No need to see me foe, To have at thee!” Slash. slash - yes the very anonymoty of the internet does provide for a slash and run attack A word wound will scar, Unless it festers and brigs death iIt sounds,, in this construction - as if festering and death are less serious consequenxes than a scar -a t least it does to me - ho wabout somehting like A would wound can scar or even fester an bring death I love the ending "Shiver their timbers!” Really dramatic and well conceived piece, Kay -ren	2004-07-16 10:56:48
Impurities are the Weight of Water	Molly Johnson	As much as I cannot get behind the idea of fishing or hunting for pleasure - this poem his such depth of meaning and such original exciiting construction that I am put in mind of the great sea novels and humanity vs the sea creature metaphors of fishing and i can only stand back in stark admiration. When the wetted line between my fingers yipped, yipped! What a novel and perfect word! then jumped, then sang, I sunk the hook in accidental  certainty it wasn’t a glossy  sang/sunk/certainly/sodden what soft assonic allieration rock or sodden stick I’d bumped but, a salmon-red coho. And,  for the first time, I  popped my head back then lit [great!}the river with “fish-on” so lines around me could snick[thre is a Lewis Carroll genius llooming in your neo-verbs ] home to their reels misting droplets of mud green water: so fine they lost their texture, so fine they lost their green memory, [wonderful] so fine they spun reel rainbows [clever pun that adds an extra litl to the poem], so fine they remembered purity. so fine a poem it is at the top of my list for the new month and i am printting it out to share at my poerty group. Thanks, Molly	2004-07-13 11:03:26
Jing Ye Si (A Quiet Evening) Chinese Translation	G. Donald Cribbs	It is certainly one of the most formidable tasks a writer can have to translate even a word of a language that is not native to the writer. I am happy to see that you have chosen a poem to translate that is not dependant on a place name or concept that is completely new to us, but instead , translated this seemingly simple nature poem by Li Po. I cannot say that I fully understand translations of his work – even the most bucolic of his musings but I think that – given this the humility of restraint in subject – you are probably coming as close as any native English speaker can to the intended meaning. Chuang qian ming yue guang I can only guess at the melody of these words - but they seem chime like At the bedpost, only bright moonlight. Yi shi di shang shuang You doubt; now frost is on the ground. Ju tou wang ming yue Lift your head, look toward the bright moon. Di tou si gu xiang. Hang your head, your thoughts are filled with home. Lovely, Thank, you, Don	2004-07-09 14:18:51
Grounded	Lynda G Smith	I kiss the air, a covenant upon my lips, to live each breath, a measure of such consequence. ------------ And I I mark the page wherin such glories live as poetry as wise as this Amazing and wonderful poem A winged phalanx breasts [great,greatne coined verb] the hill,[- and] [W]ere I myself, four times or more, a titan, I could [or perhaps it should be -"I could not?"] with limbs outstretched, my fingers run through such down [amazing] as heat a heart to comfort’s perfect state. [indeed] With carving wings, the shavings of spring air doppler [ahhhhh] my ear with before and now and farthest thrust, to dust my memory [I am amazed by this fresh language ] with longing. Were I among their numbers, flanked by form and sergeant’s chevron, I should, with blush of spirit [incredible phrasemaking] stand that tall, the ‘V’ of victory my seasoned song. [yes yes!] I kiss the air, a covenant upon my lips, to live each breath, a measure of such consequence.	2004-07-09 12:37:19
Winona, from the High Cliff	Thomas Edward Wright	in the forest, the loneley forest a-winona, awinowa why oh why when There is so much to say, and so little time. in this land of sky blue waters and poetry that sings in the blueness The lion sleeps tonight thanks tom tom wonderful	2004-07-08 21:45:25
