Joanne M Uppendahl's E-Mail Address: grizwiz@aol.com

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Poem Title	Poet Name	Critique Given by Joanne M Uppendahl	Critique Date
Hush, a Young Bard Sings Once More	Thomas Edward Wright	Tom: I am sincerely flattered. Not one, but two parodies in the same day! It would look confusing on the Winner's List if all three of them were voted there: Hush, The Young Bard Sings Once More For Whom the Young Bird Sings Hush, The Young Bird Sings Once More I can't say whether I am more amused or perplexed at this duplicitous turn of the worm. You recall long ago, but yesterday, Today and even now is already gone, Skipping off down the long haul. Quite funny, I suppose, though my father's dementia (Alzheimer's wasn't conclusively diagnosed) wasn't at all amusing at the time. He did tend to live in the "long ago" since short term memory was greatly impaired. Standing on the rim of my glass I feel like driving into this watercolor. I pause between paints, wondering It's an odd coincidence - and I am certain that it is nothing but that - but my father was an artist -- a painter. Not watercolors, but acrylic and oil paint. He continued until his tremor prevented him. If you could remember to drop in - What with the Alzheimer’s and all - It’s always a Liberace they wait for, Ahh, do you think senility may be setting in? And why did I put the bananas in the freezer! And you were a maestro, Even in the mourning, Playing it pianissimo. So, you think *I* am getting repetitious? No new themes? I will remember for both of us. And so the glass, and so the frame, And so the end of a life gone tame. Such a sad ending for this light-hearted poem! I think that a slight revision may improve the closing line: "But not the end of this touché game!" As ever, Jo	2004-05-26 19:20:34
The Scar the Wing Leaves	G. Donald Cribbs	Don: We share a love of Oliver and Rumi! The daring notion of the reality of ineffable knowledge - that which can never be spoken - informs this work. It is good to be reminded. Though there are "ways within each other that will never be said" this poem says much, alludes to much, directs the reader's attention indirectly to the central theme. We know ourselves through knowing one another, but we know one another imperfectly. (I hope I haven't strayed too far from your intent here.) The speaker, wearing his "brother's shoes out so long in the night" breaks my heart with his tenderness. All of our witnessing seems to be a slight echo of what reality is, how it impacts each of us. We skim the surface, your poem seems to show, or at least for me. It is so very true that we "have lived in these moments briefly" and the speakers hesitation to say that he knows himself "completely" is the crux of the matter. It is pointing, indirectly to a certain hubris on our part that we do know ourselves "completely." We may have a temporary paradigm we live by, because if we become more aware of how little of our 'self' is conscious, we must stop what we are doing and search for our true motives. But I am getting too far into philosophizing and away from this poem as poetry. That it is, and beautifully so. The alliteration, consonance, imagery and cadence are all finely executed. I did find myself stumbling a bit, but this could be as much my reactions to my own inner response as difficulty with the work. I have lived in those moments, "briefly", knowing myself - I hesitate to say "completely." -- the assonance here, for example "Whether/flower/wither/knows" -- examples of deft alliteration I felt the repeated "this is" and "it is" were slightly distracting. Several ideas are magnificent and may almost stand on their own as poems. For example, I would have given anything to have written-- "What do I leave in the shoes, as they stand in the space near the bed?" OR "I cannot explain what it feels like to fly, to one who is not yet overwhelmed by clouds." I can easily become lost in either of these thoughts, profoundly introspective as they are. "It is as if our footprints have been placed upon the ground, and we are only to feel the heat released to our souls, and move on." I seem to have gotten caught not moving on! I am standing in the footprints, pondering, completely flummoxed, trying to figure them out, rather than "feel the heat released" (or live within the emotions contained in each life experience) and moving on the next one. Next, part of your poem seems to be a caveat: "We are to say nothing of this. It is understood that we do not share these experiences with another." This presents a conundrum to me, as your (faithful) reader, and as someone whose primary occupation during my working life was to sift out experiences with another human being in order to understand their meaning. I am very intrigued by the contradiction I feel here, though I may not understand your intent correctly. It is sometimes difficult to stare into a mirror. The surface is hard and unmoving, pavement I have tread upon daily. As I carry his shoes, I too know what binds me to the earth. Perhaps as we see one another (mirrors) we see ourselves. We are "bound to the earth", I think the speaker is saying, by duty and love. The supreme act of love seems to be to continue to carry our brother's shoes. We are in a world of emotional meaning, and yet we seem detached, unable to decipher what is before us. Is it because we lack certain abilities needed to do so? The most wrenching of emotional moments are limned herein, but we cannot (or should not attempt to) fathom them. I am struggling, still standing in the footprint and not moving on as I ought. Thank you poet, for respecting our own ability to look within for 'missing' parts of what is suggested here. Bravo! All my best, Joanne	2004-05-25 16:15:33
Above the Well	G. Donald Cribbs	Don: This is one of the poems I meant in my reply. It is so outstanding that I am a bit "flummoxed" in figuring out how to give you all of my responses. I realize that there isn't time nor bandwidth to do so! It's so excellent, in so many ways, and yet, each time I read it, something more takes place inside me, that I've stalled on responding. I'm not finished with this poem yet and won't be in the near future so I am just sending you a few thoughts and hope you'll realize what a grand work you have. I think that as a poet, you must realize that your own work is worthwhile, but you may not know how deeply stirring it is, when read for the first time by someone new to your writing style. It is melodious, well-crafted, and everything that good poetry 'should be' but contains a deeper element that continues to work on the reader long after the page is turned, so to speak. I need to give you an example of what I mean - “From time to time an angel of the Lord would come down and stir up the waters. The first one into the pool after each such disturbance would be cured of whatever disease he had.” –John 5:4 I've read this scripture before, but not considered it in application, the way you do in the poem. Most days I wander thick fields, watching sharp movements of the pine. I cross the fence through waist-deep grass, keep pace in underboughs still wet with rain. The poetics -- the crafting -- for example, allits with 'w' and assonance of "waist-deep/rain/pace" is astonishing. You immediately bring the reader into the speaker's experience. It's like an adventure, with someone very sure-footed (or so it appears) leading the way. One wonders why the speaker wanders "most days." What is he searching for, or what is he avoiding? Francis Thompson's "Hound of Heaven" comes to mind in these first four lines. "When the storm hits cold stones below my feet smell like wind stirring the water." AMAZING! How you've conjoined the senses, in a fresh, surprising way. I think of 'synesthesia' and wonder about the ability of feet to 'smell' rather than *forgive me* - be smelled. The mundane mixed with the heavenly. What pinches the switch of my soul? -- and this! Such marks feed heat like hot scraps --ah, the cadence here is superbly done of desperation raging the storm. It's a daring question, a daring slant-rhyme -- "pinches the switch" is like a bit of lightning dashing across the visual field. The branch comes crashing down, tangles itself in the fence. My hands hurry to build an earthen ladder from the remains, wrestle God against the open spaces, throw down language from a new Babel. The most remarkable strophe so far, the one above, at least in this reader's view. We were prepared for some spiritual adventure by the scriptural epigraph, but this comes, nevertheless, in a quite startling way. What a thought -- wrestling "God against the open spaces" -- dazzling. How does this happen? Is it that we (the speaker, anyone reading) encounter divinity in all created spaces? When nature's elements are as they are here "raging the storm" does our ability to experience the numinous encounter increase if we are aware? Certainly, reading this feels like a preparation for such experience. A dry thirst pulls up from the well an ocean, asking why I seek to sustain myself this way? If I spit, I choose faith to wash with. I must say here that I'd give anything if I could have written these three lines above - especially "dry thirst pulls up from the well of an ocean." The earth "grips" cracks near the well -- wonderful slant-rhyme with "spit" in deep rock where mud fills my eyes; I climb an "inner rope to sight", ---this, after all, is everyman's journey, we see yet here I am clinging to the earth. I am left breathless at this juncture, realizing that I have been on similar journeys, and "yet here I am clinging to the earth." What do I hope for in the depth of the well? Sometimes the ocean stands from its stone valley, And the final lines leave us completely folded on the sand. We see ourselves in our dual natures - the spiritual and the 'clinging to earth' - the one which seeks and yet avoids the light. Thrilling, luminous writing - the imagery of how "the ocean stands from its stone valley" to "needles around a fire." And the angry crabs, like the emotions we continuously carry, which draw us "back beneath the rocks away from light, new sight." Well - I must close -- this attempt is far less than I wanted to say, but as you see, it seems that no matter how many words I gather, I can't really convey to you the insights that I'd like about this work. It is magnificent in every way! Bravo! My heartiest good wishes, Joanne	2004-05-24 22:16:17
Skylark	marilyn terwilleger	Dear Marilyn: You can't go wrong here, as far as this reader is concerned! This poem inspired by Shelley's "To a Skylark" lifts my own spirits to the heavens. Your fresh, original turns of phrase, the way you have spaced the work, the exquisite sounds and especially the flawless cadence make this work superbly exhilarating. This is going to be an interesting month, with so many excellent poems like this one gracing the link. Blithe of spirit and light of wing Aloft in powered blue a melody to sing Soars Skylark Upon the sunken sun or bloom of day On a puff of pampero floating with fay I love this word - alternative spelling "fey" but here rhyming perfectly in sound as well as visually. The bird's elfish qualities are portrayed beautifully, and you've used fricatives lightly, softly ("puff/floating/fay") so that one can feel the cool wind and visualize the bird in its airy element so vividly. "Neath portly platinum clouds"--exquisite! "Dainty notes of rain with aerial hue Amid swaying flowers in dells of dew" -- apt use of 'd' alliteration and wonderful rhymes throughout! My favorite part: If your spirit is bleak and sun is lost Look to heaven with stars embossed Soar with Skylark -- an injunction to this reader, who IS soaring! "stars embossed" - what an brillinat and wonderful way to end this piece. I suggest that perhaps one less "soars with skylark" might still serve your purpose well, and give us the very airiness and spiritual uplift that you are presenting here - even more excellently. I really enjoyed this - you know that I love birds, so I felt especially thrilled to find this poem. All my best, Joanne	2004-05-24 19:52:15
Sunday Morning With a Used Car Salesman	Molly Johnson	Molly: I was gleeful this morning, because you posted on the Forum. And my 'anticipation' of your poem did not exceed my 'realization' of it! (That old saw - "Anticipation always exceeds realization" or close.) Your poetic voice here is as fresh, vigorous, insightful, sensitive and welcome (taking a breath) as ever. My fingers 'itch to tuck' at -- wonderful sounds of 'i' and 't' the 'thin strips' of --here too his frayed collar. One of the things I love best here is the way you've made it easy for a reader to slip into the speaker's skin subjectively. The subjectivity here is so personal, and just the sort of thing I'd feel and maybe not be consciously aware of. I would be fixing that collar, over and over again. You make this used car salesman so real to us. It sounds like a small dealership, as the speaker is even aware of the age of his daughter. He has a daughter turning twelve; she’s embarrassed by his baldness, Aptly limned consonance in "turning/twelve" and use of the plosive b's - very unobtrusively - in "embarrassed/baldness." "a wife who likes comfort over safety too" - I'm wondering about this - this statement makes my mind want to probe. "How does she see that - what is it that she sees?" Maybe the 'quick fix' - 'fast food' - 'fast lane' kind of life? Though that wouldn't be comfortable to me. He may be somewhat of an improbable character, a puer eterna. She may derive comfort from his transparency, his reassurances. But in the long run, he is too intense-sounding to be 'safe', I agree. His 'weary shirting' -- fabulous descriptor shows blue skin near dense nipples. His vulnerability/transparency shows -- he appeals to me in the way that the smallest, scroungiest pup in a litter (the 'runt') always does. The one you want to take home -- but not this man. There is something slightly dangerous here - now I have a better idea of what is meant by his wife's preference for "comfort over safety too." If we would just let him finance us, his fine fabric would crackle then ignite. "Just let him" shows us, as does his thin shirt and "dense nipples" that just below the surface is someone ready to implode. He strains toward the possibility. The fricatives and hard c's, leading to 'ignite' give a sense of energy building, of emotions and nerve-endings firing to the ignition point. My own neck glows, embarrassed by his bareness. Such intensity is catching! Molly - what a pleasure it is to enjoy once more the ways you have with words! "embarrassed by his bareness" conveys a host of squirmy-yet-delicate feelings, of compassion and humanity and discomfort. I especially admire the poem of the 'small moment' of heightened perception, of not much happening externally but everything happening internally. Your uncanny ability to allow the reader to be fully present with you is astonishing - a riveting treat. Brava!! All my best, Joanne	2004-05-21 22:19:09
Balanced Accounts	Mell W. Morris	Mell: What a sudden feast, an unexpected taste of mixed (bitter with sweet) flavors. I am drawn in several directions by your poem, and by the quotation from Stevens. Rather, I should say that I am drawn by the tensions within this poem - the lyrical as well as the intellectual. At my window before morning while The world sleeps, I gulp the moon As palliation. I would efface all I own for a trace of longanimity. Your ability as an accomplished poet is vividly evident in this poem, throughout but especially in the phrase "I gulp the moon/As palliation." Assonant sounds connect "moon/longanimity" inextricably; the internal rhyme in "efface/trace" is soft, but so solidly stated -- as if a lion roars with whispered voice. The lunar reference here suggests a definite feminine presence, but one not to be trifled with. "Graceful is the word I wish spoken/Of me as it is not the tragedy which/ Matters but how it is borne." These lines suggest that the path of imperfection and suffering has its own grace. These are strengthening words. This is a credo I wish to adopt, for it graces the speaker, the poem and readers. The speaker rejects pastel platitudes, dependency on inspiration from without - even the moon - for her stamina wanes as she "counts her blessings" as told to do - finds that "the lone light in the sky/oozes unction." Instead of turning to an external source for consolation, or 'counting' assets, she turns toward her own internal light. Two words, given as a sentence in L4 of S3, are remarkably energizing: "Seeing red." This suggests to me that the speaker's greatest asset is her own ability to feel outrage perhaps for an 'unbalanced account' and to experience life as it is - imperfect. To face a future uncertain, with pluck, and above all, personal dignity. The energetic plosives begin softly in L1 of S4 with "prefer" and build in L2 and 3 of the closing tercet to emphasize the closing word -- "irony." The suggestion, at least for this reader, is that though the speaker's graces may have "annealed" - a process of heating and cooling that gives toughness - she will prefer to be gracious, while fully aware of the vagaries of existence. There is so much more I want to say. The hot, bitter delight of human imperfection, of living vividly in the midst of 'tragic' circumstances, of keen awareness - and so much more - communicate to us in this, your most brilliant, white-hot poem. This poem returns me to my own experiences - and away from denial of the pain (and strength), and grit, which was their gift. Brava! Brava! Brava! As always, Joanne	2004-05-21 21:23:52
