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

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Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Mell W. Morris	Critique Date
Shadow's last sigh	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: Thi is # 49 on my list but I never get to critique your work and I espeially wanted to comment on this imaginative naturesque poem. My reviews are shorter than before and I rarely bother with poetic devices...just the meaning. The couplets are appealing and the title is great. The reader has no clue where this will go but wants to know. "Upon the wake of dawn and dark is gone impetuous shadows cloak the yawning land. Across the meadows and o'er the plain ocean sands and fields of tawny grain." Lovely imagery, a direct appeal to the senses, and the personification of shadows and land is grand. I love "yawning" as the dawn awakens life. I must include dawn/gone/yawn/tawny and plain/grain. Again, you use one of my favorite colors for the grain: tawny. The words paints a vivid picture in my mind. "Mountain shadows give life to a blanket of smoky gray and enclose the velvet lea Deep purple mist of winter's noon cradle(s) seas of shadows in shivering trees." Ah, so beauteous, Marilyn. The shadows become a blanket of smoky gray, enclosing the velvet lea. I do not believe Wordsworth could top your third and fourth couplets! How you composed the part about shivering trees holding shadows of deep purple mist had to be a gift from above. I know you are extremely talented but some lines are so exquisite, I think of divine intervention. "When starry ice ignites the sky and in moon's light, declining shadows fade and die Slithering night folds it(')s shade, wily winds wave adieu to shadow's last sigh." The oxymoron of ice ignite is great and you take the reader to the time of day when shadows begin to wane and the night folds its shade. Slithering is an interesting choice of adjective but I like it. Then in typical Marilyn-speak, you end your poem with an alliterative whirlwind. "Wily winds wave" is so clever but more importantly, they are saying goodbye to the last sigh of a shadow. This is a magical delight, my friend. I believe this poem has the best descriptors and brightest imagery of all of your poetry. I enjoyed it very much and the images will remain in my brain. You keep getting better and better and constantly surpass yourself. Brava! for this gem, a winner in every way. Best always, Mell	2004-01-17 19:04:14
pushpull	Regis L Chapman	Regis: I like your poem but find it more than subtle...recondite and abstruse are the words that come to mind. The lower case, lack of punctuation seem fitting for the piece and the pacing is well executed. I found myself racing to the end and had to go back and reread slowly. The title is unique and seems a commentary on our daily lives with so many commitments, being pulled in one direction then tossed in another. "push pull rush I am too full look left rook right." I am too full is enigmatic unless you refer to your hurried life but then we get into tables and pushing them so you may mean literally full. I like the fact that the deciphering is left to the reader and my take is one filled with ditherings. Then you "rook" which tells me this is a chess game or else you use the chess game as a metaphor for our stresses. "pause and breathe check the pockets for the deceived the castle beats retreat." You again use the rook/castle imagery and poet cautions himself to slow down and breathe...I found myself holding my breath on the first read. Check the pockets for the deceived (a pool term) but I think you mean your own pockets and I'm reminded that there is lack of trust for those at the table... have they pocketed a pawn or relieved your pockets of money? Intriguing enigmas throughout which I find pleasing for I like to exercise my brain a bit. I feel I'm missing the import but once posted, the poem belongs to the reader so I am always quite content if the poem is good (this one is) with my own misinterpretations. Herein I feel elevated to a higher plane and that is a rare delight. "arms gather walking legs would rather do the balking ...my exact sentiments... pull set the table push what to do with the chair? the answer is right...there." I'm unsure what is occurring here...seems an indecisiveness about the table and the chair. I'm sure they are representative of something else...the sole idea in my head is a reflection of the many decisions we must make daily and the pushpull me of same. "call in heroes for repair numbers numbers counting down emotion plumbers with a pleasing sound. push pull wait to go back push push push three times tack pull pull pull parachute please unpack." This section is as esoteric as the others but my favorite phrase lies herein: "emotion plumbers with a pleasing sound." Quite special linguistics of delving to feelings with harmony. Then I come to "tack"....change directions or sail against the wind...and the unpacked parachute so now I am sailing (what's it called..parasailing?) I must say, Regis, this is a oner...haven't seen anything quite like it...and I have not unraveled its meaning. But you asked that we recount our meaning derived and you referred to feelings of the reader. My favorite poems are metaphysical and I would put this piece in that category. Every word you include seems indicative of something else. I know there are metaphors and symbolism and I didn't delineate your poetics altho I noted same. Overall, this seems to be about frustration and mixed feelings and how best to make apt choices. Again, I feel charmed and elevated by the poem regardless of your intent upon composing. I would read this poem again, would buy the book if I found this piece inside, an is indicative of talent, more IQ points than I have to summon. (And I'm quite intelligent). I hope you will share your import upon replying but that, of course, is the poet's choice. I can only add kudos for the accomplishment of a poem of this caliber which comes along infrequently. Best wishes, Mell	2004-01-17 14:42:44
Love As A Postcard	Rick Barnes	Rick: Another winning gem from your pen. One aspect I really like is the cadence established by your words and pacing. It sounds metered when read aloud. Of course, you employ more poetics that one can enumerate but the rhyme here is particularly charming. "Love as a postcard Showed up Alone in the post On a day when most Folks received no mail at all." The 1st stanza is intriguing...the card was alone...were you expecting other mail? (I know from having read the entirety that you hoped for a letter). The other interesting point is that your card arrived alone when other (most) people received nothing. This says to me that the card may be less than you wanted but more than other people have. The rhymes post/most enhance the opener. "Love as a postcard Hosted a scene So damned serene I wished I were there." This smacks of a little resentment on your part, your lover is in a beautiful setting while you're home alone. (Perhaps alone). You reverse the usual message by saying you wished you were there. Ditto serene/scene. "Love as a postcard Said, "Wish you were here." And on the back in faded ink, Signed, Someone Near." The signature seems a bit odd...in lieu of Buffy or Sweet Thang..."someone near." I am very curious about the ink's being faded. I realize that portrays where the relationship seems to be but how does ink fade so quickly? Or did she write it and it wasn't important enough to mail soon? Here/near continues the harmony of sound imagery. "I thought I knew love better And deserved at least a letter. But as quickly as love came, And as swiftly as love went, .....I like the repetition of love.... Love as a postcard Is all she sent..." You want more from the relationship than she is willing/able to give and you measure emotion by the size of her epistle to you. You DESERVED a letter but she didn't agree. Ergo, you assume the love is over because of the "postcard only" episode. This bespeaks a life with lack of commitment for or from you, a series of unsatisfactory relationships that end before they have really begun. The simile of love as a postcard is grand and pure Rickism. There is something intangible about this piece, as is often true of your poetry, that makes it magical and yet I can't say for which reason. For a plethora of reasons says it better but is not what I'm trying to point out. On the surface, the poem appears "simple"...no fancy words, no novel construction...but it says so much. (Reminiscent of Creeley's minimalism). It's a peripheral, archetypal response on my part...like trying to see something from the corner of my eye, but frontally, it disappears. Always something roiling under the surface...I can feel it but lack the ability to limn it in words. I hope you do not find this totally insane but I rather think you will comprehend my feeling. A winner for sure, Rick, and one of my favorites. There is something still vibrating in my head like a tuning fork. Bravo! Ole' Meller	2004-01-14 18:45:30
The Apostrophe: Enos at the Bacchanalia in Cozumel	Thomas Edward Wright	T.: My erudite, recondite friend, this poem is reminiscent of "Border Clash" for me in that I want to analyze it accordingly and therein would make the bleak misinterpretation that I did with the former. Take the title. (Please). Are you delivering this address to the son of Seth or to all mankind? The latter, I assume. Your opening line reads as most of yours do: wondrous and curious because the reader wants to kinow where this salute to freedom will lead. Those F sounds are terrific, bringing to mind Olde English. Yeffir. The most intriguing stanza: "When the moist clamshell's disclosed, tight and wet inside, the oyster soft its--" followed by: "Did quicken the pulse with a thrum, ...love the word 'thrum'.... violate a rule of physics or two, qualify the quantifiable quirks?" I haven't seen such allits since I-can't-remember. All of this data tells me there is a slam-bang party going on in Mexico with Enos ensconced then edging his way to where the g-string once resided. Slurping sweet oysters. Then I course ahead to find metaphor stripping happening but the winner's being applauded, flag rallying, and the dreaded end word: "Patriots." Ergo, I assume this orgy which I was greatly enjoying has something to do with football because I kinow one of the pro teams bears that appellation. So here I am, thrumming and thinking about when the next bacchanalia may be slated, and T. is once more doing sports-talk. And brilliantly. I greatly enjoyed your poem which has fuddled me this sunny Saturday but perhaps I am getting closer to your import. (That would be scary). Kudos and bravo! Best wishes, Mell	2004-01-10 17:04:21
Visions of Yesterday	Claire H. Currier	Claire: How lovely to find a poem by you at the top of my list! And a lovely poem it is that I could not skip a critique although you say it's from your hearts to ours. Thank you for the gift and wishes. I like the title and it suggests memories but the reader has no idea where that idea may lead. Stanzaic free verse is my favorite and this piece winds slowly like a country lane...nothing forced, just nice and easy pacing. "As I close my eyes to rest, Visions of yesterday Float inside my head. As clear as day, I see you there, Gathering your fishing gear. Row boat ready to go Filled with Buckets, worms and poles. Off you go, my love. Catch us a good meal: Tonight we shall have A fish fry." This is a comforting scene, filled with ordinary activities but delightfully described. I picture this clearly: the woman seeing her husband off for a day of fishing and hopeful he'll bring home a good catch. I love the phrase: "Gathering your fishing gear" as it's so harmonic with assonance and alliteration. You also use the long O sound effectively: close/float/row/boat/go/go. You know how I love sounds, Claire, so this is quite a pleasure for my ears. "Daybreak is yet to come; The children sleep. I find myself rocking On the inside porch, Watching the diamonds Dance across the lake." Nothing can match "rocking on the inside porch" as an activity and as memories from my childhood. In those days, everyone had rocking chairs on their porches which were screened here in Texas because of insects. Your most exquisite phrase is "Watching the diamonds dance across the lake." I wish I had written that line! Simply beauteous and conjuring lovely images in my brain. "Happier days of long ago Shared together, you and I. Tucked in the lining of my heart ...another splendiferous phrase!.... Forever and always Ready to spring forth Whenever I close My eyes to rest." The repetition of "close my eyes to rest" is quite effective here. And always the memories of her life with her husband residing in her heart, ready to "spring forth". I like that choice of verb because we already have the water image of the lake and "spring" also suggests water. "It has been forty years Since you went away. I am now ninety-two And still waiting for you To join me on the inside porch, Watching our diamonds Dance across the lake." Wow! Perfect ending with the reiteration of the loveliest image: rocking on the inside porch, "watching our diamonds dance across the lake." You have a nice internal rhyme of two/you and the five W words add a tender touch. I haven't paid much attention to your devices of allits, rhymes, etc...because I am so caught up and captured by the story and most of all, your descriptors. I read that imagery is all about appealing to the senses and yours certainly does that as I am smitten with your linguistics herein. Your mother's memories are wonderful and thanks to her for sharing them and to you for framing them in lovely poetic form. This is my favorite of the VERY few poems I've seen by you and I cherish it and feel my spirit elevated by its message. Brava! A ***** rating and deepest gratitude that you shared this loveliness with us. Best, Mell	2003-12-30 15:11:31