A Fish Out of Water	G. Donald Cribbs	Fish Out of Water “You have made men like fish in the sea… The wicked foe pulls all of them up with hooks…” —Habakkuk 1:14,15 Yes, and we are all in constant danger of becoming fish out of water. Amazing sustained metaphor with enough allusion and “objective correlative” to make T.S. proud. In sleep, I fear water’s weight pressed down, How stunning,[indeed] throat accustomed to the lightness of air, this puts me in mind of Milan Kundra’s “incredible lightness of being” for a larger reason than word choice that I can quite conceptualize. Down dream’s womb, [ah] myself a harbored shadow thrown against the wall. one thinks – yes – Plato’s cave but with a hint of exit and entrances Hardened hands in earth at 5 a.m. rout out the fattedmeat of dirt passed through flesh, worms in black soil. There are those worms again – those necessary worms – composting us all into a sort of infinite rebirth? Softened by their deliberate work— [wonderful thought!} taking in filth to attain purity— we need to do that yes - What is fishing to me now—the practice of his hands thread childhood on hooks, [great great illusion here and throughout this piece] beneath water [-surface –“surface” is understood It think – ] The clustered claustrophobia [great phrase]presses in, tightens, clench of teeth, tensing up, rigid rigor mortis,[isn’t all rigor mortis pretty much rigid – as delicious as that phrase sounds?] tiny death in wakefulness[ah, the “petit morte” the French very definition of orgasm – that life-giving moment. His sweat an urgent haste, skin thrusts to satisfy, gratified, I die. In Him – amazing thought even to this heathen Laden, laid [great assonic alliteration] gravesclothes, I pass from stringer’s chain to stripping basket, casket stokes the choke of light, weight of sight. My unlived life a fathomless dream; seamed by the death I live with [perhaps [H]im?]worn revelation of shame mourned, torn in water, reborn. Ah… Don, Bravo! Sustained standing ovation!	2004-07-08 10:55:30
japanese verse 52 (Zephyr)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Wonderful . Lots to think about in this poem of death and resurrection and the sound of singing. Bury my feet is a wonderful metaphor. Splendid piece, Erzhel - of hope and rebirth and a season on life-in-death The air diva sings Resurrecting the dead leaves That bury my feet	2004-07-07 20:54:45
Mother Sea's Recipe (Serves Two)	Joanne M Uppendahl	Oh for a week in a cabin on the sea! Mother Sea's Recipe (Serves Two) love the title - serve's two is brilliant in its restraint given the enormous cook! Toss fragrant layers of fern fronds with wild indigo berries, crisp vines, resinous pines, tangy spruce; ah yes, a euphonious and succulent tea then pepper black branches [is this an imperitive? Wow love it] fold in sauce-thick grasses, [yes yes] top with whipped cream clouds yum over savory brown trees. lots ot chew on Sprinkle generously with butter yellow blossoms. shouns wonderful oh master chef When mixture settles, blend with waves; slice egg-white foam with silver knives. Float wooden ships like chips on broth, [yes!} garnish with salted crab legs [too specificly food I think] and serve with sunset. it sounds delicious. I will eat it with relish. Thank you for this treat Joanne.	2004-07-07 20:51:17
I Am Fred Chapter 111	marilyn terwilleger	No no I love Fred and I read him to my granddaughter! do continue Kneeling about my pretty pansy bed I said aloud, where is the elf named Fred? The one with a jaunty hat clad all in red he is quite perky and most stouthearted yes, the one with the jaunty hat dressed in red! - ot all the other elves about ! Here I be [mi'lady] upon the shed, he said Full of glee I be as I am simply Fred Why are you mirthful to be Fred? I said. I am so sonsy[? is this a word?} for I found me true beloved You speak of your sprite mostly bandy-legged? Oh, nay milady, a natty nymph I am Fred, he said A natty nymph? I said, I'm quite astounded She is a comely lass, ye ken. I am Fred, he said a natty nypmph! Love the wor dplay in this piece! What will become of thy sprite? I resounded Mayhap she will wed a leprechaun, he said But did you not feel gra for her? I said Aye but she calls me Bob and I am Fred, he said I wonder in what circumstances she says it! Can you not teach her to say Fred? I said I think not milady she is but single-minded Where ever did you leave her? I said confounded Atop a lily pad kissing a toad I am Fred, he said. ah, well a toad ! Of course !Love this Marilyn	2004-07-07 19:10:03
Tsa-ga-gla-tal in Spring	Joanne M Uppendahl	How wonderful! Could you perhaps do a collection of these poems. they are sure to be published Somewhere a mother raccoon has just risen from her den and is thinking that her kits are hungry but her hunger That [her hunger] is synonomous with the kit's hunger is brilliant. A mothers hunger is inseperatble from that of her ofspring - yes -- calls her to the pond. ["calls" is perfect here] Last night in the thrumming reeds frogs performed long love songs. they do that, yes, and weeds "thrum" you have a marvelousu ear Their moist rumblings, [thrum/rumb] your assonace skips line breaks it is so strong! her hungry stomach bind[s] one to another-- as meant to be as any pair of lovers. I think of her and her shiny fingers, separating the bits of flesh she touches lightly in her hurry. wow - how sensual this poem is! The gleam in her eyes is like white fire warming the milk rising in her like yeast, like sun. excellent! This morning I think of her-- her nursing kits, her glinting eyes, her tender need. And I will think of the family in tree with a new tenderness. Thank you Best Roni	2004-07-07 19:05:22