The Language of the Angels	Valene L Johnson	Valene: I read in your additional notes that you continue to redo this poem. I want to suggest keeping all of the originals, if you still have them. And this one! Though you may choose at some time to accept suggestions for change, I find within this poem an authentic voice which thrills me, as the discovery of a new poet always does. You have something going on in this piece that is fresh, original and worthy of publication for a wider audience. I want to describe as accurately as I can what reading it does for me and why, and that will be a bit challenging, as the effect of your words is electrifying! flutter, flutter; ten-thousand tongues ruffle the spirit. in the midst of flight, cellophane heavens soar out the mouth. Maybe it's the sound of "flutter, flutter" which immediately sets up an auditory cue for me - and those sounds, combined in the assonance of "ruffle/tongue" are sublime. You've used many fricative 'f' sounds, "flutter/ruffle/flight" which gives an airy, lighter-than-light feel to the first few lines. There is wonderful, surreal quality as the "cellophane heavens/soar out of the mouth." Imagining the sounds of fluttering and the crinkling of "cellophane heavens" soaring just takes me into outer space. I am reminded of paintings of Carvaggio's angels, but also of a contemporary artist, Reneal. kissed of anguish the blue sky cries, "why do you not look upon me with lust anymore?" the lips ignite songs triumphant, and the wind stirs, and the sails glide. These lines above are a feast of sound for this reader. Variations of the assonant 'i' sound, for example, in each line above with "kissed/anguish/sky/cries/why/lips/ignite/triumphant/wind/stirs/glide" defy analysis, but simply fill me with joy. There is a sense of airy movement (wind stirs/sails glide) throughout the piece, and the fire element in "lips ignite" seems a beauteous image for the flames often associated with the gift of tongues. Your "time trickles time" is my favorite line in the work, as it seems to suspend our usual notion of time. It moves beyond our ordinary concept of "clock time" with the brilliance of your metaphor. Time becomes liquid, and surprises, just as the "cellophane heavens" which "soar out of the mouth" in the first strophe awakens the reader with unexpected imagery. "purely spun words birthed from the womb of naked light" I absolutely love the last three lines! These "purely spun words" do truly seem inspired, and inspiring! I am left with the image of their birth "from the womb/of naked light" and I am completely dazzled. Your poem truly honors these messengers of God. I am looking forward to reading much more of your work. Magnificent! Bravo! All my best, Joanne	2004-05-19 15:48:23
The Defining Moment	Thomas Edward Wright	Tom-tom-on-parodic-tear, I perused your viands: your proteinaceous susurrations are silt-fraught and I found micturations (often in perpendicularity) while zephyr’d skits informed the brachial plexus of the next nexus! What's this with hips? What was the celebrity's name you once scratched deeply into the exposed hip of a hill's steeply sedimentary rock flank? Aloha, JoAndUp	2004-05-19 13:59:42
Remembering	Karen Ragan	Karen: My deepest sympathies on the loss of your father-in-law, who was "grandpa" to you. May sharing this very personal journey bring peace and healing. Please know that many (including this reader) will draw strength from your words, will remember those whom they have lost with added tenderness. All of us must walk this path at sometime in life; it is the fortunate who are able to give voice to it, who are able to do the extremely hard work of accompanying those who are dying to the last moments. How ironic it seems that some of the most exquisitely beautiful and moving poetry in the English language stems from such terrible suffering and deep loss as this. But, in my view, this poem joins with others of piercing depth, of deepest compassion and understanding, to enlarge the literature of loss for all of those who must follow in the ways you have trod. My heart is full with so many different feelings - remembrance of the recent death of my father, and that of my mother. Because you were with him, your grandpa (your husband's father) did not die alone in a hospital or nursing home, but with one beside him who compassionately nurtured him in the deepest ways possible. You were "with" him, this poem shows us, not merely 'taking care of' him. This is shown by the absence of his heartbeat, as shown in L3 of S1. It reminds me of the blending which takes place during pregnancy, in which there is the heartbeat of the unborn babe, and the mother's. In this poem, all seems reverse, as you nurtured him for his journey, not into this world, but into that which lies beyond the gates of death. Quietly I slip into the room staring at the still silent figure hearing only one heartbeat shadows shift and change A parallel thought, for me, was that as quietly as his soul slipped from his body, you slipped into the room, to see once more the now "silent figure" lying there. Your ears were still 'listening' as those of us who have kept vigil for or cared for the dying know - they will be listening for some time to come. It is very like the awareness a young mother has of her infant - hearing the least of sounds, ready to meet the needs of the loved one, even in sleep (so often interrupted). Silence so final I hear its echo Peace mingles with coldness Numb pain rises in my throat I cringe and slightly shiver As always your ability to evoke emotion through poetry is powerful and immediately. The assonant i's, for example, in S1, L1, 2 and 4, as well as S2, L1, 2, 3 and 4, are an example of fine crafting, seamlessly done so that the reader remains aware only of your subject, free to focus on emotions, the imagery and intensity of this work. Life reached its climax in the cool morning mist slipping away without notice death slithered quickly past The sensory impression of coolness or coldness is present throughout; "coldness/numb/cool/mist/shiver/steel" as the impersonality and finality of death penetrate the speaker's and the reader's awareness. unwelcome faceless void sucking essence of all human personality spitting only the shell of existence in memory of its hungry wake That death "slithered" evokes a sense of the serpent, vampire-like, a "faceless void" which sucks the "essence" of human personality away. Death is portrayed as emptiness, the absence of life, with malign intent. It isn't impersonal, you show us, when one we love is gone and we are faced with "only the shell of existence." emptiness stripping frail form fears tumble in the darkness whispering of mortality leaving heavy questions The part that strikes me so strongly in this stanza above is that where our loved one goes, we cannot follow. Our fears are naturally stirred, because though we may have faith, our normal human reaction is to see what is before us! And we are reminded of our own mortality, realizing that one day, someone will stand with us, looking on. reminding me of his pain, of my own pain pulsing rapidly through my heart as I gaze at his rigid face Though he is now free from his pain, the speaker looks on with pain still pulsing through her tender heart. The word "rapidly" suggests that the reality of his death is just now sinking in, that in caring for him, a certain amount of reality had to be denied. In order to treat him as the living being he was and to convey all of the love and hope the speaker held for him, these thoughts, as given in the poem, had to be set aside and dealt with later. I can see my own father's face, shortly after his death, devoid of the person I knew him to be. It seemed so strange to look at 'him' and yet realize that he was no longer part of the body which could no longer sustain his life. It is a great shock, and takes much time to absorb. My fingers lightly trace wrinkles of his forehead last gesture of caring after weeks of waiting This stanza is especially poignant, as it is clearly infused with a mixture of sorrow and relief. Relief that he is no longer suffering, sorrow that he will not return, that the speaker can do nothing else for him. And yet, the sense that she (you) pray for him, love him still, and share him with us here gives grace to us as readers and, I hope, to you in your mourning. hoping for a miracle seeing such fear unmask --It is terrifying to see the fear of the dying! behind those failing eyes remembering I had given comfort, some strength a prayer to soothe stormy moments when faith failed as cancer crawled within These two stanzas are so clearly distilled essence of your "weeks of waiting" that it is impossible to read them without weeping. That you were with him in his hours of fear and pain was the greatest gift a human being can extend to another, in my view. Steel stretcher rolls slowly out Finality of separation haunts leaving all who cared behind to wonder, remembering You touch upon the most important realizations following the death of a loved one -- the hardest, I think -- "finality of separation" - at least in the sense of the person as we knew them. If there is hope of reconciliation in heaven, it isn't taken for granted: Hope he is not lost forever remains Faith fights the dark curse, hearing my trembling whisper to deaf ears "you've finally made it, grandpa" One of the hardest poems to read, probably the finest you've written as far as I am aware. The final stanza's first line "Hope he is not lost forever" really resonated for me, as so many of those I loved who have died did not profess a personal faith in God. My belief in God's mercy sustains me as I hope it does you. The last line makes it impossible for me to see, so must close. With love, Joanne	2004-05-18 15:14:40
This Leda and Her Swan	Thomas Edward Wright	Tom: This poem seems to have appeared simultaneously with another 'swan-themed' one. I glanced at the times -- within nine minutes of one another. Though this swan and Leda are very different than the protagonists in the 'other' swan poem. I always read your poems, and always 'talk' to you as I do - my inner conversation, I've decided, should be the same as the response I write to you here. With that in mind, I will backtrack a little, and, reproduce my inward dialogue with you. Where once Zeus, wrapped in Swan feathers Ah, Tom! You know I love to talk about Zeus and his progeny. And anything archetypal or symbolic. Penetrated mortal Leda, begetting Helen and Clytemnestra, (Pollux) and Castor twinning, too – Oops! Seems that though Zeus impregnated Leda, Clytemnestra and Castor were Tyndareus' children, therefore they are mortal. Helen was immortal, as well as Pollux. Seems odd, because Pollux and Castor were twins that they could have different fathers. You are the physician, so I will let you sort that one out!Seems like they were really only half brothers. Dimly, Greco-Roman architecture, myth, Statuary, Renaissance oil on canvas – I must admit with a sigh - such was art. "Art" is a guy who lived so long ago that he's given credit for a whole lot of stuff that I think maybe somebody else did. But what of a palsied boy, locked in the wheeled Chair, hidden within the crooked stiff unwieldy self? Here I can't be frivolous. What about real, live, breathing people, you ask? How do they stack up next to paintings, statuary, and myths? Where does art leave off and life begin? Are we too taken in by symbols to see the immense beauty in "his swank head" you ask? What of his swank head? What of his passion? Should he chance meet a princess - One From another realm, what be his goals? You've caught me where I live. As a personal aside, while in college I worked at a small group home for children and adolescents labeled as developmentally delayed. Truthfully, in those days, they were called, "Retarded." An ugly label. "What of his passion?" Those I met had many passions, as well as hopes, fears, loves. Most to be completely ignored, as survival itself seemed to take priority. Going by the externals, we often overlook those "from another realm" you show us here. Any different than the Swan’s? Any less Royal? Any less impotent? Where unsheath he his sword? And if Leda is a thirty-something babe with Downs’? Good question! One for all of the Ledas and Swans, for all of those, of us, whose appearance suggests that we are not entitled to the same kinds of feelings as the more capable, better-looking, younger and more intelligent of our species? Excellent question. Who’s zoomin’ who? One wonders which Agency Would the loudest hue and cry raise to protect her. Protect from what? Breast to breast, they lay. The palm, so creased, redirects the dark storm. The offspring cry out from the simplest omelet - From the deep heart of man, that beast in each of us. Very organic, those eggs. You correctly picture "Agency" as impersonal, uncaring. We are alike, you show us here -- like beasts, like Leda's and Swans. We are like the omelet, full of the substance of organic life, full of its yearning to reproduce itself, to taste life with all of our senses. I love the reference to the simian crease. You give these two the respect they deserve - and by extension, all of us. My hat, if I had one, would be off to you, Sir More later, Joanne	2004-05-15 16:21:16
The Death of a Poet	G. Donald Cribbs	Dear Donald: This poem has such depth and range, and intensity of feeling and scope of expression that I fear I may falter in trying to give you a sense of my response to it. I can only give a sense, as somehow it does reach beyond the scope of words for me. Though the poem 'began' as words, it became something else, interior to my own experience. This is one I will print and save in my notebook - a permanent collection of favorites. Eunice will be remembered by many more than had the privilege of meeting her because of your moving tribute. You give us Eunice, and also Bly's translation of Rilke's "Der Schwan" and the parallel between the two poems enlightens and enlarges at least this reader's comprehension of life, how we live it, and how we leave it. The imagery in your first strophe is immensely evocative. The words "lumbering through this/living slumber" capture us with a slant-rhyme, and sense of the cumbersomeness of life in the body. Your liquid l's flow with great beauty in this first stanza - it is as if the poem holds the heaviness of the burden of earthly life within its scope. But "light leaves us at the lakeshore: and "swan-like fierceness flickering" are two of the finest phrases I have read anywhere - they simply take my breath away. How horribly the waters part beneath us, surround on all sides, "grapple" us with long "ripples", --sublime alliteration here "bony strokes" pressing us to --assonance here the lowest point of the lake floor." --and here--"horribly/floor" You capture all of the intonations of 'o' as "OH/OW/OOH/AH" for example. It is as if the cries of physical and spiritual anguish are translated into this submersion into the waters which force us to the "lowest point" in this life. How unlike surrender is L1-5 in S2! We face the reality of what the death of the body IS. But the dust-laden waters, "stirred and cycling around us" are "laid with prayers/and dreams too terrible to remember by morning" recall, at least for this reader, our origins from the elements of dust and water, our "whispered prayers" of supplication and frightening dreams, in which our vulnerability is greater than in full daylight alertness. How fragile we are then, and yet, "how stunned and numbly we wake" to "shake off the watery shroud." One is reminded of the question asked by St. Paul, "O grave, where is thy victory? Death, where is thy sting? But then, the surrendering comes as "we stumble down to lividity, hers" to "desperate death" with stoppage of the heart, and the escape of air, the important third element for the sustenance of life "altogether." Now, words stick fast to the inner walls, my chest still grasping for air, stubbornly held by the dream’s delicious and delicate darkness, drifting in the swan’s scything path and death, which is a letting go. At last, surrender and release. A question arises for this reader about the nature of "the dream's/delicious and delicate darkness" -- is it only thus, only a "drifting" when one no longer struggles? Is it not only one who dies who ceases to struggle, or the one who lives, witnessing the death? Or both? Nothing of sentimentality here, but an exquisite sculpting and recognition that these "waters cycling around us" and "the swan's scything path" are part of our fabric, part of the deeper beauty and grace of life. As a side comment, perhaps, because of the enormous richness of your poem, and the luminous dimensions of Rilke's, additional comments as to the meaning of the poem aren't really needed. You make it easier to accept (for this reader) by your acceptance. I think that your mother in law blessed many more than she can possibly know, as you have blessed us here with your generous offering. I feel as though I have only given a surface response, as this poem is likely one which will yet bear more fruit more me. It is an immense honor to comment. I am sorry for your loss. With this poem, like the swan, I think you help us as reader's "to be carried, each minute more fully grown, more like a king, composed, farther and farther on." Feeling incredibly blessed, Joanne	2004-05-15 15:20:14