As to the Site of the Preservation of Memories	Thomas Edward Wright	T: For me, this is the "poem of the month" and I hope other readers agree. It may be best but is quite difficult for me to critique in terms of striking the appropriate tone. Evocative it is but not maudlin, an obvious crisis when one loses his mother, but altho the pain is deftly drawn, I find humor here as well. I have always used humor to cope...a gallows humor...and that is what I find in places herein. But in chronological order, I must say your opening line is as good as it gets and the notion of her raspberries runs thru the poem. I expected it in the title ("Where the Raspberries Grow") but you came up with an even better one. The recalled precautions for her safety and then she lets the cancer enter and you use a nice simile here. Then when you remember her aphorisms, "Mop up your own messes" and "If you want it done right, do it yourself"...provided comic relief for me. Your depiction of being at the funeral home also displayed some wit..."No 'Hello From Heaven'" but you captured what we have been thru upon loss or a loved one...that terrible business of the funeral home and their lubricious salesmen who prey upon people drowning in grief. You segue to a scene in the car and your honest definition of fear and horror are handled with a delicacy that in itself is quite amazing. The flasback beginning "Back at Mayo-" is effective, T., and the line "I'll get her drunk" is yet another example of the humor that is inherent in your thoughts. "She reminded me as I left for the car: 'I just want to make this as easy as possible for your father.' Jesus wept with me." Stunningly exquisite stanza and salutes and pays tribute to her selflessness and generosity of spirit at such a time. And, oh my, the gorgeous ending: "The winds of November came early this year. The dog is gone, the berries picked for the last time. But through us she'll live on - in here." Her children are her legacy and none will forget a special woman as she. This is tender, loving, and the best poem you have written, T. I will not belabor any point as it feels that anything else said would be supererogatory. My deepest sympathies for your loss and for sharing this poem with us. Best always, Mell	2003-12-29 16:53:45
Awaken	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: I found this at the botton of my list which must mean you have received many crits. I do not think you will be happy with what I say, but you well know I am totally honest. To me, the title should be "Awakening" in lieu of the verb. (Titles cannot be plagarized so there's no problem in using my word). The second aspect that strikes me is your format or lack of same. This is written in paragraph form, free verse with many rhymes, etc. For example: "I walked in shadows of coolness; hued flowers caressed my feet. Timid wind played harp strings, strumming a soft sigh. I stepped upon a bridge that spanned opal waters....." For me, my format makes the poem more accessible for the reader and you can change lengths of lines, numbers of stnzas, etc. You have penned some of your most exquisite imagery which gets lost in the prose-like form. "Hued flowrs caressed my feet" and "timid wind played harp strings, strumming a soft sigh." "Opal waters" is beautiful and "timid wind" is unforgetable. I wish I had penned "splintered my spine" and "The garden's blush waned to gray" and "flaming darts of fear stabbed my soul." Your metaphors are quite well delivered, your rhymes and assonance make the piece harmonious, and you cast an eerie spell when you meet the man on the bridge. I might change: "The garden's blush waned to gray, my delight (gave way) to panic." When the ominous voice bellows at you, the tension and fear are palpable...so you succeeded here. "My eye lids fluttered as my being struggled to awaken. Was it a nightmare or a premonition?" The hynopompic state often delivers a lack of clarity since you are not totally awake, but I don't care for the query in the last line. It could hardly be a premonition since it occurred thirty years ago but you tell this in additional notes. You can express the same thought but not in question form: "I wondered if this had been a nightmare or a premonition." The poetry experts who sit in their ivory towers write books on what makes good poetry and one of their aphorisms is to never end a poem with a question and if a query is posed at the start of a poem, the answer better be found in the denouement. The irony of having a dream like this one in view of your doctor's verdict and proving him wrong is obvious. I suggest you re-format the poem and look at possibilities for a better ending. The piece is filled with jewels of imagery and expression which are unique and evocative. There is too much great stuff here to chuck it but why not noodle with it a while? (I started "Stoop" six months ago and refused to give up on it, the most difficult poem I ever wrote). I trust you know I am trying to assist you with a poem of grand potential. I will wait to see the revised version many moons from now. You are gracious and talented and I enjoyed your poem very much. My best always, Mell	2003-12-28 16:09:19
Rural Shindig	Jordan Brendez Bandojo	Jordan: This may be a rural shindig but sounds like what we call a bash or blast or ball. This must have been one wild party with the cast of characters who people it and your outstanding descriptors. Stanzaic free verse is my favorite form and affords you the freedom of expression you need for this delightful poem. "Like a lady in full sheen, The party reeked with lavish revel. Sly spongers, prickly-chinned hangers-on In din had arrived (quite) early. Wily gate-crashers, dim-witted scare crows Wearing collar buttons, mauve cravats, They seemed in a promenade When the news ran like electric shock." I don't know where to start as this poem is as lavish as your shindig. I like your use of the letter L in eight words in the first four lines...giving a lilt and lyrical quality to my ears. You certainly limn a motley assortment of party goers: I like "sly spongers' and full-sheened ladies and "prickly-chinned hangers on." You use internal rhyme like din/chin and so many instances of assonance, I cannot delineate same. Your utilization of the letter W in the last half of the poem affected me as the L did. I long to see idiot scare crows in mauve cravats and collar buttons...kind of an antiquated look to the attire. Your imaginative aspect is appealing and charming. You have drawn a Daliesque picture, surrealistic. "Frolic wham reverberated Traffic bustled In the salon of wide staircase Green banistered, Chinese porcelain brocaded Frame carved in Renaissance fashion (mode?) Chandeliers glinted over bulging eyes Orchestra (music) wafted in the air With the tinkle of silver and china, ....exquisite line.... Wenches in pristine chic Crones in straggly hair Conjoined the jovial festivity." .....nice J sounds.... It appears the host or hostess allowed any and all folks to join in the revelry... the oxymoron of a pristine wench, crones with unwashed tresses, along with those persons mentioned in the 1st stanza, would make a democratic gathering. The house where the lavish blow-out occurs is deftly described. I would like to walk down a wide staircase with green banisters, lovely carved frame, and glinting chandeliers. Jordan, your imagery is as lush as brocade or velvet and I highly enjoyed it. Your poem is unique, crisp, and original...very much new-age or post-modernist. I may not get your import but once it's posted, it belongs to us to make of it what we will. My opinion is that your party sounds like those of my youth in the 60's...all seen thru the haze of marijuana (or whatever) smoke. I'm not implying anything offensive but if Sherlock Holmes and his opium pipe appeared, it would not be surprising! This is a delightful read, a poem for which I would/will vote, and an accomplished dazzle of word display. Kudos! Best wishes, Mell	2003-12-26 18:21:19
An Old Man's Song On Christmas Eve	Rick Barnes	Rick, You have been greatly missed and if this poem is any indication, your hiatus did not alienate your muse. Your poem here has a great title and is beautifully constructed in rhyme and meter. Your dedication to Erzahl is a nice touch...if he's old or young. Your word choices in the poem are reminiscent of his as is the reiteration of certain words. "I have naught but my memories This night to sing to me, Yet the song is sung by everyone Who once reached out to me." On the eve of Christmas, the old man reflects that he has only his memories which sing to him. However, his songs are sung by everyone whom he has touched by his music or poetry. Nice rhyme and use of sing/sung and sing in Stanza 2. Sung/everyone produces an almost slant rhyme and night/naught sounds perfect together. Finally I laud your selection of "reached out" as it connotes warmth and giving and touching. You repeat the word in Stanza 2 for emphasis. "And so I sing in praise of reach ....this sounds like Erzahl... And offer silent prayer, That my own reach may too extend Beyond by own affairs." The repetition and concept of reach is deftly limned here. Music and poetry both reach out, hoping to be embraced by open arms. Here he prays for his reach to extend beyond his own concerns...silent prayer seems the perfect touch here. The old man alone on the eve of the holy day, praying in the sound of his own memories, understanding the importance of "reach." Your rhyme and meter continue to hum. "Much as the warmth of a distant fire Warms sea and earth and sand, The warmth of your touch does not require The presence of your hand." Grand simile of fire as the warmth and his warmth extended thru music and poetry does not require his physical presence nor does touch require his hand. His hand has touched many via his compositions. The surface message here is quite clear and yet there is something elusive herein which I cannot frame in words. The poem evokes deep feelings in me about poetry, love, and warmth. I will keep this poem of tenderness for future reading and likely derive more import with each read. Rick, you have captured "something" herein, something so fey, so precious that I can't put it in my usual box and stick on the label. It's like seeing something peripherally, just from the corner of your eye, and when you turn, it is not in sight, albeit present. I hope you understand what I'm trying to say but this will be on my list. Congrats on another accomplished poem as only you write them. Best wishes and peace, Mellodious I love the structure of repetition you use in the poem; in Stanza 3 of warm and warmth.	2003-12-26 11:28:34
Boxes - revisited	Michele Rae Mann	Michele: I have not seen your poetry before...if you are new, welcome. I've been ill and away from TPL so I may have missed your presence. I like the title "Boxes" for it could take the reader anywhere. I also like the format used: free verse with two quatrains and one couplet. It has eye appeal on the page. "When I rake into this diverse, vacant space, I envision ideas. Some that have gone astray, others not." Interesting word choices "rake into" and the idea that the boxes are empty which reminds you of ideas that have gone "astray." Boxes are a metaphor for your human spirit...my interpretation. "Empty boxes" is reminiscent of someone moving and if the person feels empty like the boxes, this can mean a reluctance to move or that there is little to be moved, etc. Part of the charm of your poem is that it is open to diverse interpretations. "No one color, shape, even size: just emptiness. Wondering are they just boxes or are they me." A nice probing into the metaphysical realm, an analysis of self via the medium of boxes. The ending brings the poem full circle with the comparison of empty boxes to your interior self...precursed by the opening stanza where you tell us your ideas have gone stray. I haven't delineated the poetic devices in your piece here but they are noted. Your use of the V sound in S1 with diverse/vacant/envision adds a harmonious note as does the assonance in vacant/space/rake/astray. The twelve sibilant sounds cast a sigh-like sound throughout the poem. For me, this is minimalism at its best. You convey numerous ideas and feelings with a few words. Since I am too verbose, this style of writing fascinates me and I enjoy and try to learn from same. Your poem superficially appears simple but that is deceptive as profundity abounds. I enormously enjoyed this piece and look forward to more of your poetry. I give it high marks, a ***** rating, and congratulations for the accomplishment. Best wishes, Mell Morris	2003-12-23 12:56:16
The Blizzard (A Story Poem)	Drenda D. Cooper	Drenda: I've long believed we need more narrative poetry and you have not only given us that form but delivered a tale with an aphorism and one that's beautifully written. I have marked all the allits, assonance, internal and end rhymes, and my printed copy is covered with my marks. "He hunted alone and only with bow and arrow. In his haste this day he had not waited for the latest on the weather." The sinister possibilities of hunting alone with bow and arrow hook the reader with the first two lines. A precurser for disaster is his not waiting to hear a weather report. This is deftly delivered with the assonance in alone/only/bow/arrow and waited/haste/latest/day. "With light feather steps .....weather/feather.... he followed fresh deer tracks deep into the snowy wood; then stopped abruptly, hearing a crackle pierce the silence. In a clearing just ahead it stood. Motionless, behind a tree the hunter barely breathed lest the white-tail buck sense his presence." Just the rhymes alone make this so enjoyable: tracks/crackle and wood/stood and hearing/clearing and the assonance of silence/sense/presence and several more. There are too many poetics to point to each but the allits in feather/followed/ fresh and behind/barely/breathed/buck deserve a mention. Your pace is perfect; from the first line you have the reader racing to see what occurs next. This is simply magnificent, Drenda. My, how you tell a tale! "Time seemed suspended as the hunter's arrow flew. In that same instant the deer knew and with a graceful arch leapt across a fallen birch. He bled a crimson trail that led the hunter on his final chase." You enhance the fricative sound with three more F words and the rhymes of flew/knew and the slant graceful/chase. Yet my favorite sounds here are the arch/birch combo. The reader wonders "what does final chase mean?" I was so happy when the deer "knew" and leapt away but the crimson trail dispels any hope for its survival. You describe this action scene very effectively and I found I was holding my breath. "A trail that quickly disappeared beneath a cold white sheet of blinding blizzard that (chilled) the hunter's heart and froze his feet." Great metaphor of of cold white sheet for the blizzard. (Nice allits with blinding/ blizzard/beneath). I changed the word "numbed" because you use it later more efficaciously. Your frication continues in line four and your rhyme of sheet/feet charms the ear of the "sound-is-all" Mell Morris. Your next two stanzas delineate the deer's demise in tender words (thank you) and that of the hunter who you imagine thinks of his home and loved one's in his last moments. In your 5th stanza "numbly stumbled" works well. Stanza 6 you narrate the ranger's finding of the hunter's body, his shiver and the quiver still on the frozen hunter. "The ranger later would recount the tale of how he found that day two frozen forms; first the hunter, then, a mere ten yards away lay his white-tail prey." Your alliterative frication continues till the end and is joyful to my ears even with the sad resolution of the narration. Plus four rhymes in one stanza: day/lay/away/prey. I think the moral here is "be prepared" as the boy scouts say; venturing out alone in snow country is dangerous. More importantly, if a man kills, he may pay a high price. Now, you don't tell us if the hunter stalked his prey to feed his family or if it were for the sport...and I'm glad you did not reveal this fact. For as is, the reader decides for himself how he feels about the tragedy. Not to forget the irony in the end of the tale which is likely its most memorable feature: the hunter dies just ten yards away from his prey. I've been telling you for the past year that your poetry has reached higher and higher levels and "The Blizzard" is another example of same. I could teach an English class about all figures of speech and the devices poets use by means of this one poem. You have outdone even yourself in this marvelous tale. Brava and standing ovation! Mell	2003-12-18 13:52:15