Hacking Chestnuts	G. Donald Cribbs	What an amazing lesson in a lot of ways - including how to write a magnificent poem In England, boys gather horse chestnuts for hacking rather than snapping perfectly good pencils over knuckles. and rightly so! Some soak them in vinegar like Roman soldiers mocking Jesus, how is that? That is - what does the soaking in vinegar have to do with activity mocking Jesus? The illusion is not know to me.] others hold theirs back a year, tucked in sock drawers. good a place as any for horse chesnuts I guess. I wonder how many of them get washed with the socks like my son's little red fire engine that broke my washing machine ages ago. Shedding prickly green cases, I search for the one top-branch chestnut, and stab its meaty flesh with a skewer to thread it through with heavy string for hacking. The boys meet at the shallow of the woods to smoke and have a go at conkers. Beautifully described and quite a ritual - this hacking! I think I will "have a go at conkers" [I just needed to say that] The losers shatter to bits on the ground, [the chestnusts- not the kids - right?]winners tucked into pockets for future champions. Days before I [had] bloodied a boy’s nose for my mother’s honor. What games we play for sport and some for proof that manhood is not far from us, Some sort of proof for some sort of manhood I guess. Ah men. like the centurion ashamed he was just an ordinary man. Wonderful ending! Brilliant! He was a "centurion" and didn't know it! Didn't know that everyone is extraordinary? That we are all centurions unawares? Love it	2004-07-07 18:57:09
Tree	marilyn terwilleger	Hi, Marilyn There is something very Emily Dickinson like about your wring and about this poem in particular. I think it is the art of gentle understatement rather than the theme or style. On a barren knoll hued in dusty khaki there stands a leafless tree it is as undone as a tree can be ‘undone’ with its myriad meanings is marvelous here With hanging branches scrawny and shabby, in wavy dark shadows that wag as if on sea there stands this splintered tree Alas, poor tree – but how well you describe her and what undertone s of loss are I this poem Here the hot simoom [I don’t know this word but it is lovely]blows free and the bark weeps for dignity. Nary a twig nor a puff of dust or scree darts or drops upon the deserted pageantry I think the word “pageantry” is a syllable too long for the line –perhaps another word for “deserted?” Piercing beyond the ossified and sere tapestry of this old suffocating tree there emerged a frond, verdant and simple to see. A new hope grows – wonderful!	2004-07-07 18:45:40
Eternal	Thomas H. Smihula	Hi, Thomas This poem is filled with the wise construction and philosophy I have come to expect with your work. I especially like Flowers placed to represent peace Still others present a new beginning and its internal assonance of represent/present and placed/peace/present. Very skillful writing indeed. It is good to see your work again. It would be nice if you get a chance to stop by the poetry group. It is going strong. Best Roni	2004-07-07 12:58:47
Never Yield	marilyn terwilleger	Lovely and evocative and wise Alone lost [love those a/o sounds - like a sigh- as day declines and a cloudless sun sags [sun sags! What a great great image!] Blind run-away mind in hopeless disarray pounded by billows of dismal regret [and what sharp image making in phrases like run-away mind and "billows of regret"] There is no lamp in tortured twilight [no lightand no thus no enlightment - wonderful thought and and great t alliteration] only wicked ashy-white shadows and dread of tomorrow's hours and night dreams nice Silence chimes [great] upon buried demons and foredoomed feeble footsteps fail[a little too much f allitertian here I think] Even when the dispetaled rose dies [miraculous] Never yield Marilyn, I don't think you understand how good your work is! This is splendid.	2004-07-07 12:53:41