Ashes	Rick Barnes	Rick: It still amazes me, after all this time, how your poetry can launch me into new experience, as if reading your words is more than reading your words! I felt the coldness of the absence of light and warmth, sensed the halting breaths with which each line is 'spoken' as if in slow realization of 'what is' and 'what is not' and the significance of absence. But the *feeling* of the poem is as if a terrible blow has been struck, and the speaker is bereft, perhaps with the loss of a relationship. That's the second layer, because, on first reading, my mind did a few quantum leaps and I listened for the 'music of the spheres' which I always hear in your work. You have the unique ability to combine what seems like 'personal' experience with a more universal awareness -- more philosophical insights per pixel (smile) than I can absorb or digest. If this were a musical concert, I'd want to have prepared myself somewhat by reading about the composer, or listening to recordings of the music to be played, and at least be in a receptive frame of mind. I am calm, seated, relaxed and eager for the first notes. When I hear *this* music begin to play, I realize that I am going to hear more about myself and my own experience of 'music' and self than I expected, distracting me some from the melody placed there by the composer (poet). It is uncanny, once more. And yet, as Mell wrote, every poem's an autograph, and surely this must be more about "Rick" than it is about me! It confounds me how your work always feels as if it is an experience happening within my consciousness, rather than something which comes from outside of myself. I think I have wandered far enough off the trail and am not making sense. (smile) But of course, this is the effect your poetry has - it combines sounds/experiences/awareness in new ways, so that I am always a bit shaken up. This is what I mean when I say that your poetry "moves" me -- because I am lifted and deposited in new territory every time I read something of yours. One needs to stand in the absence of warmth to grasp degree. These lines are the most poignant of all for me. This sets up a yearning in me for that reconciliation with the One, the Other, which is unending. Is warmth truly absent if we can pine for it, if we 'remember' it enough to miss it? If we "grasp degree" then we must still be connected to warmth somehow, lest the memory slip away and our entire experience becomes one of coldness. So it must be most of all, the spark. That is what is really gone. Everything else is afterglow. Do we live in the dim remembrance of the spark, or, as Mary Oliver says, "I remember how everything will be everything else, by and by." Or are we pulled into what we may call the 'future' by our remembrance, when we realize that the afterglow is truly empty of substance? Fire is fire alone. Light and warmth leave nothing behind that was not there when they arrived, no more cold, no less dark. If "fire is fire alone" then what is it - what are we - when we realize that the "spark has gone?" Ashes. Ashes are what we find when the spark has gone. I won't solve this today. I will stir the ashes, looking for what was lost, sitting in the middle of it, in the middle of it, and gradually turn to see that though the ashes have grown cold, I have the spark (of light) within me. Only then (in a few millennium) will I stop making more out of the ashes than is there. Ohhhh - I think I sprained something (but this is 'good pain') trying to reach where this poem seems to want to take me. I can sense your smile and patience with a reader who writes and writes and still can't define what it is about this poem that makes me glad to have lived long enough to have read it just now. Pondering anew, Joanne n	2004-05-14 18:56:28
Where The Heart Is	Mell W. Morris	Dear Mell: It's more than a coincidence, I think. Truly, I don't believe in them, but take all events as signals. This poem appearing today, same day as mine, and your comments to me, and mine to you, I think are evidence of an underlying fabric which unites individuals such as we. This poem is an incredibly meaningful one to me, even if I separate it from its context (our mutual loves of poetry, writings on the link, et al). It speaks so tenderly of love and loss, of all that can be pried away from us during life's unexpected turns as to reveal the very substance of our souls. The first line can be read as addressing a 'move' from one house to another, as well as physical movement, and, if one is so inclined, a move from one state of being to another. You have touched upon the archetypal within experience here. Your lilac tree speaks of the "sap of trust" and also of "truth, and tears" - and the alliteration with "toss" infuses these lines with a sense of delicate effort, if you will. The thought of "blooms toss/like virgin-velvet runes" captures the purity of these blossoms and their demise seems to foreshadow the kinds of losses identified in this poem. How could such delicate "virgin-velvet runes" (this evokes the image of a virgin, dressed in lilac velvet, with her life perhaps in 'ruins' to this reader) foretell anything but something of poignancy, but with an innate, indestructible beauty? "Runes" as defined in my Webster's alludes to "mystery" and "secret discussion" and the Old Irish 'rún mystery' - which seems very apropos given your predilection for Irish poetry. Snippets of thread must lie in corners From hours of plying needle to sew a hem, Mend for him while I unraveled crooked Seams and faulty dreams. The powerful L1 in S2 reveals a 'scissoring sound' with "snippets" and an allusion to that which remains hidden, or deceitful, like the thread which "must lie in corners." Sharp scissors/needles, but subtle implications, as the sounds of the scissors are muted. The undefined 'him' could be a spouse or male child. The subdued anguish of the lines, the hours spent "plying needle to sew a hem", to "mend for him" while unraveling "crooked seams" and "faulty dreams" perhaps carry the implication that the speaker exhausts herself with efforts to 'mend' the relationship, "unravel" that which had gone awry in life (in both lives). The fallen blossoms seem to have released her cherished dreams . The word 'faulty' suggests, at least to this reader, that the speaker may believe her dreams were unfulfilled because of a 'fault' within herself. Forgive me if I have strayed too far from your intent. "At least one long brown hair to prove I Lived there and left pieces of me" -- Your poem "Every Poem An Autograph" comes to mind for me here. As always, your poetics are deftly handled, so beautifully detailed and encoded into the work as to be nearly 'invisible' stitches. "brown/follow", "new/dwellers" are tiny samples of your superb artistry. "As I think What delight the sight of my lilac must Bring, I wonder about the homeless, all Of their possessions abandoned in sundry Places. That may be the reason that with Every season, there seems less sum Etymologically, abandoned means to be "un-called" or to be "without a destiny." According to Webster's New World Dictionary of the American Language, the verb 'abandon' means: 1. Give up (something) completely; 2. to leave, forsake, desert; 3. to yield completely. The speaker perhaps identifies with the homeless, their plight of being subject to 'the summons' or the power of the call (or summoning). Each word you've chosen here adds to the sense of the nearly universal experience of being severed from remembrance of each one's own true indentity, summed brilliantly in your exquisite, truly empathic final line: "Where do their lilacs grow?" The speaker gives us a vision of something greater than ourselves, perhaps a chance to uncover that which remains hidden (like the mysterious message of the runes) within. The poet Robert Browning said that the role of art was for the writer, artist, poet, composer, dancer, or craftsperson to reveal the work of the soul itself. That, I think, is what you have done in this poem. For this I can only offer my thanks and deepest admiration! You've expanded my understanding into a new level of awareness and inspired me to continue in my own efforts. Brava, brava, brava! I will dream of volumes of leather-bound poetry with your name on them. All my best, Joanne	2004-05-13 18:45:33
The Last Visit	Sherri L. West	Dear Sherri: I read this a couple of weeks ago and wept. I intended to comment on it long before now. It is a combination that is heartbreaking, but so beautiful that I knew I would struggle with a way to communicate to you about it. You've shown us your grandmother - her spirit - her love - and you've shown us yourself and your connection with her in a way that is unforgettable. I think that the hardest things to write about are love and loss - and you've succeeded in writing about both in a way that simply takes my breath away. Without ever having met her or you, I feel so connected to this woman whose life has infused your own life with such love as to be almost indescribable. "Almost" is a very big word, but you have surpassed its barrier. Nothing can inform a poem more strongly than deep devotion and truth. Your poetic crafting is superior, as well - but what makes this poem live for me is its complete authenticity. It is a gift to read it and to offer comment. The feelings which inspired this piece give it the ability to surpass form. Tires crunched on the gravel drive, my heart thumped in anticipation. Lemon trees burdened with spring’s first blossoms blessed the afternoon air Your "crunched/thumped/burdened" are an example of the fine poetic crafting referred to earlier. The soft feel of the words "lemon trees" and "blossoms blessed" are like a blessing in themselves. The poignancy of "spring's first blossoms" prepare the reader for the contrast of your grandmother's last days. The lemon trees carry their new life like a burden, because it seems that they, too, prepare for your grandmother's final days. You met us on the walkway; your frailty was unfamiliar Once sturdy limbs were now withered and wobbly The unbelievable transformation of one once so "sturdy" who is now "withered/wobbly" seems like a travesty - as if a thief has stolen the beloved grandparent and replaced her with an elderly woman who is nearly unrecognizable in her weakness. Her frail frame does not seem sufficient to hold her great spirit. What you point out through this piece is, indeed, her great spirit. Strong enough to inspire us through your words. I reached to hug your thin, bowed shoulders. Your wary “Welcome-stranger-have-we-met-before” smile pierced my soul This is the place where I wept so much I had to leave the poem and move on. My own grandmother died of a brain tumor, so that in her final weeks, she did not recognize me at all -- nor anyone else. This was the most painful experience of my life at that time. (Don’t you remember me? My mind stumbled in stunned disbelief; I am the firstborn of your firstborn, the special one; you told me so…) You show us that you know that she doesn't remember - yet in other ways, you also show us that your connection is as strong as ever - that in the depth of her illness - she remains your center and heart. I am convinced that her soul did and does recognize you, though her physical sensorium was unable to do so. Gentle mercy sheltered you from loss of husband and son but I lost you in the haze of the past Deeply poignant words - and I hear your gratitude for the suffering she was spared. Perhaps the brain and its memories protect us from present reality when that reality is too difficult to bear - it would seem that a merciful Creator grants this grace to many. You show it here as a loss - and it is - and acknowledge that the beloved elder is spared suffering. During lazy days spent in the shade, you remembered your childhood but not mine We sipped cool lemonade and yearned to connect hearts and souls I am convinced that she yearned as much as you, that she would have made her way back to reality if she could, even including the remembrance of the loss of her husband and son to be there with you. But that door had been locked. However, the doorway of the soul is never locked. That she spoke to you on this level is so evident in this poem that I have chills. Old pictures and old memories uncovered unknown treasures. I was amazed at the you I never knew. You recalled someone with my name… A contact with her -- through the haze of failing memory - she showed that she did remember you - the 'you' of her past. I love these words - "the you I never knew." What longing is expressed to know all of her - when the realization has come that she is moving away from earthly life for good. I had to stop and take a few deep breaths to continue, as I am reminded of my granddaughter's discomfort when she sees signs of aging in me. She explained to me, at age three, that I would die someday, "But not for a long time yet." She was repeating what she had heard to comfort herself though she appeared to want to comfort me. I felt fine, but realized that my mortality is visible to her. I'd wish to spare her, but realize that I cannot do this, because, like you, she wants to know "all" of me - including the woman she senses but can never meet -- the one of the past who raised her mother. In photos of a young woman on the wind whipped prairie, I searched your face and found my spirit ----WONDERFUL! These three lines are an entire poem unto themselves. They show the connection that is stronger than life itself - the connection from spirit to spirit. What an amazing privilege it is to read these words. What a great gift your grandmother has given you, and gives you still. I came seeking comfort from my past and left with strength from yours You gave me a gift you didn’t know you had. -----(I believe that she knows now. She would give you her very self if that were possible.) And now I know I am special, because of you... Can you see that I’m still crying? I believe she does, Sherri. She knows that your crying is part of what must take place as you must cope without her. But I also believe that she sees ahead when you will be reunited with her. I feel that she is already rejoicing for you because she knows how great your joy will be then, and that will be your greatest gift to her. You have honored her and us with this poeem of remembrance. Brava, and a bouquet of her favorite flowers -- moss roses, lilies of the valley? Perhaps the purple iris. The flowers she grows in heaven are not as beautiful as the ones she has planted in your heart. Kudos, once more. All my best, Joanne	2004-05-05 12:54:05