Ice Daggers	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: I usually don't critique haiku because you know I like to meld with a poem, really inhale it, and haiku is so spare. I do not feel comfortable with the form, as composer or critic, but your words call out to me. The title could be improved, IMO, because it is your first two words and gives away too much of the poem. There are so many options: "Snow Scythes" or "Ice Swords" or "Ice Epees" or "Ice Sabers"....etc, etc. Your metaphor is grand...the ice as dagger and you have allits with daggers/dribble. You use the D sound effectively three more times which enhances the 1st line. The personification of snow is also a treat...that it "willingly" drops as if it has a choice. The short O in drops/sod make almost a slant rhyme and it is ear pleasing. The internal rhyme of willing/filling is also harmonious. I like your descriptor for sod: "eager"...as that is how I imagine dry earth, longing to slake its thirst. That last line is the making of the poem for me...the payoff we want as readers. Ice may be daggers and melted snow may drip but "filling eager sod" is a reward for Mother earth, especially in view of your drought. The five susurrant sounds in your S words remind me of dribbling water so I find this another grand display of linguistic talent. In toto, this is a very pleasing haiku with its lovely imagery and sounds. I find it an accomplished piece of writing so congrats and kudos. Sprigs of laurel, Mell	2003-12-14 16:09:44
japanese verse 33 (Snow Capes)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Erzahl: I rarely critique a Japanese verse or haiku as the form defies my ability to compose or unravel. I usually meld with a poem, try to inhale it, creep deep inside and haiku gives such sparse language with which to work. I've long been an admirer of any poet who can pen these poems but I'm so verbose and succinct rhymes always leave me wanting more. Of course, that's the hallmark of a masterful poem, that the reader wants more of same, but I guess I am recalcitrant to display my ignorance. I find "Snow Capes" a treasured title because I would anticipate snow "scapes" or snow "caps." However, capes cover us, shelter us, much as a blanket does. Ergo, "capes" is very unique, original and pleasing to this reader. "Marshmallow pillows" is a wondrous metaphor and has such euphony in a mere two words. I am a "sound" person so I find the first line lilting and lyrical as a song. The use of the letter L in line 3 enhances the L's in line 1 and the word "nestling" is superb for it suggests not only covering the ground but doing so snugly or comfortably. You adroitly limn a glorious image for me: a combination of clouds and snow creating a fluffy, feathery, soft mantle for the earth. In lieu of feeling cold and colorless, it feels warm and cozy. The second line fascinates me as again, I would expect clouds descending from "heaven" but you have made it "haven" which enhances once more the notion of coziness, a nest of cloud/snow cover. The long O in snow/mallow/pillow is a symphony as is the long A in capes/haven and the assonance in descend/haven adds to the medley of sound. Erzahl, you make it look so easy and I'm well aware of the complexity of the process and that you have that rare master's touch. Congratulations on the accomplishment of this poem...my favorite of all. (I read everything even though I don't comment). Standing ovation! Best wishes, Mell	2003-12-12 15:05:18
Snow * Revised into Rondolets*	Drenda D. Cooper	Drenda: You are really experimenting with form which is quite innovative and a plus. I never recall the rules for rondolets...just that certain lines must be repeated just as the rhyme scheme is preordained. I am critiquing because I love your linguistics herein and not because I have experience with the form. "Soft falling snow White feathers floating to the ground Soft falling snow Til rising winds begin to blow And whirl with wailing mournful sound Flurries of fragile flakes around Soft falling snow." Such euphony abounds in Stanza 1 and you use the F sound richly; and allits of F words in lines 2 and 6. Your metaphor of snow as feathers is perfect as they can be blown and flurried around just as snow. Line 5 is my favorite: "And whirl with wailing mournful sound". The triple allit enhances the symphonic sound but it paints a beautiful picture of the wind's picking up speed and blowing the snow in swirls and eddies. Simply grand, Drenda. "In sunset's glow White feathers floating to the ground In sunset's glow Til rising winds begin to blow And whirl with wailing mournful sound Flurries of fragile flakes around In sunset's glow." Ditto and the addition of the glowing sunset adds another dimension as until now I was imagining an overcast, grey sky. Now I imagine the tints that could be reflected in the mounds of white. The use of "floating" provides subtle assonance with all your other long O sounds...snow/ blow/glow. (I'm always listening for the sounds, as you well know). Read aloud, it sounds like a song and these would be lovely lyrics if you know someone who composes music. For a Southern belle, you limn a beauteous portrait of snow and fragile flakes, whirling flurries, etc. (More assonance). I guess we're on the same wavelength as yesterday I requested a winter poem from you and when I sign on today, here it is. I find it rewarding as a reader for there is a simplicity and purity about the poem that bespeaks the white, snowy environs and as I said, the sounds are music to my ears. Kudos for this accomplished piece and best wishes for its success! A sprig of laurel, Mell	2003-12-11 19:40:12
Cats In Cardboard Boxes	Annette L Cowling	Annette: You are going to tire of my critiques but your poems are appearing at the top of my list...a pleasure for me and I hope my reviews vary and are meaningful in some way. I like the title here and the reader has no notion where this piece might be going. Your structure is quatrains of free verse and I'm certain I've told you before that vers libre is my favorite form. I don't usually care for love poems but this is so distinctly and freshly crafted, I enjoyed it very much. Your talent shines in the three poems I've reviewed. "As I fade off into the slumber of my unconsciousness, Staring at the sliver of light that beams under the door... I realize that you are the sandbar that connects This human island to the last mile of reality." An epiphany in the first stanza with the poet's realization of the meaning of her relationship. Lovely metaphor to describe who he is and what he means to poet. Staring/sliver is appealing. "Like a restless spirit you soundlessly hover over your work, Until you emerge from a reclusive cocoon of creativity. The cats and I are your solitary audience of admirers. ....nice allits... At that moment, the rest of the world is beneath me." You begin with an appropriate simile using allits and segue to a metaphor that he has been pupating and is now butterflying with his creations. I like that you and the cats comprise his audience and you tell us that being with him sparks you to a heightened state, above the rest of the world. I love consonants and my favorite is the hard K sound. Ergo, "reclusive cocoon of creativity" is one of the more musical phrases I've heard. You employ sixteen of the K sounds in S2...a veritable symphony for me. "I love the way the melody of your words fudge together(,) Like melting candle wax, forming an impromptu sculpture. I want to pick your potent words of delicious ripeness(,) .....more allits... And bathe my lipes with the juice that saturates them." First a simile of his words as candle wax then a metaphor that his words are luscious fruit, bursting with savory juices. "And bathe my lips with the juice" is quite sensual and appealing. I like your use of "fudge" here and while I realize it can mean inserting a line or so into a scripted set, it means like melting sweet chocolate to me. I wish I might write a melody of words so sweet, they melt together. "Each night that you read by the lamplight in the next room, I wonder how I ever lived before you graced my existence. I hold tight your lyrical words to me and your spice for life, And the cats (are) curled up in cardboard boxes for the night." Another dimension of the other added: his "spice for life." Whether this is a real person, a figment, a poetic creation, or references to Philip Larkin, your talent for putting words together in a novel, appetizing way is simply grand, Annette. Ending with the cats and thus back to your title seems the quintessential ending and you limn such a snug nest that your wordsmith, you, and your cats share. Caring this deeply for another person is a scary proposition and indicates willingness to take risks with your emotions. It appears to have been a rewarding process for you and that makes for a fine, evocative poem. I continue to be quite impressed by your poetic talent and hope you will stay at TPL so we may benefit from your creativity. Kudos for yet another finely-crafted poem which pleased and delighted my senses. Brava! Mell	2003-12-04 18:52:23
Winter Night	Debbie L Fischer	Debbie: I greatly miss your presence on TPL, both the joy of your poetry and of your critiques. I spend less time now due to health problems just as some other members have had to do. Anyway, the title of your nonet suggests a cold evening when everyone should be safe and sheltered. "Frost-tipped windows; wind howling fiercely. Cuddled hearthside, scent of candles, background (music) softly plays," Your imagery is great as always. "Frost-tipped" is unique and crisp and window/wind play nicely together. Only you would write "cuddled hearthside" which is exquisite. I love candles burning, especially in the winter, and buy my favorite scents all year long. Then, of course, there has to be music to complete the scene and the modifier "background" suggests something mellow and romantic. In your revision, you picked up on one syllable too many in line 3, and fixed it accordingly. "blending in unison with each tender touch. Entwined bodies together as one soul." Now you limn a romantic picture which was presaged by "cuddled" and soft music playing. You tell the reader that the music blends "in unison" with the caresses of the couple. Nice allits in "tender/touch/together". "Entwined" is another Debbieism which is perfect for the scene of the cuddled pair as they softly hold and touch each other. Your ending: "together as one soul" is beautiful. Again, your prior reference to "unison" segues wonderfully to "one soul." This is a lovely, lyrical poem that should appeal to all readers. What is more enchanting than lying in love with your significant other in front of the fireplace while the night is cold and the wind howls with force? Your linguistics is ideal for the poem and evokes emotion in this reader as I'm certain it will resonate with others. You meet the criteria of the nonet form which I hope you will continue to use as it feels like a perfect structure for your writing. You've always written short poems that say a great deal with a dearth of words. Kudos for this accomplishment, best wishes for its success, and please keep posting when you can! Brava! Mell Morris	2003-12-02 15:47:08
Day At The Beach	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: A month would not be complete if I didn't get to critique one of your poems. This one finally came near the top of my list. You have developed a flair, a distinctive style in your last poems that I think I would recognize it as yours. Your descriptors, the imagery inherent in every piece, get better and better. "Ribbons of exuberant waves splash and spill on sandy soil. Beyond crested caves, atop the glassy ocean, sun's rays sprinkle a path (of) sparkling diamonds." Where do I start? Your metaphor of waves as ribbons is excellent and "exuberant" is a fresh image that delighted me. Your allits: splash/spill/sandy/soil and crested/caves lend a lilting air to the poem so it sounds tuneful, especially aloud. I like "glassy" and the sun sprinkling sparkling diamonds is unique and charming. You have sixteen sibilant words in Stanza 1 which contribute to the sound of the sea, waves splashing, etc. "Terns with webbed feet, knobby knees, and pointed beaks saunter past my beach chair. Some stop to stare with imploring, unblinking eyes, mooching a meal." I did not know that terns have webbed feet but your depiction of the bird "sauntering" past your chair, then pausing to plead for food is simply wonderful. I can see this scene vividly. I also like "knobby knees". "Streamlined cranes soar above the ocean's lid. In an unparalled acrobatic feat, their bodies become (arrows) that spear ocean's cover." The word "streamlined" is magical and the metaphor of the ocean being a container of water which the cranes pierce as they dive paints a grand picture. I find your metaphor unique and crisp...one I've never encountered before. "As I gaze across this gigantic water expanse, my heart is heavy with tears. Beyond the horiz(o)n (and) around the corners is a war-ripped world with hordes of humanity who cannot see this calm and tranquil day at the beach." I was surprised at the twist of your heart's being filled with tears in face of all the ocean's beauty. When you segue to the explication of your sadness, it impacts with force. That you take this scene of beauty and remember the horror of the rest of the world bespeaks a caring, loving heart and provides a wondrous epiphany at the close of your poem. Setting those lines apart is efficacious, IMO. I don't know what I might add to help your poem as it is lovely as it is. I adore nature poems with new images and you have accomplished same. However, to deliver an epiphany at the poem's end is the magical and symbolic purpose of poetry. I am applauding this poem, giving a standing (wobbled) ovation. Brava, Marilyn! Best always, Mell	2003-12-01 16:39:28