THE TRUTH IS…	Wayne R. Leach	Very dramatic narrative poem, Wayne. THE TRUTH IS… The truth is: The truth will never set one totally free but [can or might?] torment …. him The use of the pronoun “him” does not agree with the the ambiguous introductory object “one” but I don’t see any way around it. “Might protect one through eternity” would seem a little stilted so, as Rosannna danna used to say/…nevermind This poem is one I should never write but it simply will not remain inside. [yes, poems seem to have their way with us] I love my wife and prefer she’d never see these lines I contrive at my [is it not a shared bedside?] bedside during this sleepless, troubled night. What sad words always follow the phrase “I love my wife , but”.. The truth is: ‘T were maybe better had we not met to create memories impossible to forget. Coan for the day:: If they are forgotten – are they still memories? I have loved you since I first saw your face; maybe I caught the goodness glowing inside from watching your deep and fascinating eyes, or spied the gaiety in your rhythmic stride and recognized your unassuming grace. Had I generated some of your happiness by showing in this human experiment the deepest love that one can know and shared a truly intimate moment, I would not sense this horrible emptiness. Or perhaps even a deepr pain would ensure – how complicated are the adventures of the human heart! Though we never made love or intimately kissed I always assumed some day we would. Even though we don’t realize what was missed, if eternity is real some day we could. [and so given an assumtion of eternity – perhaps – for the narrator – the consummation is of the love is still possible?] I said it would be best if I stayed away; my reason being I might lose direction and reveal something in me that you would hate. Had only I shown you sincere affection maybe we would share [-togetherness] today. At least we met and I have known how truly complete pure love can be; I feel blessed to have been shown that deep feeling between you and me. I felt we were destined to share this life in harmony, companionship and grace; my choices seemed always wrong - or late. So as I travel the final miles of this race I capitulate, remain devoted to my wife. The truth is … better left unsaid at times, so I wonder, should I have erased these lines. Nice speculative poem of the inconstancies of the human heaert.	2004-07-07 10:58:42
The Cancer of Tropics	Mark Andrew Hislop	The big daddy of all bad days, yes – but what a fine poem came out of it. I like the title – a play on the novel Tropic of Cancer by my favorite misogynist. You are an alien here,[powerful beginning] everything makes the point: a smiling backslap with a claw, [I think I know the person] a stasis like a cinder block, a sauna of struggling ambition, a sauna of “ambition?” It is hard for me to picture this since saunas exemplify a luscious decadent sensualism to me. But, perhaps that was an ironic point I missed?. a casket of defective incarnations, [great!} a gene sequence for blind, raging impatience, “impatience” is so small a sin for all those heavy adjectives and that is the brilliance of that line. a pandemic of arrogant lassitude, [you knew my ex?} a moustache as a lonely emblem of manhood, [wonderful] a road with exits where the entrances should be, [got lost there myself.] ther an endlessly rising canon of Me,[ ah yes] a jungle of unexploded memories, [fantastic] an oasis of undiscovered martyrs, [yes, yes] a call to do good, do good, you must invariably do good, [usually said by someone not in the habit of doing much good for the world] understanding that you will be left to go to hell, [perhaps “a monsoon of decay,”] [powerful analogy] an unashamed claim to another's ancestors, [this is a very peculiar one to me – ho aberrant is that!”} a massacre of surrendered innocents, [children hurt in the fire of a relationship?] a tradition of eliminating thought,[the disease of today’s youth] a place where time goes to die, [great] a nightmare that has annexed your children, a final awakening that it was the one place where you never lived. Reminds me of the Beatles song – she’s leaving home A bitter – dramatic and in that drama – powerfully poignant piece. Thanks	2004-07-07 10:34:34
Alabaster Angel Wings	Wayne R. Leach	Lovely and evocative –the rhythm of this poem rises, dips and then soars. I like the uneven but ballanced rhyme also. The search for alabaster angel wings leads to a flight inside my head to wash unclean things discovered there, living there, forever dying there. The life- in death construct is amazing So, Spirit, hold my hand, lead the way into a realm of make-believe, The word –“Make- believe” seems a little weak for the seriousness of this poem A hallucination called today, [ah, yes] a brain grave I’ll never leave. really interesting use of internal rhyme and fresh language here There’s a lonely ringing, whistling, screaming soprano screeching inside my skull. [ah, the tintinnabulation of life, life, life – extraordinary!] Out! Out! Trying to escape. I don’t