What Old Men Struggle with at Times Like This	Thomas Edward Wright	Tom: Read this one a while ago - well, close to the time you submitted it. It was kind of difficult to respond to - quite honestly, as I definitely am a believer in Christianity - of the orthodox kind. This year was an unusual year in that I partook of all of the Easter celebrations including some new ones, at least for me. I am also, in my soul (please, no offense to anyone of the Jewish faith) a Jew, and a Buddhist, as well as a past-life agnostic and devourer of chocolate bunnies. I know it's not possible to be all these things, but I am. When it comes to religion, I can't rule anyone's out. And you aptly point out in this poem that the world is smashing to bits, and there's blood on the rug by my TV too - the replacement one for the 80's that sits like an Orwellian observer. Here's the part in this poem I love best: It is Easter Eve. I am in red plaid pajamas and slippers. The moon is bright in the southern sky. I have the ear of a bunny between my teeth. And I can hear the crickets calling. And I can hear the frogs croaking. It's a comforting thought, you and the bunny ear, and crickets calling and frogs croaking. (I'd not take offense if I thought you were making fun of me and my frequent elation over such things.) Anyone who can appreciate all of the things so dear to my own heart cannot deserve anything less than approbation. Or probation -- whichever comes first. ;) Ever fondly, Joanne	2004-05-05 00:04:29
Creature Comforts	Mick Fraser	Mick: You've gotten away from your 'prosy self' dramatically here! Please forgive my delay in commenting - a bit of traveling has made my critiques briefer and late, but I hope still welcome. This whimsical 'point-of-view' poem is both charming and disarming. It makes me laugh and also wonder - who is the speaker referring to as 'her'? - no need to reply. The speaker seems pretty 'sober' for having a water bowl filled with whiskey! My view of the world is through cats' eyes often curious, often frightened, often not caring I mostly want to be left alone Her vision is through the eyes of an old nag often curious, often frightened, often disgusted She mostly wants love (true of many of us 'old nags') My water bowl is filled with whisky lapping up liquid that is my catnip always after laying on my favorite recliner (I think "lying" is more correct, grammatically speaking.) Her trough provides hidden morsels of comfort she chews with large blunt teeth but she is never nourished Now I have the 'sounds' of chewing "with large blunt teeth" and a cat lapping out of a water bowl competing with each other! The oral activity seems decreed not to grant the comfort nor nourishment which is sought. A fine, ironic parody of the life of a couple who are of different species. As always, Mick, your work is original in style and spicy in flavor. Very tasty morsels for discerning readers! Thank you for this poem - it gives me much to ponder, and inspires -- perhaps, a parody of my own. Keep them coming! Kudos! All my best, Joanne	2004-05-04 16:41:52
The world is wet.	Jane A Day	Jane: The attraction of your poetry for me is in its subtlety, in the magnetism of the empty spaces around the words written. Like graphic art, which is as much about the space around whatever is painted or drawn, this poem's conditional, ephemeral effects seem to point me to a hollowness, an emptiness. This seems to want to fill with all of the unconscious yearning I carry, unaware, until your poem reminds me, resonates, echoes. I imagine that each reader will come away from the work with a different experience, which in my mind is the mark of great writing. What seems to strike me strongest is the conditional tense of "If I were to lay out among the grass" The tense is past, but we are talking about the present, now. The speaker refers, in the final line to "wishes" unfulfilled. The melancholy of the type of wish seems to "seep" as in L6 of S2, into this reader's consciousness. This is immensely appealing, tender, and suggests a kind of longing for the quiet of death, or at least for the surcease of struggle. The element of rain suggests emotions. Rain cleanses the air; perhaps this rain accompanies the speaker in a time of intense emotional purification. Rain is often associated with tears; is the speaker grieving? The intimacy of the rain filling up the bellybutton, running down the hips suggests a sensual experience for the speaker of being alone in the dark, outside, lying on the ground and allowing the rain to 'fill' what is hollow - the bellybutton, wash over the hips - for a woman, the place of birth, the container for life and sexuality. The speaker is "among the grass" - not among humans or animals, but grass, "the night, the starting white flowers"- are these lilies, symbolizing death, as in dreams? (White lilies are used at funerals to signify life after death.) Are these flowers signifying "life before death"? The neighbors who check their windows probably don't see the speaker; it is doubtful that they see the flowers. They check "for the seep" and "for the glimmer" of raindrops "against the panes." I can't help but associate "panes" with 'pains' - and the "glimmer of drops" are like the glimmer of tears, caused by pain. They check for these things in their own windows, while the speaker lies "among the grass" and the night. The people at their windows are parallel to the speaker, do not sense her suffering, but are nearby. The aching for connection and the dread of it, the desire for solitary quiet reach through these lines to me. What woundedness has caused the speaker to renounce her wishes in favor of this kind of slow drowning? "We all make wishes." And so the question arises in this reader's mind: does the speaker feel sorrow for the wishes she has made, unfulfilled, or for the position among the grass and the white flowers, in the rain, while the neighbors check for "seep"? Loneliness here feels more compelling than the busy neighbors' attention to everyday tasks, if you will. Lastly, the title's "The world is wet." seems a declaration that all the world is weeping, at least from the perspective of the speaker. My reaction to the title is that the world is weeping (or ought to be) for the sadness surrounding this planet. Does the speaker hope for a unitive experience, in which all on the planet embrace in a universal awareness of the suffering of many of its peoples, of the destruction of its habitat for "startling white flowers" animals and people? What I 'heard' in a metaphoric sense may well be my own projection: "The world is wet, why aren't we weeping?" Are we each tending to our own 'windows' (perspectives) of our individual lives and security, and not tending to the needs and sorrows of all of those who do weep? (alone on the grass) Thank you for this poem, for the chance to dwell in it and seek its meaning, appreciate its fragile beauty. It makes me contemplate the ways in which I am untransformed, the ways in which I check my windowsills for "seep" - and examine the dreams which I may have abandoned all too soon. All my best, Joanne	2004-04-28 13:19:37
Learning to Fly	Mick Fraser	Mick: How could we not? Encourage you, I mean. It is in our own best (and selfish) interest, because you supply us with delightful, thoughtful things to read. I read this in one gulp without reading the additional notes the first time. I thought, "Mick is experiencing some great changes!" I was kind of happy with that idea, though I thought I certainly hadn't inferred from your earlier works that this might be 'you' as I've ever met you on the screen. However, reading your additional notes, it becomes clear that 'this' is not 'you' -- in one sense. I love the respect you give the subject of the poem. I love the humor here, and the real, vivid and effective ways you have shown that we may find ourselves doing something completely unexpected at any time in life. But I want to get back around to my point that this poem is "not you as I've ever met you on the screen." Mell Morris wrote that every poem is a biography. And she is correct. And this poem is biographical. And in it we meet the Mick we know and love for his wit and ability to get us mentally up and moving. My hands are whirligigs spinning wildly on a windy day --fabulous allits here! in time with the movements of the "cyclone" of thoughts --wonderful! whirling through my mind I'm searching for the perfect order Aren't we all? I love this!! I am uncomfortably aware that this portrait could be of me as well as of the "very elderly lady." Had the medicine man not moved me to this I doubt I'd have ever valued physical movement yet his prognosis is the most doubtful (likelihood)	2004-04-27 15:05:36
What is Rooted We Revisit in Sleep	G. Donald Cribbs	Don: I have read this at least a dozen times, and each time I come to it, it reveals fresh insights. I want to offer comments which are worthy of so fine a work, and yet I find my thoughts are diffuse and still forming. This poem is not finished doing its 'work' on me, but nevertheless, I offer my responses now, imperfect as they are, before time and month's end may prevent my doing so. Tonight we closed the bookstore, a warm privacy of illumination clustered around and around us. Our hunger poured over pages of words, gobbled down with sips of coffee. This pleasant frolicking lightens steps taken to the field, and the heavied ones afterward. "around and around us" is an example of the kind of crafting that makes a poem like a warm sweater on a cold day - it simply surrounds one with its safety and assurance. I found a home in these words, in the bookstore, that I did not want to leave. Perhaps that is some of the procrastination I experienced about offering comments - it will be in my 'done' pile. I don't want to bid it 'good-bye'. We are prepared for the "heavied" steps to come "afterward." I was completely immersed in the poem from this word, "afterward." A true book lover understands that "hunger" which "poured over the pages." Magnificent! All evening long our boats with oars drift through dark waters, rippled currents edged in deep night. By morning our bedclothes are soaked, hulking vessels chugging towards the shore. Our footprints threaded through watery pastures have all gone, leaving no trace, no sound. What an incredible metaphor for the journey deep into books, and the lingering effects they have on the couple in sleep. These very light 'dream bodies' seem not so much figurative as actual. I think that this must be the premise given in the title. Alone in the field, our sycamore resolutely stands—a sentinel guarding moments still sacred, altared before us, silences of unspoken words when I knelt before you, made the scream rise gurgling from the back of your throat’s delicious and silky darkness; an offering, a receiving. There is something so sacred here that I am reluctant to offer comment other than I felt I was present. The wind is hoarse from wailing all night, wheat threshed upon the ground. From here we see each marker, every dog-eared page, words risen prayers before these life altars. One sleep passes into another sleep, days tumbling end over end. Under the torpid darkness of trees the body slowly heals. "our sleep passes into another sleep" is mesmerizing. I spent much time reflecting on what this may mean in my several readings. I am reminded of Shakespeare's "To sleep, perchance to dream." What is life and what is dream, and which is reality? What is the healing of the body in the final line? We have forgotten all words, silence except the rustling of browned stalks, the winter wheat extends its hairy bristled arms to hold us longer in the field. How often we go back to the sycamore, guarding the field’s edge. Our words are all gone—spilt out over our lips spread wide open to take, but what to give? It seems there has been a death, or a loss of some immense kind. What has the couple lost which has resulted in their forgetting all words? What has injured one or both of them, but led them to approach the sycamore, which guards the "field's edge." What is it that stands at the edge of life, that is strong enough to hold them together in the face of this enormity? The hope of trees, new leaves. Hope is that which gives confidence, faith, reliance in that which is to come. Trees, "new leaves" could be many things. Trees are one of the most significant symbols throughout the world. The Tree of Life, the Tree of Knowledge. The roots of the tree (the roots of the title) go deep into the earth and can be likened to earthly life. The leaves can be likened to children, or to higher forms of consciousness. We can be grounded in the earth yet soar to great spiritual heights with the safety of that grounding. The poem is so much more than what I have listed here. I will return to it to seek its meaning, again and again. Bravo for a fine work, once more. All my best, Joanne	2004-04-27 14:22:59
Untitled 2	stephen g skipper	Stephen: This poem is as powerful as your others, and I am grateful that you still write as a means of expression and healing. As someone whose writing began with the loss of someone whose loss I could not accept, I know the deep well of sorrow from which this poem emerges. You honor us by offering it here. I am also grateful that the poet in you continues to give voice to anguish and love for Paula. You keep us in touch with that love, with Paula's presence in your life, and the transforming power of the written word. I am deeply moved by this poem, and though I realize it is placed here for comment, don't want to suggest changes. I would like to see many more pomes like this, in as spontaneous forms as you are able to allow - because I strongly believe that there is a book of poems waiting to be written. And I am a reader who will rejoice in each one, as in this one. This stanza which struck me most powerfully: Waiting for a thunderbolt of reason, Arms now outstretched, For a (lightning) strike of truth, Because she's gone. Here you have captured the core of the matter. How can so powerful a presence in one's life be absent, and how can anything else ever have an impact on one after such a loss? Truly, it would take a "thunderbolt of reason" and a "lightning strike of truth" to make sense of so unacceptable a loss, and to have a reason to persevere. And you give that reason (thankfully!) in the final lines: I will keep the faith, After my own fashion, Never to forget her utter love and passion. I've been waiting for this poem. It inspires in me the hope that I, too, can endure after extreme hardship, can making meaning of life after great tragedy. You inspire me to continue my own 'griefwork'. Thank you for the gift of this poem. And I look forward to many more. All my best, Joanne	2004-04-27 13:45:19
ABC's of Life	Mick Fraser	Dear Mick: You know that I admire your work, and this one is no exception. Except, I feel I ought to know this woman, for whom I feel admiration after reading your poem. I felt there was a bit of mystery going into it, and for this reason, and others, it has intensified my interest. The "ABC's of Life" title intrigues. Then you have several words in caps --"Brando", "Aesop’s", "H", "Stella" -- I was looking for literal abc's there, and wondered if "cardinals" could have been capped. There's a Sudbury in Canada, I found. And then there's Kim Delaney, whose pilot "Sudbury" is about two witches. Kim, according to the TV Guide "Insider" has recently completed treatment for alcohol addiction. But I am giving all that clue-hunting up, and simply going to enjoy the poem for itself. Here is a woman who was addicted to "red devils" - I believe these are Seconals, in the barbiturate family, and "H" is street slang for heroine. Whoever she is, she has made it back to life after near brushes with death, and perhaps has set aside certain ideals, as Stella did in the ending of Tennessee William's play. She didn’t remember ever seeing a cardinal at any time in her childhood in Sudbury and now having returned after a long absence she was seeing them every day. It is ironic how we see things differently from the perspective of adulthood. Childhood's mirrors are distorted by our need to protect ourselves from complete awareness, you imply here. Perhaps it was her father’s or mom's fault (I suggest "mother" to pair with "father") limiting her experiences in her formative years resulting in a repulsive chain of events and her living in squalor. Seeing Brando act out snippets of life's lessons or perhaps learning morals from Aesop’s fables conceivably could've helped her accomplish miracles and avoid the junkie trail. After reading this stanza, I thought long and hard about how what seems to be 'destiny' can be avoided - or could it? Is there a genetic predisposing factor, or perhaps another, less tangible one, which predetermines the 'fate' of some? Is it family dynamics, the culture in which one matures, or perhaps even the expected gender role? These are bits, I think - "snippets of life's lessons" and "fables" heard. It would take miracles, you imply, for her to have avoided the "junkie trail." Flophouses and Pigeon Park were comforting as were the red devils during her sleigh-ride days and after graduating to H as her highest faith cold cells didn’t shake her conviction. You show vividly the impact of addiction. The way you use "conviction" to imply both sentencing to punishment for a crime or belief in a compelling truth. Both seem to apply in this instance. Twenty years later back home with her true love her new dependency bringing a sense to life she finally has a steady job and is a contender and has learned to love the name Stella. We cannot help but reflect on the role of "Stella" in the play, and wonder if this woman fills that role, and also if her name is the same or similar, or if we are thinking of the deeper meaning -- "star" or a host of other associations. "new dependency" contrasts with the earlier ones in that it seems to bring her happiness, allow her to be "a contender" and to accept herself. Well-done, thoughtful work. I don't mind the prose-like quality. The poem feels not forced, but flowing, something you 'had' to write. I am now extremely curious about the writer's intent for this work. Kudos! All my best, Joanne	2004-04-27 12:59:39