Mirrors Have Memories	Annette L Cowling	Annette: This is a lovely poem with a fascinating concept and one which I've never encountered before which makes it crisp and unique. This is basic free verse with some end rhymes, especially with the long O sound and a nice slant rhyme of seen/dreams. (I love slant rhymes). I will make a suggestion that I learned from a masterful poet: Never weaken your first line by using it as the title. So many of the masters' poems do exactly that but usually because the poets left their work untitled and editors or publishers placed the first line as the title. Whether you name it "Reflections" or "Imagery Memory" or a plethora of possibilities, save the wondrous phrase for the first line. "Maybe mirrors have memories .....exquisite... And I should toss you out. I'm not sure what you have (all) seen, Maybe deaths and broken dreams. Your vintage charm from long ago Must be what attracted me so." The mirror has witnessed all the bad times and by ousting it, you relieve yourself of the terrible memories. This notion carries great mystical depth for me. You mention "deaths and broken dreams", certainly painful events in the poet/narrator's life. I find the idea pleasing of the mirror's having vintage charm...this paints a picture in my brain of an old, antique mirror with elaborate framing, maybe scrollwork or curliques, etc. Even ready and poised to toss it out, you recall your initial attraction to the mirror. "But what sadness has gathered Like moss over ancient stones, And stares back at me When I am the most alone? I never underestimate the power ....great enjambment... Of sadness, and its insane hold on me. Maybe mirrors have memories." Very nice simile of sadness as moss on stones. The sad feelings, you tell us, occur from your mirror glance when you are "most alone" and that is a profound and realistic observation. Your entire poem is replete with the theme of sadness and you enhance that notion with the phrase: "I never underestimate the power of sadness and its insane hold on me." Many, many readers can relate to this. You end with the reiteration of the beginning line which is quite effective. This is an accomplished, deftly-penned poem which has enormous appeal for the reader (or for this one). There are twenty-four sibilant sounds...Sssssss....which provide euphony for my ears. The susurrant sounds are reminiscent of soft sighing, crying, and whispers of sadness. I have read this poem many, many times until it came up on my list and it has not lost its initial appeal or charm. That is indicative of a wonderful piece...that it retains its impact through repeated perusal. (It also pleases when read aloud). I hope you do not feel offended at suggestions but I like to offer options when I see them and also, I think the poem is nearly ready for publication. I would send it to a literary journal because it is of that ilk and albeit there is little if any remuneration, it is prestigious to be published therein. My best wishes for its success and I continue to be impressed with your poetic vision and subsequent delivery. Brava! Mell Morris	2003-11-30 15:54:14
The File	C Arrownut	C.A.: I likely will interpret incorrectly your import herein as I am quite reclusive and eschew the news because of its totally depressive affect. This poem may refer to something that has happened recently under the guiding hands of Dubya but I will give my impressions because I find your piece intriguing. "Got one? Better get one. It's the thing to do." Great opening to hook the reader who wants to know got what? It is also a play to American consumerism in that people will flock to acquire whatever is the "in" thing. "Gauge your success by the nose of those beady-eyed people in black wingtips." Nice internal rhyme of nose/those and the imagery is great..."beady-eyed" and "black wingtips." These are surely the bad guys, smacking of government officials. "How else to know if your quips burned the brains of the polyester set, dug deep into their diaphragms right to their slimy spines." Nice allits here enhance your delivery: burned/brains and dug/deep/diaphragms and slimy/spines. "The polyester set" is (again) grand imagery with which to portray these wingtippers. I would certainly aspire to write quips to inflame membranes in the frontal lobes of these guys depicted in your poem. It would seemingly require some rather heady material to dig into diaphragms to the spinal region but if they are polyester wingtippers, perhaps not. Perhaps simple things they misinterpret would serve as effectively. "Keep that CIA computer grinding and growling over your metaphors." Again, your linguistics serves you well and your word choices add such cachet to your piece. "Grinding/growling" sound nice aloud as do the long O sounds in over/metaphor. The giveaway here is that the "files" are those the CIA maintain on some of the most innocuous people in the world. What a waste of money and shades of the blacklist era! When I think how many people were harmed by J.E. Hoover at the FBI while his scurrilous private life went unrecorded, it makes me ill. "Who's Who, only a dream without that file. Got one? Better get one. It's the thing to do." I suppose I always will remain a dream. Very efficacious ending with the reiteration of the first stanza, bringing the poem full circle. I find this cynical as we should be, considering all we have witnessed of the misuse of power by those in high places. If I have understood your meaning, this is an important poem, reminding all of us that the most innocent remark can be used to take you out...if you have a file with the CIA. And with the amount of data we feed into cyber space, we all may have a "file." We have had sundry poems about governmental missteps, the travesty of war...ad infinitum. Perhaps some of our TPL poets are being scrutinized as we speak. Nothing would surprise me in the times in which we live. I do thank you for posting a most thought-provoking and enjoyable poem and I hope you will tell me how wide of the mark I may be. Best wishes for your success, Mell Morris	2003-11-24 18:59:54
Border Clash	Thomas Edward Wright	T.: This is brief but I have to comment on this lovely jewel; "my bones turn to dark emeralds." I interpret your poem as another tribute to James Wright and it is as fine and layered as some of his best. My problem being: I haven't read him sufficiently to understand everything. "Under the careful eye of the Hawk", symbol of predator or perhaps sharing prey? The two of you head northward, away from the tortured scape of Iowa. The maroon coupe is lost to me unless you refer to the color of dried blood as the poem suggests the theme of war (but not the traditional ones). The silos of Iowa are reminiscent of the "charred silos" and also hint of missile possibilities. You add a seasonal border as well, that of November which you depict as "hung-over, pregnant with her first snow, threatens". Nothing short of exquisite. And I think of Wright's "Late November in a Field". The seared, blackened landscape of Iowa suggests the remnants of a battlefield or "I am lost in the beautiful white ruins of America." The poet/narrator feels happy as he passes the border, clashes left behind, and nears home. Your ending couplet: "The blood of war dries slowly. Scars repair; yet remain and remind." Simply wonderful, T. Such abundant wisdom in those words...wherever or whatever the war... the scars are still there to remind us. "I wish to God I had made this world, this scurvy and disastrous place." Ojala! Sorry this is rushed...matters beyond my control...and I may have missed your import by a mile but I enormously enjoyed the trip. Bravo! Mell	2003-11-18 20:58:19
Birth Right	Ken Dauth	Ken: I like your title and theme, and stanzaic free verse seems to serve as the fitting structure for your poem. I'm not going to scan this piece for poetic devices...I'd rather unravel the meaning. "We carried the sword of a father's will The overbearing weight of years and sins Walked the sandy outline Straight and proud; we were so young." I like your word choices herein to convey a young man's call to battle and his reaction...carrying on the tradition with which he has been raised and taught. The sins of the fathers visited upon the young who are too immature to think "out of the box" but follow the rules instilled in them. The phrases: "sword of a father's will"....overbearing weight"... "we were so young"...tell the reader about the burden we place on our young boys to fulfill the expectations that they march to war. "Freshly taught in scripted nobility, We were told we were right, knew it by heart, Pledged allegiance since we could talk: Blue eyed fair skins picked to lead the world." You deftly capture the indoctrination heaped upon the young with pledging allegiance since you could talk, being told you were right, that it was your birth right to lead the country. I especially like the phrase: "scripted nobility." I find your linguistics perfect for your portrayal of what has always occurred in our society and applaud the profundity of your message. "Yet others of color and faith lay down Choice made on the choices chosen Without facts, Less than one sided...no sided...miss guidance." This stanza describes our view of any perceived to be an enemy of our nation. I assume you add this from the perspective of the immature youth, in keeping with the theme of your piece. Your phrasing of: "one sided...no sided...miss guidance" is efficacious. "Off we went, and we were young, To sail away and march far lands again; Tell the tale and wave the flag .....exquisite.... While we were so (very) young." This is the ideal ending and your insertion of "again" after far lands says to me that we've been there before but never learn from history. Your third line is as I marked it...exquisite... but I suggest the deletion of the adverb "very" as you do not need two adverbs to modify young in the final line. It is a play back to the first stanza so it brings the poem full circle, as it were. Did you consider in S4, line 1: "Off we went, and we were "not yet men"? It came to my mind as an option to keep your final line pure and pristine and not repetitive. I said I was not going to delineate poetic devices but it fascinates me that you have twenty-three W words in your piece. When read aloud, the sounds of those W's thrum like the notion and motion of war. Ken, I think this is a fine piece of writing, evocative, TIC at times, well-paced, and casts light on a topic needing the illumination. I enjoyed it and it made my brain work, which is most appealing. Kudos and best wishes for this poem which cries for publication. Best, Mell	2003-11-18 17:08:01
Finding Hope	Rick Barnes	Rick: I just answered your critique with the words that I hoped to see one of your poems soon and voila! Your title is irresistible for who is not searching for hope? I really like the metaphor of leaf-stripped tree as hope for birds who will not seek southern climes for the winter. As always, you say a great deal with an economy of words. "Configured as they are, Breaking the ash gray sky Into fractal jigsaw pieces, Bare trees hold that heavy November scape in their outstretched Dormant and barren arms." What a great opening line: "Configured as they are" and then the personification of tree breaking the sky into jigsaw pieces. "Ash gray" is a fine descriptor and November's scape defined as "heavy" is exquisite. Your word "outstretched" stretches out of the structure...how do you do these wonderfully creative things? Your linguistics also shines with "dormant and barren". "This what hope looks like, ...nice allits... After the harvest, To northern birds Preparing to stay the winter." You have employed some wondrous devices to enhance the harmony of your poem: seven hard K sounds make me want to dance (not easy with my discs), internal rhymes of gray/stay and so many instances of assonance, I cannot list all. Bare/barren/preparing has the nice repetitive "barren" and your last three lines include the assonance of aftER/northERn/bIRds/wintER. A true symphony for this "sound" person's ears. Your poem also has the message for me that if birds can find hope in bare trees, we ought to be able to find hope in myriad places as we abound in nature's beauty. Ah, the glory of your writing in that many diverse interpretations may be made and it gives a plethora of riches, no matter the import. It also says to me that there is value in staying with your "roots" as the northern birds remain in their homeland in lieu of migrating. They are not flock followers but independent in behavior. I am tiring but I could go on and on as your nature poems are packed with imagery and meaning rarely found. This is a gem, Rick, and I speak the truth. Kudos and I hope it does well in the contest although I know you don't care about same. (It will be on my list.) Best, Mell-o	2003-11-16 14:11:13
Gerald O'Reilly	Leo Wilder	Leo: Great to find one of your rare offerings on my list and what an offering it is! A powerful, evocative poem with the theme of child molestation by priests, a very difficult subject but you delivered it masterfully. I like the title taken from the doomed protaganist and I like the structure of tercets and couplets with end rhymes. This piece hits hard, perhaps because I was raised Catholic and personally acquainted with one molesting priest who is spending his life in prison. "Forsaken, ravaged children, Forsaken, ravaged children." Powerful opening and the reiteration is effective. "Gerald O'Reilly fondles himself as he lies in the dark on his bed, gun to his head, flickering candles, silently dancing on crosses affixed to the walls, the hammer falls." A suicide by an Irish man, lying in the dark with flickering tapers highlighting the crosses on the walls. At first, the "fondles himself" threw me but as I digested what had occurred to him, it feels appropriate. "Gun to his head" and "the hammer falls" pack a punch I rarely see in poetry. Well done. You make efficacious use of the F sound in these two stanzas; I think Brenda calls it fricative. "Forsaken, ravaged children, someone must take the blame. Forsaken, ravaged children, to rescue no one came." This semi-repetition of your opening works well here and you add the words of tragedy: someone to blame, no rescue came. Very, very sad and a travesty. "Father Loquacious, teaching young Arthur the joys of pure fatherly love, in the vestry above, touching young Arthur in ways he touched Gerald those days not so long ago, no one will know." Clever name for the priest..it made me think of Father Lubricious but that is too obvious. Very effective way you segue to the priest's current activity and how it relates back to Gerald. And Father Loquacious still has not been stopped! I would delete the next couplet to make the ending harder hitting. (Good grief, how could it be more gut-wrenching?) However, I still think the couplet should go. "Gerald O'Reilly, denied last communion and placed in unholy ground, no salvation found, Father Loquacious, saved by the silence of lives he profoundly changed: dead or deranged." Ah, the old ruling about suicide victims unworthy to be interred in sanctified ground while Father's lust runs rampant with no one brave (at that age!) to bring him to account. Ironic but tragic. I haven't been commenting much on your poetics as the theme is overwhelming but you make good use of ground/found/profoundly. I marked on my printed copy all the instances of assonance (considerable) but haven't mentioned same. "Forsaken, ravaged children, someone must take the blame. Forsaken, ravaged children, to rescue no one came. See the forsaken, ravaged children. See the forsaken, ravaged children." The ineluctable ending, the reiteration effective and plaintive. Sad, sad! You have done a truly outstanding job with a subject that needs to be heard, continually splashed across the headlines, and you give us the tragic suicide of one of the victims to bring the point home. The stanzas about the children tear at my heart and soul with the awful fact that this is reality. I will not forget this poem any time soon and I give your poem a ***** rating. It deserves high marks and from me...Bravo! Best, Mell Morris	2003-11-14 15:26:31