know the note, the pitch, but it’s steady, unrelenting no matter what I do. [Have you ever read Oliver Sack’s book on the human brain and the phenomenon of auditory hallucination? I am reminded of that remarkable piece by this poem ] I want to hammer it, stab it, shoot it, re-tune it, drown it, kill it in its own slimy blue-red blood, scoop out all the gray screams and bury them in a great ocean of salty tears. [a little ordinary a phrase for this extraordinary piece even though it does evoke the liquid of the inner ear. My hair roots scratch their off-white brain-home – colored like a dirty week-old dog bone [wow] stripped of marrow and marred by tartar-stained teeth, fangs that stripped skin, membranes, flesh – a skull not yet pure, not clean and gleaming like alabaster angel wings. what a leap! From jowls comes a drooling, bloody tongue snake to lap redness from the bone, purify it, make it white like alabaster angel wings. The rhythm of the chorus pick up here in an ominous foreshadowing The screams and screeches are real, outside stuff all fake – imitations, distractions. The real world is always there; the other world visits on occasion then retreats to its vacation in the nothingness of night. Electric shock for a disconnect, a supercharge? Should I reside inside or outside as I dream of alabaster angel wings? Another amazing poem, Wayne. Thank you	2004-07-07 00:02:32
Worms in the Summer Grass	G. Donald Cribbs	More worms. You and Mark S are making me have worm dreams of mortality and evil and the limitations of this world. - like good old e.e did: Nobody Loses All the Time by e.e. Cummings (1884-1962) nobody loses all the time i had an uncle named Sol who was a born failure and nearly everybody said he should have gone into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell itself which may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable of all to use a highfalootin phrase luxuries that is or to wit farming and be it needlessly added my Uncle Sol's farm failed because the chickens ate the vegetables so my Uncle Sol had a chicken farm till the skunks ate the chickens when my Uncle Sol had a skunk farm but the skunks caught cold and died and so my Uncle Sol imitated the skunks in a subtle manner or by drowning himself in the watertank but somebody who'd given my Uncle Sol a Victor Victrola and records while he lived presented to him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a scrumptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and i remember we all cried like the Missouri when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because somebody pressed a button (and down and uncle Sol went down and started a worm farm. Worms in the Summer Grass [alas] It isn’t that far into June when the heat stings soft spring away, [OHHH, AHHH wonderful soft sibilant syllables] and [we all migrate] to the sticky lake to cool ourselves beneath a shaded beach-umbrella. Rusted fishhooks and burnt grills surround the lake [try to find another word instead of using lake twice?} like ants around a rotting tree.[GREAT analogy] The sky floats across the water,[It DOES I remember that from Lake Winnipeg]w as I rub my hands on wet grass, dripping sweat and bugs. Silence unnerves me. He brings us here, like a family affixed, but the worms and I know differently. Yes….wonderful He rocks on water-logged sneakers near lake-weeds where the mosquitoes hover and snails are born. I concentrate on threading a dying worm and imagine [probably should be“it’s he” –but perhaps because this is in the child's voice it is thus not formal? But lal lthe other language in the peom is formal..so I dunno..] . The ground around makes a sucking sound like a dry drain. [wow] I sip from an empty can praying he slips into the water. He sits away from us, over where the boy from Rochester Farm choked and died a few years back. I never knew that boy. [Incredible aside! Every word in this poem point to something else - the texture is rich and brilliant -and evocative - and chilling. At some point his presence wakes me. He hovers over the bed; I notice my sheets peeled back towards the wall. Encumbered by his weight, I await the end, clench my eyes as his hand holds onto the mattress. My line jerks and I reel in a throw-back. I wait until nightfall, Powerful and dreadful and amazing here. I am in awe of this kind of writing when we will travel back to the house, and I will scrub ground worms from beneath my fingernails—and he will come into the bathroom to pee with me, the worm burdened around a rusted hook. Thank you for offering this poem to us, Don. I will not forget it. Ever	2004-07-06 20:55:55
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