Majourney Well	Thomas Edward Wright	Tom: I can only speak to my emotion, reading this. There is an ache in my throat and a pressure behind my eyes. Maybe it's projection, but in these lines I read immense tenderless, love and grief for a mother who may be dying or who has already done so. The "fare thee well" breaks my heart. We do know the necessity of those leave-takings, but they are, because we love, the hardest of life's experiences. As her sails ‘neath horizon slide I see from opposing shore Her anticipated arrival: Fair thee well mama-door. "one cherishes the onlies" - yes, there can be only one "mama-door" for each of us. To have been cherished (as you cherish her in this poem) is the greatest tribute of all. All of your work is a testament to her. How painful it is that we are fated to be separated from those who love us best from the moment of our birth, and they from us. It's difficult, but I must close these remarks because I can't find words. With you, Joanne	2004-04-21 14:09:56
Eye Hath Not Seen	Marcia McCaslin	Oh, Marica!! You have really tickled my funny bone (or truffle-tongue?) with this delightful, Suess-ian frolic. Not only is it hilarious but uplifting. The very freshness of this piece would be a difficult thing to achieve had you not been inspired (or flummoxed) by the enormous price and incredible attention paid to this rare delicacy when - I have to say it - many children in the world die each day of starvation for the lack of even basic food such as rice or milk. I watched a $50,000 truffle dog on the Food Channel. He sniffed out truffles that sell for $200 a pound. I may never have truffles here on earth, but I do believe that, at the Marriage Supper of the Lamb, there will be: I've never seen a 'truffle dog'--and the thought occurs to me, I wonder what the smell could compare to? I located (dug up?) an article on 'truffs' based on the curiosity your poem stirred in me, at http://www.beyond.fr/themes/truffles.html -- << The truffle harvester, we'll call him Antoine since he didn't want to give me his name (part of the mystique of the trade), had three dogs with him. He actually raises dogs to hunt for truffles, and contrary to popular belief, the best are not Labradors. He had a Lab on hand, but in the group dynamic (i.e. one man, three dogs, and a shovel), the Lab deferred to a sprightly little mutt. In fact, by the end of the day, the Lab was having a bit of an inferiority complex, because he never really found a truffle without his co-worker getting there first. (What makes the Labs practical is their steady temperament and their good sense of smell, however, they have bulky paws that get hurt on the rough terrain.) In this case, each of the three dogs had a particular role. A black sheep dog often sniffed out the good ones and let the second, a young mutt, dig out the truffle. Finally, the Lab liked to claim the discovery as his, so he would strut over to the truffle siting and sit regally, like someone posing with someone elses trophy. >> truffles fried and truffles pie’d, truffles breaded, stuffed and dried, ----Here's the really fantastic Seuss-like rhythm!!! creamy truffles casseroled, truffles hot, and truffles cold, truffles candled béchamel, ---and you've even used the French accent acute accurately! More than earthly tongue can tell, Truffles lost in butter sauce, (oh! The alliteration here - it butters my tongue!) In a salad, deftly tossed, In a bread, homemade and baked, In a sweet dessert, square-caked, (love this. love this) Dinner entrée, breakfast fare-- We will see them everywhere! And I like believing that the truffle dog will be there-- the sleek, devoted, friend-to-man-- begging scraps, like all dogs, on either side of heaven. Oh yes! How wonderful. The consideration to dogs, "on either side of heaven" is a splendid way to end the piece. Despite the wit and artistry, your final stanza is my favorite. For such devotion, more than a scrap of raw meat is deserved. I learned on my adventure in search of more information on truffles that sometimes the truffle dogs-in-training are deprived of food to give them keener senses, or even blind-folded (I don't know how this is accomplished) and as we read above, that Labs get their paws hurt on the rough terrain. I love the idea that dogs will be present in heaven, all of their doggly nature intact. The very idea of a dog-less or cat-less heaven doesn't appeal to me. You remind me in this poem of the devotion of dogs - for example, the ones who went for days and days to find bodies after 9-11 and often had glass embedded in their paws. Marsha -- your title, "Eye Hath Not Seen" tells us that the woman behind the poem is devoutly spiritual; while writing with a light touch, you remind us of the eternal, of the One Who made us all, of things to come. Excellent in every imaginable way. Onto my list it goes! And now I am hungry for something I've never tasted (and likely never will) and thinking about dogs in heaven and the Marriage Supper of the Lamb. Not a bad way to begin the day! Brava, brava! All my best, Joanne	2004-04-19 13:32:17
Hat Language	Marcia McCaslin	Marcia: I enjoyed this poem enormously. It is in a different format than usually seen here, but there is no reason why a poem has to be in certain form - in fact, it is quite refreshing to find one that is a 'maverick' so to speak - this seems in keeping with the theme. Who could possibly begin to read this and not finish reading? You have a way of involving the reader, of eliciting emotion with your writing that is endearing and a trademark "Marsha" quality. I recall your writing recently to a poet about their poem that a poem says as much about a person as it does its subject, or words to that effect. I think that that description fits you, too, especially in this poem. You bring out the characteristics of the hat, owner, writer and a whole host of other things in "Hat Language." Some of my favorite passages in the introductory lines -- "once shapely and crisp from the factory" "approaching the end of its seasons" "frayed and fingersmudged" "Old Comfy Slipper status" I can't help but think that some of us who have been long-married could describe our spouses in these terms, as well. If it could talk, it would tell you of its life in such colorful terms, you would see the pictures dancing before your eyes—and with such eloquence that you wouldn’t believe your ears. You make the pictures dance before our mental 'eyes' in a wonderful way. I got a little mixed up between 'eyes' and 'ears' in the lines above - then I remembered that the hat is 'telling' a story, above all. I only need to listen. Terrific allits/assonance in "lost and tossed" - "terrible twisters" - "knocked off" for example. I especially enjoyed the pacing given by your spacing below: and hail storms that could— that could— well-- could ruin a man’s hat! We can feel the hat's distress over the elements outrageous behavior towards a valued object (itself) belonging to the persona of its human owner. Almost sputtering in disbelief at the *nerve* of those hail storms! "calloused fingers on its crown" -- WONDERFUL! Great internal rhyme of "crown/town" Someone else is going to suggest breaking the piece up into stanzas. I can't help myself - I want to do it, too. I know you know how to do this and don't need my advice. I visualized these lines kind of like this -- "tipped good-naturedly by those same fingers when meeting with friends at the local watering hole and exchanging a few stories over coffee or a good whiskey" Moderate, polite behavior of the owner, along with the ability to relish life and share portray the owner of the hat as a warm, thoughtful, "old shoe" kind of guy who would wear well over time, much as the hat has been worn. It would laugh as it told you of being left atop a spade, being the hat for the scarecrow, and having grandkids pull and tug at it to (make him)look just like grandpa. -- a tiny suggestion "It might even mention being worn by Gregor the goat in the Fourth of July parade." - my favorite! I love all of these colorful actions, below: "stepped on" "slapped against a pant leg" "sworn at" "snugged-down" "circled and waved and used for a pointer" "brandished like a sword and twirled like a pistol" On a personal note, one of my grandfathers was originally a cowboy, before he became "a railroad man." Pictures of him in youth (few, because back then, there weren't many cameras around) show him wearing a hat like this. I can easily imagine his hat in all of the motions you depict for us here. "Its sweat band will forever testify to the hard work a cowboy does." In an age of increasing mechanization, factory farming, and corporate conglomerates, this tribute is especially refreshing and welcome. It makes me sad to realize that the days when a cowboy's hard work and sweat were a sign of nobility and dignity may be coming to a close. Disappearing along with the corner drugstore, letters written in ink and mailed, knowing all of the small business owners in town, and many other things of value. "It knows its days are numbered now." --A melancholy, mournful note as sad as a passing train whistle heard from afar. It has seen a brand new Stetson, without spot or blemish, waiting to be put into service, its smell as delicate as the wheat fields which produced it. Perhaps a subtle allusion to the way things are done now, compared to the craftsmanship and practicality of the past. I see the bull (steer?) eating the grain, being slaughtered, skinned, and the leather tanned and processed into the 'brand new Stetson' with that 'new hat' smell. What will become of the old hat? Well, it knows its owner to be a conservative and sweetly sentimental man, who might carefully undo the straw and add it to the bedding in the barn where on cold nights, with the Heavens declaring the Glory of God, a calf or a lamb might bed down and provide the closeness and warmth to which an old curled hat has grown accustomed. The biblical manger scene suggests itself above, at least to this reader. The dignity of the "old curled hat" is maintained even as it is recycled into the straw. The "closeness and warmth" "its owner" is what comes through most strongly. There is more than a hint of mourning here - and yet, the story is such a comforting one that I feel a greater sense of peace and acceptance of what is (and what is to come) for having read your poem. There is no other story-teller, song-writer-poet like you, Marcia. I love this poem and send it and its writer and its subject every possible blessing and good wish. Brava!! Thank you for this!! All my best, Joanne	2004-04-17 14:39:34
japanese verse 45 (Stream)	Erzahl Leo M. Espino	Dear Erzahl: It is so clear - as clear as the water in "Stream" that your genius for haiku is nothing short of a gift from God. I find this one so inspiring as to defy my ability to describe my responses. In terms of 'critique' - that is, framing suggestions and ideas for change - I have none. In my view, this poem is 'perfection' as it is, and meant to be received as a gift. Such short, intense poems have always been a favorite of mine. It is unnecessary to give the kind of verbose, at length comments that I customarily write for this excellent work. But I will comment on some of the delights and imagery which springs to mind for me: Hidden rivulet Midst the shoulders of mountains --wonderful alliteration of m's Runs to open sea The assonance you employ in "hidden/rivulet/midst" is truly lovely. The i's are like the flowing sparkles often seen in water. There is a hint here that the things which are hidden are often the most powerful; for after all, who or what else "runs" on the majestic "shoulders" of these mineral giants? What other force could traverse these immense formations, gradually deepening the crevices, so that each time the small rivulet "runs to the open sea" a better pathway is made? This poem could be a metaphor for making the effort, though we are small, to pursue our goals, to follow our soul's urgings, even though the way may seem impossible. We, too, have "shoulders" to support our journey. Our Lord gives us strength and purpose; these mountains can be a metaphor for our own "mountains" which can be moved only by our faith, or which we someday can overcome only through faith, just as the small rivulet eventually will join the sea. Perhaps the sea can be a metaphor for heaven. In any case, this poem is "heaven-sent" and for this, please accept my thanks! Bravo!! Superbly well-done! All my best, Joanne	2004-04-15 13:09:12
Thumb of Green	Mell W. Morris	Mell: Did I dream it, or have I read this one before? It is fresh, new and as full of vitality as if just born; but still, I swear I've lingered on these lines before. In any case, the poem reminds me of our own Marcia. I don't know that this is exactly what she does, but I have a (framed) mental picture of her, somehow. Just as the woman in the soil, her generosity -- "the sharing part" is the heart of her garden and poetry. Well, but I am getting off track. It could be a bit of exuberance - finding your poem just now, when I submitted one not minutes ago, too. And even both of them about growing things. And I swear to you, I almost used the word "gleefully" - I 'heard' it but chose another. I love the wit that fills this piece with Mell-i-fluent light. Her "peas seem pleased" - how delightful the images of little green pods, glowing, growing joyfully because of "Her Thumb of Green." If you wrote this before and I read it, I am going to feel foolish for not remembering who this is written 'about' if specific to one person. But of course, it is universal and brings to mind my own Irish grandmother, whose thumbs were kelly green. Her dahlias grew to over six feet tall. But again, I digress. I am so happy to find the second of two poems by you in a short space that I am giddy. This is a rare, rare day - a "Rick Barnes" AND a "NEKK" poem all in the same day! So you see, I have a lot to feel happy about. In a world where "timid leeks peek at sunbeams" all is well. It is this world I crave and one you generously invite me to enjoy. You've the genius, as far as I'm concerned, of fanciful alliteration that is never too much -- assonance that is mind-boggling and ear-tickling. Imagery that is delicious enough to eat - and this poem is full of edibles. Her eyes gleaming, she softly sifts The rich, dark soil of her garden Through her fingers, then lingers For a glance at tomato plants. She --Oh, I so love the witty rhyme of "glance/plants" Vows every year to curtail her sowing And every year, without fail, she reaps More than before. Sufficient to feed The entire town which she does, driving Around, baskets of dew-kissed, crisp (succulently delectable words) Produce delivered with cheerful care. The earth's bounty is to be shared, she Once told me, pointing to her plot of green. All at once your poem calls up the images for me of the years when I belonged to an organic co-op. "earth's bounty" was shared, and it was incredibly, lusciously, and carefully grown. Such produce had an added taste, IMO, lent by the love poured into the planting and growing of "produce." Now her face of glowing sheen beneath A wide-brimmed hat shows that the sharing Part is the heart of her beloved garden. Now you know I am completely besotted and enamoured with earthy things, plants, gardens, gardeners and generous souls who love to share. And also, quite frankly, with your poetry. This could be longer - but I would no doubt repeat myself. I am on my way to dinner, and doubt that it will be more delicious than your poem. Brava! Bunches of organic carrots, beets (and their greens), and a bouquet of sweet peas extended. (I had to get a box this time.) Kudos! Your L.L., Joanne	2004-04-12 19:58:19