acrostic 1 (Wishful Thinking)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Erzahl: This is a charming acrostic presented in statement pattern which seems new and crisp and unique. It is a profound, one-stanza free verse with deep import while appearing deceptively simple at first glance. "We intend seeing hidden fantasies Unless life turns hope Into numerous keys Identifying neglected gates." I am reminded of the old aphorism: "Be careful for what you wish...". In your mystical, magical piece, we are wishing for secluded objects of our imagination but fate sometimes makes our lives into "keys" for opening gates we have overlooked or abandoned. The metaphor of wishes as keys for identifying gates is perfect herein. You seem to imply that destiny is smarter than we are, doling out perhaps what we need in lieu of what we want. This poem is open to sundry interpretations which is part of its appeal in a metaphysical sense. For me, for some inexplicable reason, it reminds me of "The Road Not Taken" by Frost. He, of course, is the master of symbolism and I think you have achieved same in "Wishful Thinking". You use assonance effectively: we/seeing/fantasies/keys/neglected and there are a number of other examples that I marked on my printed copy but we both know where they are. I bow to your ear for euphony. Erzahl, I enormously enjoyed another display of your talent which enriches TPL. My gratitude for your posting it for our reading pleasure and best wishes for you and your poem. (Another winner). Mell Morris	2003-11-13 13:43:05
The Boarder	Annette L Cowling	Annette: This is the first poem of yours I've seen. If you are new, welcome; if I have missed you before, it was my loss. This is a poignant, deftly- written piece which will stay with me long after today. It is haunting, plangent, and your word choices and style are breaths of fresh air. "The curtain moves slightly on the window, As the taxi departs down the winding road, Carrying...the boarder." The use of ellipsis before "boarder" makes the character more significant. Someone is apparently watching from the window and this first stanza is a "hook" as the reader wants to know who he is and who is observing. The assonance of slightly/taxi and window/road is harmonious. "He had the momentary figment of a life, Distantly part of her own fragile existence. He often lingered in the kitchen after dinner, With refined stories laced with detachment." The observer is a delicate lady to whom the boarder was important..at arms' length. Your linguistics in "figment of a life" and "laced with detachment" is superb. Good use of the fricative F sounds and life/lingered/ laced caress the reader's ears. "The book closed long ago Was marked at a new page, Because of...the boarder." Fitting metaphor that her life was a closed book due to past hurts (I assume) until...the boarder reopens the tome. Stanza 3 is set apart for emphasis which tells me this is vital to the import of the poem. "Her lip quivered slightly and her hands Remained tucked in the pockets of her pinafore, As she made a nonchalant comment about a storm coming. Wide white sheets whipped frantically (In) the summers wind turned wicked, like Uncontrolled outbursts of temper tantrums." I cannot point out each poetic device used as there are too many. You continue masterful assonance and the allits: pockets/pinafore and wide/white/whipped/wind/wicked and temper/tantrum, are spot on. (IMO, tantrum is not necessary but has a nice sound here). The heroine pretends indifferece to ...the boarder's departure but her trembling lips and hidden hands (undoubtedly temulous) betray her feelings. Your simile in stanza 5 is grand! And what could be more perfect for the poem's denouement than a storm? As the one raging inside her fragile being. "And the chalk games of the neighbor's children, Went streaming with the rain down the sidewalk, Taking with it any remnants of...the boarder." The quintessential ending to your poem..the storm clears the air, washing away traces of the man who brought hurt again to our heroine. But does it really? I think not, from your depiction of the fragile woman whose book has been opened after gathering dust for decades. S6 utilizes the rhyme of chalk/walk and the wondrous assonance as seen throughout the poem. In six stanzas, you have seventeen hard K sounds, my favorite consonant sound; ergo, your poem plays a symphony to my ears. Your female character is reminiscent of Emily Dickinson for whatever reason and likely no other poet would think that. Your poem is certainly as lyrical as some of hers (huge compliment rarely paid) and reading "The Boarder" has made my Sunday afternoon an enjoyable one. Thank you for posting such evocative fare (of enormous impact for me.) Kudos and standing ovation! Encore! Best, Mell Morris	2003-11-09 16:05:16
From Night to Morning	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: Much more than "just a thought." I believe you are reading Greek mythology as this is the second poem of yours replete with goddesses of same. I realize this is an 11th hour critique but your words caught my imagination and I wanted to comment. Your continual growth as a poet is stunning. Now you use so many diverse styles and themes, I'm not sure I'd recognize one of your pieces without your name attached. (A compliment). I don't believe you need "From" in the title as the idea would be conveyed without the preposition. "When heaven's web spins Luna's soft galaxy hands Weave a star-bright path." Nice internal rhyme of when/spin and pleasing assonance in galaxy/ weave. The personification of the goddess as weaver of starred paths is unique and original. "The depth of her touch gives Glimmer to the Milky Way." Nice allits with gives/glimmer with the continued personification of Luna's touching galaxies and causing more brightening. Again, Marilyn, crisp and fresh imagery. "As Aurora creeps above Mountaintops sun's zenith Warms and illumes the day." I especially like the word usage "illumes" and "day" in S3 does a back-rhyme with "way" in S2. Your allits: as/Aurora/above are contagious and your long E assonance in creeps/zenith/the are euphonic for this sound person here. A satisfying read, giving a new perspective on sunrise and the rising of the moon. A bit more attention given to moon than to sun which is great as who can resist Luna's spell? All my crits are brief (you know the reason) but I had to say how much I enjoyed your poem before the month officially ends. Kudos and kindest regards from Mell	2003-11-07 18:39:50
Drought	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: What a stunning, marvelous display of poetic prowess! I was attracted by the title (and the poet's name) because I have endured several droughts in Texas and there's little to compare with lack of water. One of my friends, Elmer Kelton, wrote a wondrous book, "The Time It Never Rained" and it remains my favorite of all his books. My father enjoyed the book so much and it was gratifying (after his death) to tell Elmer how much my father had enjoyed his writing. I certainly divagated but the theme has a great deal of personal meaning for me. Your format of couplets in free verse is eye-appealing and were I to cite every poetic device, it would require reams of paper. "Ecru grass crackles neath my feet, arid desolation saddens the green Where gardens smiled. A ruthless sun suspended in cloudless sky scorches earth as weeds Wilt in shapeless ruin." Grand opening. "Ecru grass crackles" provide the loveliest sounds and the personification of gardens works well. Eleven sibilant sounds grace the second couplet along with "sun suspended" and "sky scorches"...three perfect allits when "weeds wilt" is added. "Water-robbing winds moan amidst leaves as the rosy blush Of life flees. Ebon and ocher pansy faces frown at the Danu of death, roots grab (The) glebe with idle grit." Simply incredible imagery here...the moaning of the wind as it deprives the greenery of its water and the rosy blush of life departs. I especially like "ebon and ocher" and your allits continue with faces/frown (another personification of pansies) Danu/death and grab/glebe/grit. "Of death" seems redundant as Danu is goddess of death. Minor and picky. "*Peachy poppies* with hunched *backs bear* down to yield *birth* of their seeds To an expectant garden. Marigolds *still standing stare skyward* defying Helios with his inflamed ire. Scourged by drought, The ravaged ground splits and cracks as my barren herbage feebly awaits Winter's cape of snow." I particularly like the word choice "expectant" to modify garden as it receives seeds of the poppies. Then you end with the seasons cycling to bring moisture of winter snow and so forth. I haven't mentioned assonance, internal rhymes, etc, as there is a plethora of same. I enormously enjoyed this poem, Marilyn; your best extant. I remember when I used to noodle around with your work...my friend, you do not need any tinkering at this stage of your poetry writing. I am in awe of what you accomplished in "Drought" and wish you the best with it. Clearly a winner. Congrats, brava, and kudos. Best always, Mell	2003-10-31 15:15:57
Pigtails	Jordan Brendez Bandojo	Jordan: My first attempt to critique one of your poems and what a joyous treasure it is! You have taken the greatest love story ever penned and made it your own, Romeo. Your linguistics impresses me, your over-all word choices are delightful, and there is a freshness and novelty to your work for which I always search. I can delineate every instance of alliteration, assonance...every poetic device employed...and that would entail pages as your poem is rife with same. "My initial impulse was to ken her name when I squinted (at) her stellar figure in the foyer. Time has scheduled our tryst in the archives of astronomy" To describe her figure as "stellar" is brilliant and that your tryst is arranged for the "archives of astronomy" is that special touch/detail that gives the reader an intellectual aha! and brings the poem to throbbing life. Your allits are appealing, the assonance enhances the delivery, especially when recited aloud. "I piped at her effulgent eyes Pleiades bedecked her ethereal pigtails Dangling in the constellation Taurus Enticing me as her moon grinned Artemis makes sheep's eyes." It's nice to see "effulgent" as I rarely see the word...good for you! With those resplendent eyes, when you detail her "pigtails", it gives the warmest feeling toward this stellar goddess you've found, at least to this reader. Her "moon grinned" is charming and the notion of the goddess of the hunt making sheep's eyes is original and vibrant. "In moments of pertubation I've perused Shakespeare's best Still hearkening the kinetic palpitation Snatching her reflection in a hush 'Til I lately noticed The buzzer just whirred She had shuffled off to class Shoving off her starry snapshots... Yet Cupid romantically bruited I'm still eyeing Juliet in pigtails." This is delicious. The utilization of the P's as you wisely rush to the bard when you are bumfuzzled and the phrase "kinetic palpitation" is something I wish I had written. Exquisite. So, dear Romeo, as she casts aside the starry snapshots and proceeds to her ensuing class, you're still squinting at your stellar Juliet. This makes for the quintessential ending to your piece. I find thirty-eight sibilant, susurrant sounds which lends a romantic rustle or whisper to the poem. Highly efficacious and euphonic for me. I find nothing I would change (other than tiny things like in the 2nd line) and the merits of the poem are easily seen and enjoyed. I look forward to seeing further poems you've written as you are obviously gifted with a poetic talent. I enjoyed (tremendously) "Pigtails" and I wish you the best with it. Bravo and kudos! Mell Morris	2003-10-30 19:26:11
Point of Reference	Thomas H. Smihula	Thomas: I critiqued this yesterday and lost it in cyber space and I know I cannot recapture the freshness of what I said then but you know how much I enjoy your poetry...so here's an abbreviated version. Once again, you enter the metaphysical realm which makes my brain toil but the process is enjoyable as I like poetry that makes me think. The title seems fitting for the singular aspect lacking in the maze is a point of reference. The poem grabs the reader's attention and then spins him around, turns him upside down, until the reader feels he's in a carnival funhouse with defective mirrors. "Enter this maze of reflection turn in another direction finding your way. Likeness is found revolving around Now a piece of the riddle" Nice pacing, spot-on rhymes, and suggests several possibilities to me. The person is lost in a labyrinth of thought and musing or exploring the subconscious, perhaps. Whatever the maze signifies, the person is in the midst, with no bearings, no sense of direction, no map, no compass. "Think you know lacking the whole part of the puzzle Knowing no fear Not shedding a tear unable to find a bearing." I find stanza 3 to be significant, indeed the core of the situation. It seems to indicate that arrogance is the major error/sin one might commit in the maze...those persons who think they know it all, can solve any puzzle, and overestimate their talent. "knowing your plight one might have sight the final part of the set Facing reality Enter totality here is the way... Through the Maze." The lost person in the maze is saved by divine intervention or the poet's pity after setting certain parameters. First, cut the prentensions and shams and once and for all, face reality. Second, enter the experience in toto, nothing held back, no part-of-the-way committment but a totality of purpose. When these conditions are met, the way out of the maze is shown. This is akin to a rewrite of Adam and Eve and/or numerous historical events. Only through honesty and acceptance will the clear path be revealed to us. I may be way off in my interpretation but knowing your vast writing talent and your penchant for taking readers on mystical journeys, IMO, you have succeeded again. I enormously enjoyed this poem and am grateful you posted as my gray matter needs exercise and I can always count on you for same. Keep up the grand writing and critiques (albeit no one has time for multiple critiques) as both are precious to me. Bravo! Best, Mell	2003-10-29 14:57:27