I Took You With Me	Rick Barnes	Rick: It's difficult, no -- impossible -- for me to respond to this poem in any kind of coherent way which even approaches the effect it has on me. I read it two days ago, and it took me that long to allow the shimmering, shaping effect it had on my consciousness to subside enough to read it again and respond. How on earth (in heaven?) do you do this? Change perception with words, which are abstract symbols? How do you, with language, set ideas in motion which are like eddying pools of star-forming nebulae? I am responding 'as if' the "you" addressed is me. It may be that the speaker's soul addresses the self, or Self. It may be that the speaker addresses an other, or an Other. In any case, I can't respond any other way. The opening lines affect me as if spoken to me. They seem to erase that sense of separateness which is perhaps the greatest suffering possible. That there is a 'you' and a 'me' is the source of more anguish than all of the combined agonies of all lifetimes, you suggest, at least to me. That "you alone" that speaker says, "have been beside me" suggests that the 'others' or the not-self are not in the picture, at least for the consideration of this poem. Not-selves do not exist. And blindly, "I" have "never known" that I "alone have been beside" the speaker "through so many travails." How does the speaker realize that I have "never known" unless the speaker also shares my consciousness? The speaker's infinite compassion for my alone-ness completely dissolves the barrier between us. How does the speaker encompass such knowledge? With the words "so many travails" -- come many associations-- --strenuous and often painful or exhausting work; moil, toil, drudgery, slavery, effort labor, task, grind, exertion, trouble, sorrow, or suffering; anguish, hardship, distress, worry, stress, torture, strain, pain, despair, misery, torment, adversity, angst, grief, trouble, agony, effort and pain of childbirth. Image among images You glow beyond the pale Incandescent spill. "Image among images" seems to define a specific image that becomes visible, distinct among others. "Seeing" happens when our consciousness is focused upon a single image, perhaps. The behavior of sub-atomic particles seems dependent upon the observer. Again, the concept of star-forming nurseries illumines this work for me in "You glow beyond the pale" and the imagery becomes even brighter (almost unbearably bright) with "Incandescent spill." Heat or fire expands outward - "incandescence" implies radiant visibility. And what is the mind or eye which perceives this radiance but another radiance itself? The dark matter of space, of no-thing, offers brilliant chiaroscuro juxtaposed with "incandescent spill." Perhaps it was here - or earlier - when I began to lose my sense of separate self, to become disoriented. Thinking of the "juncture//Between where you are and where you are not" left me wandering unmoored. Let there be no confusion, This is not mere illusion Nor a remodeled memory Of what could have been. So close to -- on the point of -- almost there. To dispense with "confusion/illusion" would be the greatest joy imaginable. You remind us that we DO struggle with "remodeled memory" of things that have never existed! Mastery of the "could have been" must be the greatest travail. But you release us from that. All mental constructs may be, at last, surrendered. And you lighten the burden of remembering "past" failures with light-filled humor: I have no patience for the past And the last time I saw the my future It was on a spending spree Squandering what little was left of me. --- WONDERFUL! Is the "little" that was left of the speaker the last of his/her conviction of ego-separateness? Or was it the little selves multiplying infinitely into dramas which will flash and pop in a non-existent future? No, this is nothing more And nothing less Than all that I have left After I’ve discarded the debris. --incredible What freedom is suggested. What purification. What luminous trails open before the 'we' of us. This is you in me. I am utterly at a loss for words here. Probably the most powerful, compelling, terrifying last line I have ever read, taken literally. To miss this moment (that moment) is to miss it all entirely. I will come back again and again to try to comprehend what this poem is saying to me personally (impersonally) --a call which must be answered but which is unanswerable. In the "you in me" and the "I in you" we live - without it, we perish. But not irredeemably. "This IS you in me" is imperishable. The world falls away before a poem like this. In awe, Joanne	2004-04-12 14:26:49
Rising to the Occasion	Mell W. Morris	Dear Mell: On this Easter Sunday, this poem is like a basket of wildflowers, with a book of Seamus Heaney's poems, and some fine merlot. It has something for the soul and the senses. Add to that my delight that you are in fine form here - surely a reason for jubilation alone. What a glorious tribute from one of TPL's finest writers! Your musical variations on the note of 'a' are spectacular and soul-filling. In my mind's eye, I watch as "amber rays lave" the grasses, and "a mass of clouds allays" the "spectral flavor" -- ahh, how engulfing theses sounds and images are. I felt that the "mass" of clouds was perhaps celebrating a kind of "mass" not confined to one tradition, but given song by the One. But the lines which simply took my breath from me are "A unifying spirit in nature Seems to sing aloud." If in two lines, a summation could be given for my own approach to nature, to mystical union for which I long with all of my being, you've written it. This is poetry become music, become an element indefinable. It is possible, you show here, to listen to the spirit "sing aloud" in nature, which is really the unheard music of the heavens. St Hildegarde, as did others in her time, saw nature (the created world) as a hymn of praise to God. She felt the invisible, unheard music of the heavens paralleled the physical and emotional make-up of human beings, who in turn may create their own music. I believe your poetry is a sublime musical art, for by its sound and rhythm, you create a song for the soul. At the river, passion silts down Course and nearby, leafspeech ---oh, exquisite word! Begins from budding gorse. Shadows Lush with omen dip and sway before ---brilliant personification here makes me feel giddy The wind bustles them away. (This celebration of elements - water, wood, wind and the fire of spirit/light is nearly as ecstatic for me as the one I experienced yesterday.) A seraph-haunted scene as reed --lovely, lovely Music serenades along river. A Coign of vantage delivers a span Of nature surprised into fragrant Fluorescence with the essence of man Surely the angels sing when poetry such as this is read aloud. Stirring then soaring In radiant effulgence. You've honored Seamus Heaney, and delighted my heart. If I said this poem stirs my heart, makes it soar, fills it with splendor, I'd not be overstating my response. My gratitude for another of your sublime creations, Mell. Exquisitely rendered! Sustained applause, and a quiet bow before mastery of form. Nothing but a laurel wreath will do - so one's extended to you now. All my best, always Joanne	2004-04-11 17:28:24
In This Light I Am Blue	Thomas Edward Wright	Tom: Hey, what's that you say? Ouranos (Uranous) Sky God, speaking as the feminine gender? True enough, Ouranos was passionate - eager for love - but as I recall it (I wasn't there, but heard a rumor) Ouranos had the hots for our beloved Gaea (Earth). And when, er, they coupled - there was quite an unstoppable issue from Gaia's womb. But that is someone else's version - here, we have yours - charming, a bit oddball and slightly scary - the way I'd interpret Uranus's effects, if I were knowledgable about that sort of thing. The poem really caught me off balance (or orbiting nearly horizontal with respect to the ecliptic plane). Certainly, Uranus does have a flimsy ring system and 21 moons or so. I wonder who she is addressing? I think of Kronos, but that'd be her son, er, his son, really. But perhaps Uranus is all about gender-bending, and poetry is about having fun - and I am having fun. It does seem like she is talking to somewhat colorless old Saturn, by comparsion, setting aside the Greek myths for awhile. And I've probably got that jumbled. Uranus would be the one to wear a plastics vest and do other assorted self-destructive things. Uh, but I'm stumped! Who took his eye off 'her'? Well, you tell me. How would you paint this, this - ? Would there be any color - O pain! - at all? Circling your sun, with the top down – Waiting. Me and my moons, in the Camaro --love this! Haloed for eternity, waiting for you. I looked up the esoteric meanings for "Camaro" and came up with 'loose bowels' - 'warm friend' and 'shrimp', variously. Then again, Saturn would never 'borrow' flowers, as Mercury would likely do. Saturn is a bit of a tight wad, but believes in "proper" behavior, whilst Mercury has, eh, slippery fingers. I can't think of who would be un-boring enough for your "blue girl." Fantastic that you have given a Hubble URL, BTW. You're a pretty cosmic guy, and you carry this off well. Did you know that Capricorns are known for extremely droll sense of humor? Enviously, Jo	2004-04-09 22:43:56
You didn’t	Mark Andrew Hislop	Mark: It is so close to the end of the contest period, when I won't have a chance to comment on this. It is an amazing poem that I've read many times over wanting to frame a response - but I get caught up in its philosophical and emotional tone. I am simply stunned. "Let me down by mail Silence your raw heart Tremble privately Hide your vital storm You didn’t" The negations between each stanza are so effective in portrayal of the irony of intimate relationship! We know or sense the contradictions in the other and ourselves, and these bring us closer but drive us apart. I've missed seeing your work here for quite a while - and it is wonderful to hear your poetic voice once more. Beautiful and raw. All my best, Joanne	2004-04-07 23:52:32
The Sixty Seven Percent Solution to the Problem	Thomas Edward Wright	Tomé-- As delicious a plate as ever I've licked in imagination! Even better, I think, than maple syrup tastes. I've always wondered what went on in a doctor's mind. Now I know! One of them is fantasizing about the aroma, color, viscosity of maple syrup and good stories told by Don. And that one knows a great lesson of life - without being at all preachy, you have demonstrated that the life before us is meant to be lived and appreciated. if the plate runs with sweet maple syrup something is right in the world today for a moment it all seems to be okay for a moment you forget hunger and war for a moment you forget hate, violence, even manners - and clean your plate with your tongue And here I thought Bailey's was the best sweet taste! (Terrible on pancakes, though.) Peace, Joanne PS I think that 'a moment' is all we really have.	2004-04-06 22:04:12
Poems I Cannot Write	Sandra J Kelley	Sandra: I want to critique this in the way that you do, so helpfully, trimming, fine-tuning a word, hearing the heart of the poet beating beneath the flimsy symbols of words. But I can't. I can't critique as you do, just as you "cannot write love poems." Every poem you write, in one way or another, is a love poem. The irony and the glory of this understated yet ecstatic poem is its ability to do exactly what it is you say you cannot do. By expressing your emotions through the elements, you take us to the essence of aliveness. We feel what it is to be a flesh and blood and bones human, aware in every sense, keen to every nuanced line. I have read this many times and always return to it. Each time I've thought of new ways I wanted to respond to it for you - and each time it simply takes my breath (and words) away. This is my way of saying 'YES' to this in the anthology. It is one of your finest. It is "Sandra J. Kelley" at her most passionate, most wry, and one who keeps my nature-loving, romantic soul grand company. I cannot write love poems. Each time I try I write instead sunsets, grey or pink, over Lake Ontario when the wind picks up and the tops of the waves go from white to flame then to inky black, In the phrase "love poems" you are alluding to romantic poems, I think. But your nuances, the stance you take, could apply equally well to 'religious' poems, or 'mystical' poems, or poems 'about' enchantment. It becomes immaterial, because as readers, we are brought into the moment by your exquisitely passionate imagery. And your use of the short 'i' and long 'i' sounds, for example, is like a sustained exhalation -- but one of anticipation rather than culmination, at least in this reader's opinion. "pink/wind/picks/inky/humid/dripping/did/moonlit/illuminated" for example. The first person singular pronoun in the poem, the "I" in "Poems I Cannot Write" is repeated in the sounds in "write/lightning/sometimes/night/white"--and these sounds are evocative of the "flame" in L7. Colors add heightened intensity to this sensory-sensual piece: grey, pink, white, flame and black. One suggestion only -- what about replacing the second "black" in the last line? Perhaps -- ebony -- onyx -- raven -- sable -- charcoal -- slate -- dusky, for example. No other word says "black" better than your original choice, I realize, but in a poem of this length, repeated words stand out. or, I write about lightning in August, how it is so humid that even before the rain my hair is plastered dripping to my head, --Maybe a period here, or a semi-colon. sometimes, it is blankets of snow forming, --perhaps a period here, as well did you know snow can fall on an almost clear moonlit night, white flakes illuminated against the black sky? I am completely engulfed by the final lines, as much as I was intrigued and mesmerized by the first lines, and thrilled by the middle. The sense of something impending, about to happen, of anticipated delight is so keen with "blankets of snow forming" and the question you pose. I love the soft sounds of "did you know snow" which seems to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It is like hearing someone whispering in the dark. Almost a reference to physics--but the question immediately placed me in the moment, made me feel my own response to the vision of the "white flakes illuminated" against a night sky, on a "clear moonlit night." These lines bring back the awe, the sense of immanence and magic that I've felt watching snow fall on nights like these. This is a breath-taking, luminous work. My thanks, Sandra, for a "love poem" you certainly have written here! I am a bit in love with it, and wish it well on its journey into the world of print and book signings. Brava! Kudos for a superb poem, once more. All my best, Joanne	2004-04-06 14:24:28