For The Sake Of All Lovers Lost To This	Rick Barnes	Rick: You are a genius with your titles...this one is perfect for this jewel of a poem. What can I say? You are praising me while this is posted? It is romantic with a flavor of longing and poignance which reveals the soul of the poet. Other words that come to mind are plaintive and plangent. In other words, I feel your yearning to my bones. "It doesn't only come down to you and (me). There are violins guiding our every move .....inspired phrase..... And the aromas of myths we live by Fill(s) our lungs in passionate breaths We have no choice but to breathe." As mammals, we are forced to inflate our lungs but you say with the aroma of myths. Quite original thinking. From the 1st line, you allude to the concept being universal, not pertinent to only you and yours but you yearn for it to have emanated from your two hearts in thrall. "Oh, how I wish" is powerful, wistful, seeking. I like the reiteration. You want your destiny belonging to powers of desire and wish granting. And your final longing...burn a fire with passionate flame that your loves are afire and the source of the conflagrtion your souls. This flaming romantic poem reads as smoothly as a psalm and makes me realize in my deepest spirit that I have never loved like this. Such unmitigated passion! How I have missed out on such a part of life! Rick, the poem is truly beauteous and I haven't done it justice. I'm not capable right now and may never be since the feelings are so foreign to me (in a romantic relationship.) I'll just sigh and weep a few wee tears for such beauty in your world which you brought to ours. Bravo! Mell	2003-10-23 17:13:09
japanese verse 27 (Will)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Erzahl: You have done multiple etailed and lovely analyses of my poetry and here I sit, staring at seventeen syllables...speechless. In my writing, I am distinctly verbose, in yours, a paucity of words is employed to convey an import. This haiku is titled "Will" and I think of volition, of mental powers of desiring or choosing, and the power of control over one's actions or emotions. You tell us will is universal, applicable to all beings, and that it is a drive to live free and survive. (Nice rhyme of drive/survive). I think herein you have limnd the heart of the matter...that element most vital to man...to live free and survive the process...under no other dominion than his own. And you conclude that this drive or force of will knows no boundaries. Simple but profound. I relate totally to what you write, as most thinking beings will agree. History proves you correct...all the incidents of men striving for freedom, to fight off anyone's imposition of his will over man's. I am thunderstruck by your genuine poetic genius. Your grace in delivery, your sharing this gift with TPL, and the enormous contribution of your critiques. It was a fortunate day when you found TPL....for its members. Congrats on another beautiful poem, a winner, and I wish you the best luck with it. Bravo! Mell	2003-10-23 12:17:43
An Act of Fate	stephen g skipper	Steve: I find this poem the most moving of all you have written about your wife's illness. I'm pleased you are moving to the acceptance stage but the grief and pain are still within every line. Your talent for writing evocative poems, bringing the feelings to the reader, seems to get stronger with each piece you pen. I like the title as you seem to be saying that fate brought the two of you together and now you must accept that fate will take her away. Especially touching is: "Now we wait, For a simple act of faith." The next two stanzas breathe beauty: "A new dawn, In all its glorious Robes of radiant lights. For us to share. Walk with me, A little while longer, Together on a path, Edged with golden years." Lovely alliterative "robes of radiance" and the tender "Walk with me" and that magical, mystical word TOGETHER. "Hand in hand through the night where, when I know not, but I will stand, with you my beloved To the end of time." I'm too emotional to say much but you must give your wife enormous comfort in being with her. Steve, I don't say this lightly but these words of love and strength for your wife are superior to the Brownings' love letters and I can think of no higher praise than that. Stay strong for her, take care of yourself, and please continue to post your exquisite poetry so we may share. Thank you very much. (Powerful doesn't come close.) Best always, Mell	2003-10-22 18:21:15
Two Diamantes	Joanne M Uppendahl	LL: Remeber that I am weak, dizzy, foggy so my review will be brief and hopefully make sense. First, I am unfamiliar with your form, never having seen it before, and the notes help a great deal. Per the criteria you delineate, yours meet the rules. So why review when I'm ignorant and sick? I (as usual) am enchanted by your linguistics. I assume the three -ing verbs in line 4 ar for NOUN-B. I like the use of Noun-A in the first diamante being Noun-B in the second diamante. Seems to pair them well and the reiteration is pleasing. Also, mountain and snow and cloud are ultra harmonious. S1: wondrous use of sound thru nine susurrant words and four hard K's....then three lines of alliteration. Altho 50% of poets will tell you not to utilize "twist" twice, I like the way it rolls off my tongue. Only the Queen of Assonance would use "fractal" which is perfect and enhances "fragmenting" and "freezing." Then all those sounds which won you the throne:tur/flur and bus/lusand frag/frac etc, etc. Simply magical. S2: the first modifier is the best..."solemn". Additional alliteration in lines 3 and 6. The verb selection in diamante 2 is so right-on-the-nose with my favorite..."pillowing." "Spongy and supple" are not ordinary and sponge made me think about which ways that word applies to cloud, duh. Soaks up water and squeezes it out in rain. Dearest LL, I'm close to pulling the plug on my critique as words literally fail me. I'm not saying what I want nor saying anything adroitly. But if I send this on, you will at least know that I read, enjoyed, and love your writing here. I'm grateful for the use of a variant form and explicaton of same. Your achievement of comparison of two diverse things via analysis of each is further testimony to your gift and talent in writing. I personally believe you could write ad copy, instructions on a seed packet, the G.A.N. and win the Pulitzer for poetry. This is not idle chatter, my friend, but reality for me. Enjoyed this as I devour any poem with your name attached. You get better and better and your spiritual journey vibrates thru your words. My best wishes for the success of the poem and for your creativity to continue at this level...and higher. Laurel wreath to HRH, Your loyal subject Nekk	2003-10-20 17:15:21
In Search Of The God Particle	Drenda D. Cooper	Drenda: Brief...weak, sleepy, foggy...but must comment on the finest poem in your oeuvre, extant. A masterpiece of construction and theme. I posted a poem a coupla years ago, "A Feast of Fermions", and your review was a rhyme about mesons, among other comments. So your theme here is close to my heart. You are ahead of me...I'm unfamiliar with "Higgs boson"...but you make the import clear. You adorn your piece with delectable rhymes, many internal. "Akin to mystical, for those who think inside the box of three-dimensional." Five stars *****. ',,,,smash particles....minds hover over hoping to uncover miniscule articles of their faith." EXQUISITE. You say they need proof...."For fellow scientists the need arises from competition for Nobel prizes." With each phrase, you surpass yourself in a new revelatory descriptor. Your final stanza puts the piece in perspective....no longer a search for the divine, rather the discoveries of nano-particles heretofore unseen. Physicists have always "pushed the envelope"...Hawking is my favorite pusher...."destined to grope for the core of that which has no beginning, no end." Wish I were sufficiently strong to do a line-by-line scan but listen to one thing, please: do not change this poem under any circumstances and I hope you realize how worthy, excellent, and purely astounding this poem is. The most astute and clever poem to be posted on TPL in many, many moons! You have knocked my socks off, girl. This is my kind of poem, my cup of tea; it speaks to my mind and spirit in a rarely-occurring way. Bless you for bringing me this joy while I am still so ill! Brava! Kudos! Laurel wreath! Mell	2003-10-19 16:17:29
Straight At It	Rick Barnes	Rick-o: Nearly at the end of September choices and something feels amiss in Mell's head. (Not an unusual occurence). Voila! I realized I hadn't reviewed any of Rick's poems. When I read this, I fell in love all over again....like the time I read about the man and the river. (River Song?) This is about as close to perfection as a poet can get. Your form, meter, rhyme... all the technical aspects....are 100% perfect. Then, the theme. I greatly admire and always try to be a straight-at-it person. People who are passive- agressive or have an agenda drive me insane. "Straight at it. You don't have to take aim, ....says much with a dearth of words..... you simply go straight at it in exactly the same way you have lived you life thus far." I like your philosophy and how you approach life. Shoot from the hip, I always say. "All of the voices of your past choices call out to you from where (they?) are simply saying, go straight at it and know that right and wrong are a matter of vision, your view of these things becomes your decision, and your vista was chosen a lone time ago. So, now it is time to simply go, straight at it." This is exquisite to the end line. You even have the endorsements of your past actions and supposedly the persons involved. I agree that "right and wrong are a matter of vision" and I really like the use of vision, view, vista. I find nothing to criticize, places to offer suggestions, words or comments for change. You have left me speechless. If the contest were just, I think you said in one of your crits; it's not and it's sad that this is not the #1 poem. I mean this truly, my friend. A laurel wreath, Mell-o	2003-10-04 17:07:52
A Hope For A Thousand Tommorrows	stephen g skipper	Stephen: This poem feels as if it were written with blood, spoken from the depths of your spirit, and I am quite moved by your evocative powers. "I get downhearted Sometimes." I like the informal way you begin, like you are chatting with the reader, and that draws me in for a closer look. "I forget about the ones That I have trusted With my limited love And foreshortened understanding." This is profound. A self-revelation and "limited love" and "foreshortened understanding" are exquisite phrases. "The ones, With all my todays and (tomorrows) In their hands. What is true As long as blood flows." It's difficult to put your trust in others when you are a person of action. Sometimes there's nothing we can do but trust and hope. The action is removed from our capabilities. The ensuing lines delineate your feelings of love, desire, and belief for your beloved. Very tenderly stated. "I know that you will not cross the river now, Not today. No, not today." This gives you more times, opportunities to right the wrongs, so to speak. You write with such feeling which I cannot duplicate in my exegesis. "Then shall my heart be lifted. Above clouds in clear blue skies And we shall fly, you and I, Like starstruck lovers, Soul mates, Each other's best friend. Together forever in a place of peace and love unlimited." Simply beautiful. Your imagery is awesome and you give us rhymes of sky, fly, I....a symphony for the ear. There are ten sibilant sounds in your last stanza.....sssssss......which make this sound like your whispers to her. Whispers of love. I hope the last line will come true for both of you and with your faith and devotion, you will surely be rewarded in like fashion. Stephen, I don't know what to say about such an outpouring of love which did not once seem rhetorical. I will wish you the best with this winning poem and I won't forget it. That's about the greatest praise I can give. Best always, Mell	2003-09-30 19:19:00
Brushed By Death	Debbie Spicer	Debbie: I critiqued this last week and lost it in cyber space. I had spent an hour and I know I won't be able to duplicate my prior efforts plus since my pc is fritzing, I may lose this. I rarly read the forum and was unaware of your mishap with the blood poisoning post gall bladder surgery. I'm glad you are well enough to write about it but it must have been horrifly painful, not to mention dangerous. Your 1st stnza sets the scene: a terrible attack; "tearing with dull scissors" got my attention. I also like the "severed thread" simile. "A tapestry once woven among sparkling gold Was fading at once into a lifeless mold Intertwining threads between life and death Unsure at this time if I could take a breath." The tapestry metaphor is lovely and appropriate and its turning to mold represents your pain effectively. We have "intertwining threads" here in lieu of "severed threads". "As within an arras many pictures are displayed (They resonate) with hope's dream still played Unquenched and insatiable while in flight Turning dull threads back facing the bright." Now you give us "dull threads" turned back to the light. I totally love your use of threads as it complements the tapestry and the brush with death. How often do we hear "Hanging by a thread"? Your rhymes are perfect throughout and the pom is well paced. Your final stanza says you woke up to see your family all staring at you and they had to tell you what had occurred. Your end line is sweet and comforting. Debbie, your poem is very adroitly done with the tapesty metaphor one of the best I've seen. Then I find all those wonderful threads...I will not forget this poem any time soon. I am happy you are all right and I hope you will continue to write with this level of acuity and acumen. Just grand! Kudos, Mell	2003-09-27 18:18:25