Memories of Bertha	Sherri L. West	Sherri: I try to critique all of the poems I vote for in a given month. Sometimes this doesn't happen, but I must write to you - and apologize for my late response. I was so stunned for a while by your statement in your additional notes that I had to take a deep breath. Your "first attempt" at poetry! It's not, if you don't mind my contradiction, an "attempt." It is a grand work. It is a moving tribute to your grandmother that brought her vividly to me as a reader, that allows us to feel her presence from within your memories of her. My husband and I were just discussing how, after death, we "disappear" from earth (though we both believe in an eternal life with God). And how the things we do and say disappear with us, except, perhaps, for the love that we have shared with others. It is like a fire which warms the hands and memories of generations to come. That is what this poem is to me - a fire to warm my hands to, to remember your grandmother, to remember my grandmothers, to dream the dream of being remembered by my granddaughter in this way. One thing I want to say immediately is this: keep writing, keep listening to that inner voice and allowing the words to take shape. One of the qualities of this work is that it doesn't seem 'overworked' - but fresh, real, and warm. The things I especially love about it are many, but here are a few, along with a couple of minor suggestions. Always remember that this is your poem, that others may offer opinions and suggestions but you know best how to express your own vision. ********************************************************************* The smell of coffee, with cream and sugar, reminds me of you. How vividly this first line evokes scent, the taste of sweetness, the softness and warmth of the memories. One whiff and I am four again, nestled safely in your comfy lap, my ear pressed against your breast. I like to listen as you swallow. I imagine the warmth of the brew passing from you to me. Your coffee-coated conversation covers me in a blanket of contentment Sensations of restfulness and the purity of love engulf me. The sounds of "nestled/pressed/breast" are wonderfully lyrical, soft with sibilants. Also, I love the sounds of "brew --- from me to you." The slant-rhyme is sublime here. Also, the hard 'k' sounds of "coffee-coated conversation covers" -- seems to imply a substance, a form and shape to the memory making it substantial. I might take out the word "comfy" because you have already implied it. I might take out "to listen" above, because "I listen to you swallow" makes the moment NOW. See what *you* think. You are my grandma and I am special. You keep a treasure box on your dresser waiting just for me. What bounty awaits my eager inspection? Will it be a funny cartoon, a picture of an ugly bug, a notepad for drawing, a pretty rock or a new dress for Dolly? We have matching dollies, you and I, but somehow all of the clothes you make are for mine. Your smile displays delight identical to mine with each discovery. LOVE "ugly bug" - can imagine it spoken with a slight southern drawl. Wonderful assonance of u's in "funny/ugly/bug" - funny sounds in themselves. You are my grandma and I know I am special. [Many years have passed since I was four but the memories remain immutable.] I'm uncertain if this line adds greatly to this poem for me. As a reader, I am aware that you are much older now, writing the poem. As I read the poem, I feel the immutability of your memories. In your direct address in the more childlike words below, you keep me reading and involved, wanting to hear your grandmother's voice, wanting to remember with you (and to recall my own treasured times with my grandmother) -- Remember when we rolled down the sand hill because I thought (it?) fun? Remember when we picked green beans in the garden? They were the best green beans ever! Remember when we rode horses, made bead belts, baked birthday cakes and canned peaches? Each of these memories is like a bright jewel, or a colorful bead in the belts you made. Each one shines and glimmers with love, is rich with taste and visual imagery. Simply the idea of the green beans, with their intense green color and scrumptious taste, along with the color, texture and smell of the peaches - the imagery of the small bowl filled with glossy peaches before you as a child - it is all magic! The kinesthetic senses stirred by your description of rolling down the sand hill elicits a kind of rapture. And so, the final line hits with full force - the exquisite sadness of that parting, of hearing your grandmother's voice in tears. "Remember how we cried when I moved away?" How gentle and poignant. What good company your grandmother is to you still, and how her love reaches out from within the poem to light my life, too. One of the most genuinely moving poems I have read in many a long while. Brava! All my best, Joanne	2004-04-02 23:21:52
Tranquil in the Wind	Debbie Spicer	Debbie: This poem is exqusite! It is a departure from the 'voice' I've heard in previous works, and signals to me that your poetic soul is transcending pain and is filled with compassion for all that live. This is one to give me shivers - because it recognizes a truth that is seldom heard - the fragile nature of humanity. We are living in times when it is seen as good to be 'tough' - to be aggressive, to be first, to win, over all and every other creature. And yet your poem seeks the heart of the reader, to whisper a prayer that all may internalize and express to the Creator by whatever name we choose to address the One: So delicate is the human being Seen tranquil in the gentle wind Keep them safe in fair and neutral hands -- WONDERFUL! Be careful not to quell their tender limbs --the sounds are tender They may raise a soul to peaks unseen --you give us new eyes with which to look So delicate is the human being Seen tranquil in the gentle wind You enclose the body of the poem with two lines which are like protecting arms. It is a prayer, a poem, and I think, should be a credo for us all. This may be a fixed form, but it is one which I do not recognize. It is lyrical, and almost begs to be sung. I hear a delicate soprano voice - perhaps belonging to Mary - upraised to heaven - interceding on behalf of her children. Sublime in every sense. Brava, my friend! All my best, always Joanne	2004-03-30 13:38:24
Among Lilies	Lynda G Smith	Dear Lynda: I have died and gone to heaven. Where did you come from? I looked at your biographical information and web page after reading this poem. Surely it is our great good fortune to have your presence with us! I love everything about this poem, from the title onwards. It lifts my spirits immeasurably to have your poem before me, to contemplate the exquisite language, imagery and "baptism of belief." You bring us a gift of grace and hope in this work. You may have been on this site before, but it might have been during a time when I was away or hadn't joined. In any case, I am count this as an Easter blessing. Now to the poem. (I simply don't know how to express my happiness at finding your work in fewer words!) An outstanding attribute of the poem is its pacing or rhythm - so closely matching breath. For example, in the lines -- Are these the keepers (internal rhymes, such as "these/keepers" are splendidly done) Of last breath, Of life, or death, (rhyme of "breath/death" - plosive strength of "b/d" - powerful) Or simply a servant of a drowning mind That spirals down the spirit Into the abyss of the unconscious. And then, the sibilance of "simply/servant" and 'sp' sounds in "spirals/spirit" - these sounds evoke deep shivers, for as a reader I am spellbound, descending into the 'abyss of the unconscious' without fear, but with a sense of exploration, and a reminder that the depths of life must be acknowledged in order to be truly alive. I found myself reading in a whisper, inhaling and exhaling on alternate lines. There aren't any flaws in this work - in my estimation it is as perfect as the titular lilies. I do feel a yearning and almost an envy - how I wish I had written this! It is as if you are a sculptor, and have found the shape in the clay or marble. For example -- Lilies wrap my legs In ribbon curls To pull the limbs of my being beneath the meniscus of my thoughts. Your liquid l's replicate the "ribbon curls" and your use of the noun "meniscus" with its lyrical overtones. Your images of the crescent-shaped cartilage of the knee, remind me - somehow - of the moon at its crescent phases. For thoughts to have this shape - of a curl, a curve, a knee, the moon - takes us out of the ordinary into the realm of mystery. How else could this have been expressed? In my view, in no other way. That our thoughts are often dominant is implied here, but our soul (being) responds to contact with ineffable beauty as exemplified by the lily. What can pull us out of our thoughts and into our bodies and souls more richly? The lily can be a metaphor for transformation through life, death, and spiritual rebirth. I believe that the reason white lilies are used at funerals is that they symbolize life after death. This poem reminds us to have faith, for that which we cannot see, but only dimly sense. And how astonishingly you have reminded us that our memories tend to distort things, and fasten us to the past. We cannot live in the past, but can become stagnant (pickled) in it. "to preserve that virgin nerve from the pickling white brine of memory." To have written such a lines must be ecstasy. To read them is to receive a blessing. They encircle an ankle and linger with suckling pull within a tender hollow to shudder, to cull a liquid sigh, a last response to what was left undone. What a powerful sense of life there is in these lines - and perhaps a kind of mourning "for what was left undone" is implied here. I think that the symbolism of the leg and the ankle are so completely apt. The ankle allows for mobility in life. Somehow, the pull of the lilies (death's immanence for all mortal beings) immobilizes the speaker (and the reader) temporarily with a kind of paralysis of the will. The legs serve as a kind of foundation for the body - give a sense of being centered and able to move about one's environment and through one's life. As the lilies, with their "suckling pull" exert their force, one is reminded that there will come a time when the legs shall no longer support the physical body, nor move it at will. Legs will no longer enable one to move within earthly life to accomplish our tasks. A darkling process… but from this deep cold storage, --spaces here are very effective for emphasis. A baptism of belief In promise and possibility, Will rise with the lilies Come spring. A sense of resurrection permeates this work; a sense of a spiritual rebirth into "promise and possibility." "A darkling process" indeed! If we become aware of our soul's purpose, our need for belief, we are no longer threatened by the knowledge of mortality. We can hold to the promise of the life to come. This poem inspires a deepening of faith, and reflection upon the direction my life is taking. This is a work which sustains me and inspires me on the deeper levels of my consciousness. Magnificent, brilliant writing! Brava! I expect to find this in the award-winning poems for March. Kudos once more. All my best, Joanne	2004-03-29 15:15:27
What Missing You Means	Rick Barnes	Rick: Double happiness! A critique from you, and finding your poem this Saturday morning. From my point of view, defining the 'indefinable' which seems at the core of everything is a hallmark of Rick Barnes poetry. You ask the questions I feel, and gently explore the nature of being and perception in ways that expand my mind. You challenge perceptions that we (each) are separate beings, inhabiting space in different locations. And one could just as easily read this poem as a personal expression - communication to someone whom the speaker misses. When you write "I" and "you" it is impossible for me not to sense this work as a subjective reaching out to an "I" which, for the moment, becomes 'me' the reader. It is as if the being called "Rick Barnes" - a part of the consciousness of the universe whom I identify with his words - reaches out to "Joanne Uppendahl" - her subjective awareness - a being internal to my 'self' as I understand it. It is no doubt meant for another 'self' or individual identity - but in the greater sense, seems to embrace the smaller selves, if you will, within the Greater Self which is the All. Oh, how I ramble when I step all over my own feet trying to tell you what I got out of your poem! I need to get out of my own way, somehow, to give you my response. I don’t know what I miss most of all. I suppose I miss the missing of you. After all, We wiled the most of our time away Willfully missing one another. Yes, that's it. "I suppose I miss the missing of you" doesn't imply to me that the speaker no longer misses the one to whom he addresses these words. He is in the very midst of being aware of the missing. It seems the relationship is constructed of this yearning. What, after all, do we truly, deeply yearn for? Reconciliation, reunification, 'oneness' to use a rather hackneyed but valuable term. WHY, oh why, are beings separate, for gods' sakes? The very quality of "missing" implies that there was once ANOTHER state of being - unity - cohesiveness - continual awareness of the All-That-Is in which we dwell, to borrow from many traditions. But to state, as you do that we "willfully" miss one another is to imply that we are doing this ourselves. We are agreeing to pretend that we are separate consciousnesses. We are luxuriating in the potential for reuniting that we know exists - we are cultivating the 'desire' for coming together as a whole being which separated consciousness seems to stir, like honey into tea. When you wrote "We wiled the most of our time away" I felt this - indescribable pull - an engulfing sort of nostalgia - realizing that we created 'time' too - that thing which wrenches each of us (all of humanity) from one another's arms. We participated in the delusion that time moves us away from one another and our own experiences. The line "Yes, that's it" felt like a clue (for the clueless) that we are swimming in metaphysical waters once more. Or is it an attempt of the speaker to forgive the one to whom these words are directed for absence? We are always, you show us here, attempting to define what and whom we crave (desire) to be present for our happiness. But we are forever 'getting it wrong.' Now why is that? asks a gentle voice. A voice that does not claim to have the 'answer' to this question. I miss a way of missing you Where missing you meant That the most of our time was spent Wrapping our arms around nothing but hope, And yet everything was self-contained And we drained every dram of dream Out (of) that vast space between The way things are, And the way things seem. Poetics are masterfully done - "drained every dram of dream" - for example. I can't list all of the ways in which language is telescoped or danced or painted to create the powerful sense of longing (or of an emptiness which implies that fulfillment is possible). "that vast space between" points to the very illusion of separation and the presence of no-space. I can get this idea with my head, but my emotions and body believe in the separation. And my head can't hold on long to this wisp of a notion that could change everything. But in order for that to happen, I'd have to agree to stop "missing" everything and everyone, feeling deprived of the love that has never been absent. I think you show us that we are 'in love' with the idea of hope - a premise that things will get better, warmer, closer, brighter. If things were already perfect, what would there be to hope for - to miss? What would we do with all of our sorrow? What would awareness be like, if we gave up the addiction to feeling put out about not seeing what is? It is only now, without the dreams, That I really know What missing you means. If the "dreams" are now gone - what remains? You don't answer that for us. Is it a kind of death, a kind of existential nonbeingness, a temporary exclusion from the comfort, the hope of greater things to come? Or is it a turning to the knowledge that 'we' are not separated and have never been and never can be? If the latter is the case, then why are we still miserable, I want to know! Is it a fault that we do not own, that we withhold the love that is possible to feel without accoutrements? Rick - your poems give me a reason for my heartache. Now that we've figured things out - how do we get to the next step? You are a master, of this I have no doubt whatsoever. Joanne	2004-03-27 14:56:02