Epitaph	Ken Dauth	Ken: I like your poem for many reasons and I will try to convey those to you. An "Epitaph" for me is a life examined. Many men throughout histroy wrote their own epitaphs and a famous one is Yeats': "Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by." There appears to be a recollection of poet's life in "Epitaph", a dissection of wrongs done more than a look at positive events or accomplishments. The tone of the poem is noir, sad; seems as if poet feels he deserves no grand parades nor tributes...he doesn't even merit the sun's appearance. "Lay me to rest at the end of the year ....very poetic and lyrical.... Days that are less then cool when they touch Evenings that arrive too soon and mornings That wait to rise on the day." Linguistics that shines. The days are too short, the night is long, and mornings come quite late. I like "days less and cool when they touch". "Put me down for the place where the sun does not see A good distance from the highway ....I think "nearest road" would be perfect for the tone.... A place difficult to visit where no one (will) shed (the) tears of condolences meant not for me." "Sun does not see" is a grand phrase and you give us rhymes of see/me. This is bleak and mournful if poet foresees no one noting his passing, no one shedding tears of loss. Has his life held no meaning for anyone? Now that is truly sorrowful but mayhaps poet is a depressed state where it feels no other cares. Bury you without sun, in a place hard to locate. "Lay me to rest when the year is done ....nice repetition of 1st line, a beautiful sentiment... Alongside a wrangled old tree waiting for the thaw Above a nestled thicket on a cloudy day The sun will have no place." A gothic painting in sepia tones: the grave, a crooked old tree standing sentinel, nearby thicket, and forever cloudy. Stark, sere, shadowy. Bleak, chilly, drear. A bit of rain would help make it more morose. "I'll walk to that place and mark the ground (with) With amends to the way I lived Acknowledgement to those (who) wanted more A simple faith for what is to come." Absolutely beautiful poem with a superb ending. Remorse for errors of the past, a nod to those who didn't get what they wanted from you and an inspiring, tender end line: "A simple faith for what is to come." Simple faith being of highest value, IMO. Whether you write your own epitaph or someone you know, the character/narrator in your poem is so perfectly defined by what he wants to live on as his legacy. The poem is haunting and casts a spell so that means excellent writing. i will return to this one with frequency. I sense a yearning in this bitter person, a tender and hurting heart, a goodness he doesn't himself see. You get my vote. Best, Mell Morris	2003-09-23 19:36:29
Strapped	Thomas H. Smihula	Thomas: It's grand to see one of your poems again but this one has me stumped because I am not sure who the "strapped" character is. Since it's written in first person, I will assume the poet, for whatever reason, has found himself in this situation. Typical Thomasism: graceful, esoteric, elusive. Your form itself is pleasing: the manner in which the stanzas are laid out on the page. Free verse is my favorite and I'm fond of poems that make me think. "When the eyes were closed I felt sensation as the wind carried me to new heights above the deck and in my nest now Strapped to the Mast...." I like the idea and phrasing about feeling sensation altho eyes were closed...the wind tossing you to new heights and finally to the mast where you are strapped. I do not know if this is punishment for a misdeed or a self-protective measure in a sea of fury. "Lashed to yonder yard arms ....nice alliteration..... lips tipped with thoughts of salt ......grand imagery.... Cheeks (singed) with the heat of the sunlight adrift on a sea of fury I venture on" You paint a vivid picture of weathering nature's fury. More than a storm and if you are aboard the Flying Dutchman, I guess you are destined to ride this ghost ship forever. This is positively intriguing and very unique and creative in its theme. S3 provides a surcease from the tortured waters and storm as you are kissed or embraced by a mist, sail into calming waters, next to the isle of wonders (I love the phrasing and the notion of such a place) and continue your journey. "I clench the fist of thunder ....exquisite... sail with the Flying Dutchman .....what a torment..... drop into a massive cyclone engulfed by swirling waters I continue on Strapped to this Mast" This stanza has the most excellent linguistics of all. The euphony of: fist/flying/engulfed and the TH and two CH sounds are magnificent. S5 details the drop into the water likely due to the cyclone and swirling water which bespeak a wind of considerable force. You rise from the depths to wonder if the albatross above will come to rest upon your shoulder, using it as a sanctuary. If it's not horrid enough to be strapped to the Flying Dutchman, destined to go on and on, now you have an albatross around your neck! "Alas the thoughts, drained except for one that has bound me to this yardarm Love..." Wonderful ending, Thomas. It would require a strong emotion such as love for you to journey on, continue on, venture on. (Nice reiteration there). I'm not sure I understand the poem as you meant it as I'm not well schooled in mythology but once you post it, the reader will see what he sees, regardless of your meaning. I find the poem beguiling and bewitching, casting a spell of eerieness and other-world matters. It is a noir mood until the ending when the epiphany reveals that the courageous acts emanated from love. Akin to the sun emerging after a storm. I also believe your poem is symbolism personified and applicable to other persons in other situations wherein the hardships are endured for the sake of love. I may be quite wide of the target but in any event, I enormously enjoyed it and will assuredly return to it again. Kudos for a great work of art. Best wishes, Mell	2003-09-22 20:20:08
God is in His Glory	Claire H. Currier	Claire: Delighted to see one of your poems and return the favor of the many crits you have done for me. My favorite is free verse style and nature poems so this should suit me well. The title is apt because, having read the poem, what you describe is the glory of His creation. "Follow the sound Come early morning light You will find yourself going (Off) to the west. ....perhaps "Toward the west"?....... Stop for a while Take it all in The breath of life you feel Will consume your soul." Nice imagery and you've referred before to the sound of music coming from the west, so I am intrigued. I like that shortly into the trek, you advise the reader to stop and take in all the surroundings. The phrase "the breath of life...will consume your soul" is beautiful and profound. "Lean back, relax, enjoy As you sit in the meadow Watch as God's little friends Arrive one after the other." Good advice, Claire. We are all in such a hurry and flurry and don't take time to stop and appreciate God's grandeur. You have deftly limned the image of the meadow and I can smell the grass and feel the bark of the tree against which I am leaning. S4 is a delectable description of God's creatures from birds to Mr. Moose to Coyote Joe to Henrietta and her dozen ducklings. (Henrietta had best keep an eye on Joe). My favorite phrase: "God needs a baritone" and then Senor Moose shows up. "Now as the sun rises in the east Angels descend to the west Bringing forth the harmony we hear And each little voice Joins the chorus Singing Praise and Glory to God." The mystery solved...the melody from the west is the voices of angels...simply lovely. I was unsure about "each little voice" and to whom you refer but I think you mean all the little creatures you have delineated. "As the story is told Whether early morning light Or evening dusk As the angels begin to play The Lord smiles down upon those gathered Here in the woods of Tully On this exceptionally fine day." A lovely tribute to the Creator and his creation. This reminds me of Gerard Manley Hopkins, not in style, but in the theme and how it is played out. He wrote many praises to God via nature poems. I enormously enjoyed your poem...like a waft of fresh air with the scent of the woods and meadow, of all the great outdoors. Thank you for making my Saturday afternoon more special and serene. Best wishes, Mell	2003-09-20 18:32:02
Translation	carole j mennie	Carole: I haven't reviewed one of your poems in a long time due to limited time for TPL but I'm quite happy to have seen this one: a savory feast for the senses. Your title is perfect once the poem is read and a wondrous tribute to your mother with your continuing her tradition with her garden, armed with her outlook. "The house sits on a side street where flowers, planted by my mother, turn joyous heads skyward, following the sun. Here, butterflies circle on Tiffany wings. Tiny brown birds nest in low foliage, guarding speckled secrets in a green-leafed sanctuary." Ah, where to begin? Your imagery is marvelous, delineating a scene with linguistic magic. S1 sets the scene of your mother's house with line 1 allits: sits/side/street and eleven sibilant words which make this seem like a whispering of scents through the air. The observation of the flowers with their heads joyously turned to the sun is grand. A butterfly with Tiffany wings is one of the more delectable metaphors I've seen and speckled/secrets/ sanctuary is music for my ears. You give us another metaphor with birds as guards of speckled secrets in the sanctuary. "I have seen her here mornings, in floppy straw hat with unravelling brim, caressing petaled faces, whispering endearments in perfumed language. Her garden always overflowed into the house, with multi-colored tulips, scarlet roses, and purple hydrangea. Yellow pollen dusted her tables, giving the wood a golden glow." I am there with the riot of colors in her flowers which "overflowed into the house". I can easily see her and the detail of "floppy straw hat with unravelling brim" lends a jouissance to the entire poem. Sometimes it's the tiny things that bring a poem to life but your poem has been pulsing from the 1st line. I have a friend who caresses her plants and flowers and talks to them the way you deftly limn in S3. "perfumed language" is a winner as is pollen dusting her tables, giving a golden glow. Just simply exquisite descriptors, Carole. "I put boot to shovel, wrapping in warm burlap .....wrap/lap.... a brittle brown shape, her favorite rose bush. .....brittle brown... Fumbling with the latch at the gate, I inhale a memory, a faint scent of her. ....beautiful.... From beneath distant, machine-clipped lawn flowered in pale pink granite, among crisp. blown leaves, came her proclamation, to root and bulb; to me: a loamy litany carried on aromatic bursts. ...loamy litany..... "But tomorrow," she promised, "there will be more flowers." There you are...transplanting her favorite rose bush...strolling down memory lane of times with your mother, her love of flower gardening...all comes back to you, including the best philosophy she could pass on. Your mother promises you that another day brings more flowers...the most optimistic take on life, an outlook that must warm your soul during life's most trying tribulations. This is a lush, flowering poem with such marvelous imagery and at the close, the wisdom passed from mother to daughter. I am at a loss for anything else to rave about....it's that good! Kudos on having penned such a delicious poem which has left me with the warmest, most serene feeling. Thanks! Best wishes, Mell	2003-09-19 16:25:46
When Trees in Fall Begin to Spill Their Colors	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne: What a wonderful title. I read "spill" as "sprawl" three times. You are the champ for best titles and have herein ousted me from the throne of Queen of Assonance and internal rhyme. Plus, your nature poetry is some of the best ever written, with an eye like Ted Hughes and the symbolism of Frost. "A deep rippling garden pond still draws dabbling wood ducks and calling geese. Ring-necked pheasants run through tall weeds; sun's rays gild their straight unwavering tails." The D's of S1 are wonderful and with the assonance make a lilting, tapping lyric. Your adverbs for wood ducks and pheasant tails are true perfection. You continue the long E assonance from S1 to S2 in weeds and give us a rhyming sun/run. And the scene depicted is simply grand but no one else would see it as poetically as you do. "Shy birds find easy places to swiftly hide from sight while plucky ones escape to thicker, thorny scrub. Wasps threaten sleek ruby-throated hummingbirds, undaunted on their quest for wet, sweet feasts." Assonance continued, too much to delineate. I love the notion of "plucky" birds and thicker/thorny/ threaten/throated is lovely. I don't like the wasps but note the hummers are "undaunted" so I can live with it. Then like strumming an old lyre, you serve us: "quest for wet, sweet feasts." Ah, the musicality of your words never ceases to surprise and please me. "Townsend warblers will remain through winter then flee for mating season, flaring bottle green." I haven't the least notion of a Townsend warbler but grateful you included him because you put the icing on, the finishing touch, the eclat, the genius stroke with "flaring bottle green." Ted Hughes uses the "green" in miraculous ways in his poetry, too. "Whistling green" ("October Dawn) and my favorite from The Wind: "the house rang like some fine green goblet". Anyway, to be compared to Ted Hughes is one of the greatest tributes I could render. You have the same magical touch. A lovely look ar autumn time in bird lives which is a metaphor for our own. Just as surely as winter follows autumn, the seasons cycle as do our lives. Great work. Laurel wreath. Mell	2003-09-19 14:43:17
When Small Frogs Seem to Disappear	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne: I could not resist this title...as unique as your poem. I love autumn best and enjoy tree frogs altho there are not as many here as there are tree lizards. I allow them to come inside the house and live with us; they are very tiny and never grow to any notable size. I cannot begin to point to every delectable linguistic twist herein. It reminds me of a Celtic song with its internal rhymes, unforced meter, and heavier-than-usual consonant sounds. My cuppa! "After this morning's splash of water on my sleepy face, I spy a gold-green tree frog ...a wondrous line for my ears.... perched atop my folded towel. ...ditto... (Blink!) The interjection is marvelous: I picture both of you in blinks of synchronicity. The enjambment from line one to two is effective. "As I dare to grasp his damp, wriggling body in my bare hand, he stabs a small insistent snout between my clasped fingers. Once outside, I settle him safely in tender undergrowth; but thus freed, he turns to me, poised as if to leap my way." Magical imagery. I'm surprised he allowed you to pick him up so easily...obviously you can communicate with animals the way you do with humans. "Stabs an insistent snout" is a line so appealing, then you give the jump-stanza rhyme with "out". Multiple rhymes: grasp/clasp and free/me. You repeat the rhyme of snout/out with "scout" in your single line soon after. This entire poem is a symphony playing in my head...tender undergrowth...all those T sounds. "Is this sticky gent a Prince I ought to kiss, perhaps still spellbound? .....more miraculous harmony..... How did this slight, grass-green guy ...great allits... find his way into my bath today? Perhaps he's a silent scout sent to announce ....ah, the sweet whispers of sibilance.... Autumn's approach, the somber season ...allits of brilliance.... when small frogs seem to disappear at first signs of chill and wait till time to wake in spring and sing. Though summer's soon at its end, tree frogs will come to croon again." Lovely ending in keeping with a lovely poem. I love nature which you capture with your frog but being a sound person, this poem sings to me like your frog sings to you. Is/this/kiss and way/way/today and chill/till and spring/sing and croon/soon. (And two hard K's at the end!) And those are merely a few examples. I think this is a "deceptive" poem in that it appears as a simple little story about a tree frog but it represents so much more...nature always keeps her promises...little Prince will be back, same time, same place, next year. It is also synonymous with optimism, a metaphor of life itself in many ways. But the most spectacular charms here are the SOUNDS. I will go back to bed to rest but you have given me a lovely lullaby to swirl thru my brain. Thank you. Brava! Best, Nekk	2003-09-17 18:48:45
Poetic Linkage	Terrye Godown	Terrye: I plain and simple love your pohums...this is Texas-speak for y'all shore gotta lotta talent. I particularly like this one and what it says about our poems on TPL and you poor girl, just three weeks in the Pacific? I'll be lucky if I get away from Dallas to Nacogdoches. I caught the anagram aspect before your notes and found it clever. Not surprising from one who composed "Alphabet Synthesis"...I don't recall the exact title. "The catalyst of mental conceptions Honed through electronic oblivion ....I espcially like electron oblivion... Enlivened by spontaneity and humor Pondered by enthusiastic minds Oscillating through carnal channels Energizing spiritual awareness Tokens of life's lessons learned ....nice allits... Intrinsic combinations of character Concoctions infused with ingenuity" In glowing linguistics, you have captured a lot of qualities about the poetry here. Insufficient spontaneity and humor, IMO, but occasional occurrences. Enthusiasm, indeed, as well as ingenuity and a variety of character traits. You are spot on. I like "Tokens of life's lessons learned" as that is an excellent way to phrase it and I hadn't thought of it in those terms. I have noted the energizing of spiritual awareness and I really enjoy the metaphysical poetry when encountered. "Oscillating through carnal channels" confuses me as to your exact import. Being a total sound person, the hard K in catalyst/conceptions/electronic/carnal/ tokens/intrinsic/combinations/character/concoctions make your poem a delight of euphony. "Laminated on cyber technology Inspiring unrecognized talents Navigating the perimeters of intellect ......great simile.... Kaleidoscopes of diffusing expression" Five more K's: thank you, say my ears. I think S3, line 2 is one of the more important functions of TPL. I have been on board since June 2001 and cannot begin to list the elements I've learned. So many poets at TPL, some gone, mentored me and taught me much I didn't know. (I'm still in the larva stage). You came to TPL, fully developed in your art, both guns blazing. You are an asset here which I've told you numerous times. Thanks for cheering me with your poem at a time when I rather desperately need uplift. (Mother ill). Kudos for another display of wit, charm, and style, Mell	2003-09-13 19:08:25
Little Man	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: What a joyous poem! I can feel your love for this new baby, the little man, in every phrase. He is fortunate to have a talented grandmother and uncle and Caden may someday write in "cadence" as they do. (Sorry, I couldn't resist in a poetic family). "I saw your wee face and limp was my heart. Eyes of violet, skin brushed with heaven's hues." He sounds beautiful with violet eyes and I'll wager your heart was limp (I like that term) while your eyes were filled with happy tears. "Skin brushed with heaven's hues" is exquisitely stated. It could also be heaven's "dews" but I prefer hues. "What will you be, my little man? A tinker, a piper, a shaman? A baker, a banker, a dapper Dan?" Your three end rhymes provide harmony and your choices of occupations brought a smile to me altho you excluded poet. Of course, a piper is a musician so he's still in the arts. Only my treasured Marilyn would write "shaman" because of the love of native American life and lore. Now dapper Dan with violet eyes and heavenly-tinted skin may be a given. "Embrace life, my tiny one, surround days with serenity; give dignity to serendipity, hold fast my melted heart." Two end rhymes here and I especially enjoy "give dignity to serendipity." I very much like the notion of a grandmother's telling an infant to "embrace life"...that is sensitively rendered or rendered with sensitivity. Both are true. The fourteen susurrant sounds: sssssssss....make it feel like you are whispering these words to Caden. I know your heart is melted and I share your joy and pride in little man because you shared him with us. Simply wonderful, my friend. Mell	2003-09-09 18:33:43
Looking Back	Thomas Edward Wright	T. And what a way to return...a parody in an Ebbin' Flood. (Sorry, couldn't resist.) I don't think the denizens of Simple City are that hardened...they like to go to the forum in their best togas or togs and they can get mean there...hurling insults, denigrating denizens or immigrants, and an et tu or two. It's a means of population control because after one of their best glads scores a triumphant hit, an offended denizen leaves the forum and Simple City. I really think your title is too reminiscent of a romantic musing so I would call it "Yell From The Well" which would resonate swell with echoes from the sea. I always knew the songs of the sirens (among the denizens) would pull you back to S.C. as they always brought out the bum in you. A funny, funny return, T. Welcome. Best, Mell O'Circe	2003-09-09 13:32:58
Each Morning I Begin Again	Joanne M Uppendahl	Joanne: I never saw the original and you indicated on the forum that you were universally told your first version was superior. This poem greatly appeals to me albeit I don't much care for the Longfellow quote. I'm not a fan of his and also believe your poem needs no explication nor embellishment. "Awakening from sleep, I sip steamed coffee's hint of bitter, listening for morning's gist, search dreams' meaning from night's realm." Nine susurrant sounds make me feel this is a morning prayer: matins with lauds, the first canonical hour. "Hint of bitter" is magical phrasing and awakening/listening/morning/meaning give a touch of immediacy and euphonic sound. The assonance in listening/gist, the sounds in sleep/sip and for/ morning, the ER of bitter/search, the long E in sleep/steamed/coffee/dreams/meaning. This is a sound-person's mystical magic. "My streaming shower stings; minutes in its vital gush affirm I'm still alive. Daybreak spouts like joyous water-- spirited and clean." Eleven susurrants limn the flow of the water. The allits: streaming shower stings add a delightful touch in line 1 of tercet 3. The use of "stings" is apposite and I've never read it before so it is also unique and crisp for this reader. (Showers DO sting). Only with the actual sting of the shower do you concede you're still among the living and this implies that even with the sip of bitter, you are still in the dream realm. "Vital gush" is likewise a fresh descriptor and that's how it feels in the mornings. Your end tercet is as joyous as your joyous water. Your simile is spot on and original: daybreak spouts, continuing the water theme from S3. "Spirited and clean" imply that each day is a new one, sins and spots of detritus washed away, as you "begin again". This takes us back to the title. This poem speaks strongly to my soul, probably because of my current situation. This optimistic import that every day is a new one, it's never too late or like the AA slogan, "One day at a time"... elevates my spirits and brings hope to my heart. For me, this is a poem simply and cleanly delivered with a message of renewal. I cannot imagine a better version of this masterful poem which has made a crater-sized impact on my being. Brava! Best, Mell	2003-08-30 15:47:03
An Immodest Request	Rick Barnes	Rick: You've received so many crits, you don't need my two cents but I can't not. Your title is a major hook that catches the reader's eye and demands the poem be read. However, I don't think it does justice to your exquisite poem. Your best in terms of form: perfect rhymes and meter, no apostrophe in its!, your usual graceful touch. You write the details of lovemaking in the most tasteful ways. I think this is the # 1 for the month and would agree to its selection; it's that good. "Show to me your hidden places ....Show me all your hidden places?.... Among exposed terrain. Loose your soft secluded laces That bind your last restrain." Nice simile of the body as an uncharted map. Eight susurrant sounds...whispers to her... great allits in line 3. The language is old-fashioned which adds to its restraint and charm. "Invite my eyes to trespass where The light so seldom trails, And let my wonder wander there And offer its avails." ,....Partake of its avails?"........ Line 3 is one of the most beautiful lines I've ever read. Again, the metaphor of her body as unexplored territory...quite apposite and appealing. "Open to me your ministries And all that they reveal That I may know your mysteries By scent and sight and feel. Lay down our hearts where passions lie Surround me through and through, And know at last that it is I Surrendering to you." Ah, stunning! The last line is so lovely...music to any woman's ears. Graceful linguistics, a delicate touch to explore an intimate act. Ah, me boyo, you have a dab hand! There's nothing to say except congrats and I'm dazed with wonder at your ability, having watched it form, develop, and mature into the area of rapture. Bravo, Rick! Best, Mell	2003-08-29 19:08:56
Let Us Protect You	C Arrownut	C.A.: I never imagined from the title where this poem would go...but I haven't had such a good laugh in quite a while. This will strike a chord with any reader who has ever unsnarled a vacuum cleaner and pursued the dust mites. That you have created a branch of the EPA who checks homes for duct is hilarious (and slightly credible, unfortunately). I share your cynicism. "The living room's been dusted and the last shred of indoor pollution, according to the EPA who routinely checks houses for dust now, has receded from the air and settled on the rug." This free-verse style paces the poem perfectly. The TIC-ism is delightful. At least you have all the dust settled in one place. The subsequent tercet tells us that the oak tables have a sheen in the sunlight and I like the phrase "presses through the blinds." "Now where's that damned vacuum cleaner? Which closet did I stuff it into last time?..."Into which closet did I stuff it last time?"...... Only clean what shows, I say. ....my personal credo as well.... Thank God, if anybody's up there, those dust meter bitches haven't thought to check the fucking closets yet." A note of irreverence or true, honest doubts of God's existence. This seems to fit with the tone and voice of the narrator. Hysterical that the dust-meter maids haven't gotten to the closets. At least some things are sacred. How about under the bed? (My weak spot). Two couplets and a single line reflect the intensity of the ordeal with the vacuum, misplaced furniture, and the segue of "Now for the race." Perfect pace and set-up. "This corner, that yet another swip swipe at the middle......swip swipe is excellent..... on and on into the bedrooms and back the final sniff around. ....delightful sniff.... Done. motor splutters bag explodes door bell rings "Meter Lady, EPA" Oh fuck! Another fine." Great, great ending that I hadn't anticipated. The last two stanzas are in short lines, enhancing the pace, and heightening tension. This is executed deftly and makes a great read and humor is difficult to write and bring it off. You have done that superbly herein. Kudos and I look forward to further poems from your pen. Best, Mell Morris	2003-08-24 18:19:41
After The Rain	Nancy Ann Hemsworth	Nancy: Haven't seen one of your poems in forever! I see you haven't lost your touch altho this is my first encounter with "trine". You obviously meet the rhyming rules and your meter sets a nice pace over all. "Trodden fields lay washed in worry Crows cry!...they fly, with fevered furry .....flurry?..... Marshland ragged in sheets of murk Foreboding thoughts run so beserk" I like the title very much and as I read the poem, it feels right. I like the personification of fields and crows. Nice internal rhyme of cry/fly and fine allits in washed/worry and fly/fevered/furry."Ragged in sheets" is a clever metaphor as is the entire poem. The "so" before beserk feels forced for the meter and that could easily be fixed...become beserk, etc, etc. You are deftly delineating a dire, drear scene here. "In criptic puddles, illusions play ....cryptic?....... and unhidgened mind, drowns in dismay ....unhinged?..... Reality so twisted; blurry Upon this path all demons lurk They thirst upon my soul's decay" Your poem could be a metaphor for many things that get off-path and wind up in ruination. Like our lives so often do. This strikes me that after the rain stopped, the scene became a ruinous one for the observer/narrator. The fields were moldy and flooding, the marshland appeared as a morass of murk, and all of these factors play upon the mind until poet feels beleaguered to insanity. The person knows the peril of the place, filled with devils, reality obscured, and the vampirish demons lust for the befouled parts of poet's soul. (We all have those spots of decay). I don't know if my interpretation matches your intent but once you post it, it's in the reader's hands and we each will see/hear what we want to. I find this clever and unique; your descriptors are so real, I can feel them and these are not pretty butterflies and gladiolas. Whatever or wherever this poem takes the reader, there seems a mystical, nightmarish aspect...mayhaps it's but a dream. I enjoyed your piece very much and best wishes for its success. Mell	2003-08-22 18:25:53
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