Israel	Marcia McCaslin	Marcia: You have many voices - from the descriptive delights of the old bucket (which is so much more than it appears at first glance), the old cabin (I'll never forget that one) and now - in this deeply moving tribute. It is time for a poem of support, respect and solidarity - especially given recent events. I am delighted to find it and proud of its author and of the nation and people it portrays movingly for this reader. O Israel, apple of G-d’s eye, you have been mathematically positioned upon the earth. This is beautiful and respectful - the spelling as I've seen it written by Jewish writers. I am not aware of the mathematics of Israel's position - but this could be metaphor for its importance. Then again, I think of fractals, of perfection in nature - and ponder about the exactness of the location - the hub and center of the world. The eye of Jerusalem watches the heavens from the coil of the Golden Spiral. Again, simply exquisite. The beleaguered Bethlehem, revered by some, despised by others, is the crux of the Rectangle, highly esteemed according to the equation, rightly placed according to the Divine Geometry. I've not studied Pythagorean number systems. I do recall him as the one who wrote of "music of the spheres." Some took his writings literally, some poetically. I will be interested to see what I can find out about this "Divine Geometry." Why was so harsh a land chosen for this people and this time? It seems as though the soil is reluctant, the wind relentless and the sun searches every shadow until it finds a particle --incredible imageries of itself. Your steel soldiers fight with supernatural strength to win impossible -- One thinks of King David here battles. Their true destinies to be scientists, scholars and Nobel Prize winners are put on hold while G-d fulfills His purpose. Genetic memory marks the path of their sacrifice. No one can afford to sleep, least of all the G-d of Abraham, -- a timely reminder that the Creator's plans cannot be defeated Isaac and Jacob. Perhaps there are answers in the Pythagorean School of Numbers, but how many searchers remain? And of those who remain, how many understand? Now you know I will be searching to find information about this! I haven't knowledge of this research nr its implications. But below, you send me back to holy scriptures - As for me and my household, I will stand by my interpretation of Genesis 12:3—(God is speaking to Abraham): And I will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that curseth thee: and in thee shall all families of the earth be blessed and increase my gratitude for both this poem and this reference in Genesis to what must not be forgotten - especially now. Thank you, Marcia, for a work of grandeur and praise for the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. May you be richly blessed. Brava!! All my best, Joanne	2004-03-22 16:25:21
The Bucket	Marcia McCaslin	Dear Marcia: I read this one earlier today - before a trip to the post office and out into the spring day that is glorious, unrepeatable and in the "resurrecting sun." How incredibly delightful this poem is - if only I could give you back a bit of what I took away from it and into my day - how my step was bouncier while walking into the library - how I smiled spontaneously at people in the grocery store, thinking of your horses and a mule and the bucket cradling the crescent moon! To read such a work is to be reminded that life is indeed very, very good. Old as the dirt that packs its seams, its burnish has long since wearied. Even the rising of a resurrecting sun Can barely coax a gleam, although reds and oranges translate to a bit of glint on its pocked surface. The sound of "bit of glint" is only part of what I mean - something suffuses this piece that is more than its parts. I can't deconstruct it and don't want to - merely admire and tell you what I love best. Maybe the sound of "packed" and "pocked" and "coax" for now. But we haven't got to my favorite stanza yet. It hangs by a wire on a post that lives out its remaining days, an unwitting teller of time. --- WONDERFUL! Two roan horses and a mule wait by the bucket, "noses nudging" it, --oh yes, and here too! eager for the morning routine. I thought it would be this one, the way it set up little anticipatory shivers, because you let me know that you were going to dwell awhile with the "two roan horses and a mule" which I accepted as if handed a basketful of fragrant geranium, a pile of unread letter, and a china pot of tea with wild clover honey. Suddenly, they recognize the footsteps of the stable boy, watch him approach with downcast eyes and tousled hair. Ears lop and twitch as the bucket is taken by its overburdened bail. Now having spent some contented years which I draw upon when surrounded by too much flurry and 'civilization' you show me how to reach back and retrieve watching those "ears lop and twitch." Ears project forward as they perceive the whispering swish of oats, (oh, luscious sounds!) sticky with molasses, being scooped. The sound changes as the bucket fills. Maybe I should stop here. The next course in this meal might not be as delicious as this one just was. I could roll around forever in the midst of "whispering swish" and "sticky with molasses" and listening to the sound change "as the bucket fills." Ears back, they jostle for their places at the manger, chewing the wonderful mixture, eyes half-closed as though in prayer to the Giver of all grain. But no -- the denouement was yet to come. It is above with the "half-closed eyes" which "as though in prayer to the Giver of all grain" inform us of what the Giver has given once more - through your creativity and generous sharing of this work. And to be reminded of a manger is to be reminded of the One who was born there. I can't forget that as I read. This stanza is almost like a depiction of a sacrament. As late afternoon calls in its debts, the stabler fills the bucket with water and forgets. His mind is on the tavern-- the sounds and smells of it reach irresistibly into his lonely world. "debts/forgets" - the music, once more - and the slow lead in to compassion for the stabler who is drawn by "the sounds and smells" of the tavern in much the same way as the animals were by the "sounds and smells" of grain filling the bucket. With the falling of the dark sky, the bucket, old as the dirt that packs its seams, has become a thing of beauty as it proudly cradles a crescent moon, - exquisite~! and reflects a bucketful of stars from The Milky Way. Your reminder to us of the age of the bucket once more "old as the dirt that packs/its seams" helped me assimilate another idea from this poem: dirt and metal are very old - really their age can only be guessed. The metal comes from ore that came from the earth, too. The manufacturing date doesn't mean much. When you help me to see and feel and think about the age and meaning of the crescent moon being 'cradled' in the bucket (again, maybe another manger scene analogy) and then -- and then!! -- "The Milky Way." How far away and how old and how marvelously, wondrously made is that - and how significant are things like buckets and mules and roan horses and oats and smells from taverns that signal lonely stablers? It is if there is a beckoner within this poem, from within this galaxy of unimaginable immensity - that reaches right down to the littlest molecule in my heart and sings to it. See - this is your very great gift. It is more than I can take in in a single day. You must know that the astronomy-poetry-music-animal loving part of me is thrilled to the core. What a magnificent work (and play) you engage us with. Brava!!! All my best, Joanne	2004-03-20 17:26:40
My Summer Dream Cabin	Marcia McCaslin	Dear Marcia: From the deep drink you took, you have given us wondrous refreshment. I traveled down the lines of each stanza, trying to slow myself down, knowing that at the end of the poem it would be the end of the poem, until I read it again. It is like that experience which you realize is wonderful and fleeting - one that you want time to hold still and keep for you. Because of the grace you communicate here, it is possible to return to this poem, again and again, for the nurturing of our own souls. From the title on down, it is everything I want and crave in a poem. "My Summer Dream Cabin" is unabashedly romantic (in the sense of an imaginative, visionary appeal) and calls to each of us from whatever turmoil distracts us from life's true work (my opinion only) --appreciation of what the Creator continuously gives us, and the sharing of same. And then -- I love the way "Cabin" pairs with the sounds of "canyon" and while admiring that sound, I am gone. Sending out feelers of touch for the delicate "webs of reindeer moss." Your musical talents abound in the work - not surprisingly - but always thrilling. The rhymes within the first line of "deep/steep" are part of what tool me away. By the time I got to "throaty song" of the canyon (and cabin?) in harmony with the stream "cavorting nearby" I was as good as twenty years younger and a thousand miles away. And oh, the visuals, sonic treats, the smell of wood smoke, and humor of the "mountain code" -- all leading to the suffusion of reassurance and gratitude in the words "someone is home and all is well." The way the typed out code itself looks on the page signals readers that it is possible to feel joy anytime, anywhere - not-so-well or pretty good. As Mary Oliver said in her book "Winter Hours" -- "what is spiritual about the manifest is not the part that leaves tracks in the snow." You, too, have the gift of communicating about the beauty you find in the world and you make it unforgettable. For example: A high-country garden yields young crops-- lettuce, radish, arugula-- a salad bar for all creatures hungry for the taste of green. Your poem works around my mouth, tongue and teeth with the words "lettuce/radish/arugula" moving on down past "hungry" to "green" so vividly that I literally can taste them. I am a rabbit, all at once, nose twitching for green. Animals, wary at first, sense that the intruder means them no harm. Finally, they feast openly on the strange leaves with exotic flavors and allow themselves to be photographed. Someday - if it is possible and you publish this - oh I hope - there can be photographs of those faces. We can already see the steady gleam in those liquid, trusting eyes. The nest-building, the denning, and burrowing continue, for the nurturing of youngsters is a most serious and time-challenged business. It isn't all pretty and 'adorable' you show us adroitly here - it is hard work and "time-challenged" and must be done. We've got parts of our lives like that (mostly) -- you let us become aware of here -- the metaphor is not lost on me though it is subtle! We've work hard at it all - but you've brought us into this viewpoint gently and bring us tenderly back: The nurturing of my own soul is serious as well; after years of running the hot, sweaty race, (oh, the intensity of life here!) it is now time to relax, to fill my cup and drink deeply from the glacial trickle. One has to be thirsty to fully enjoy the thrilling moment of deep drinking. The harder experiences of life are all worth it and we are not alone in our struggles, you seem to be showing us here. You leave me with the feeling that Someone is ready to "fill my cup" as well, if I am ready to receive. Part of that receiving includes this poem. I receive it with gratitude and delight. May your time away be blessed with an antidote for the "sweaty race" and bring you home safely to us again. Your music takes my breath away!!!! All my best, Joanne	2004-03-20 16:53:34
Spring is Born	marilyn terwilleger	Marilyn: I have an ear-to-ear grin - as we seem to be tuned into a similar muse. And how I love this poem!! I think you have another winner in this one. Twilight of winter warbles an ode to spring as the sun fawns above earth and shines (its) ardent brilliance o'er sober valleys and singing grasses Ahhh -- I love it that you have the "twilight of winter" warbling an ode. It seems almost a double entendre that the "sun fawms above earth" -- I could immediately see the sun as a huge, soft fawn. Your "singing grasses" echo the luminance of Whitman and Blake. Naked trees bask in healing rays --delicious assonance of a's of spring's dawn. Shivering earth inhales the virgin air and (breathes) life into buds of guile (a stratagem of nature?) How exquisite! The earth shivers and "inhales the virgin air" -- ! Gone are the belching spasms of --very original if 'jarring' thought wind and the yammering of winter birds, --you have caught their stridency perfectly born are dainty bonnie butterflies (I might omit either "dainty" or "bonnie" - see what you think.) and red robins rejoicing in splendor The wind jarred forest yields to tranquility as warmth dissolves the carpets of white the pita-pat of rain bedews the boisterous leaves and festive petals I could only find "pitter-patter" in my dictionary, but a neologism may just have been born, too! Spring is born Now my spring fever is at an all-time pitch! You've given such a glorious rendition in this, your love-song to mother nature. This is an auditory banquet - the "wind-jarred" forest is relaxed, the "boisterous leaves" are sparkled with rain diamonds. Simply splendiferous! As another note of 'co-incidence' I've just watched a hailstorm which made very loud "pita-pat" sounds, indeed. I wish you could forward a picture of the way spring arrives in Wyoming, but in place of that, you have given us this lovely word picture. Many thanks! All my best, Joanne	2004-03-19 17:26:53
Search and Seizure in the Ache of Day	Rachel F. Spinoza	Rachel: I have read and come back to this poem several times. Each reading yields more; as in the instance of really good music, one hears and feels in greater depth with each repetition. In these lines, I am struck with the concept "gentrification": They are dreaming in the peeling hallway hidden behind beams, dizzy with designing philodendron, Persian rugs, distressed oak. The most moving lines in the poem for this reader - – a diamond – fallen from the head of a unicorn – a diamond set in pink feathers and soiled dreams One can easily imagine the 'unicorn' - as a symbol of magic, joy and childlike innocence. It is so sad that the dreams from such a one are likely shattered. Repossessed homes for profit, dreams for the taking. Phantom wings open bare cupboards something is singing perhaps it is a hinge As always, your superb crafting - the poem stings more for its lyricis. The "bare cupboards" speak volumes. When only hinges are left to sing, something has been killed. The "phantom wings" may belong to broken ghosts or melancholy angels. in the vacant vestibule or the mangy calico kitten left in the abandoned cellar without papers These lines imply that the owners may have lacked the funds to feel an extra mouth - even a small one. "without papers" may allude to so-called pedigrees, or perhaps the lack legal status of those who have immigrated to safety and/or in the hope of feeding their families and obtaining medical care. So often these dreams are shattered. I haven't done justice to this. It makes me long for social justice, as well as the ability to change things by opening hearts and minds as you so often do. Magnificent and sad. Brava! My best to you, Joanne	2004-03-18 14:26:50
Doppler Effect (Revision)	Joan M Whiteman	Dear Joan: Firstly, congratulations on your progress with Atlantic Monthly magazine! A tentative acceptance is a semi-glorious thing - as may stir both delight and anxiety. I believe that this poem is outstanding, and am feeling vicarious excitement for the high-level acknowledgement it has received. I recall enjoying the first version and my response. This is a 'tough assignment' indeed for you - to revise this poem for publication. I see the changes you have made - they make the work even more evocative. I will do my best to give you my impressions - not as if I were an editor, as I don't have those qualifications. I am someone who loves poetry - I particularly enjoy yours. I can only give you my subjective response - and I am so glad that you clarified that expectation in your additional notes. I am also very pleased that you left the original version for review and comparison. Revision: She held her breath as the breeze sighed by, gently rouging her cheek. It brought to mind his touch and the sweet taste of temptation. She remembered the thrill of his arrival, welling in her breast like the sound of an approaching train. Much more concise, and "welling in her breast" adds sensory imagery - but I miss "how many rainstorms/have since saddened her soul?" I can understand why you omitted it, but it must have been difficult to do. [She held her breath as the breeze sighed by, gently rouging her cheek. It brought to mind his touch and the sweet taste of temptation. She remembered his arrival, the thrill of the approaching train. How many rainstorms have since saddened her soul?] The moment rushed in, filling her soul to the brink, clouding her eyes, like early-morning mist. Time ran, deeper than midnight, faster than the light from falling stars. I really like what you have done with the element of time here. These stanzas are condensed - and while I miss some of the images from the original version, I have a stronger sense of the Doppler effect in these. Here your words truly evoke a sense of the mysterious bendable, contracting or expanding quality of psychological time as we experience it relative to 'real time'. You have captured the speed of a pleasurable, joyous moment with "rushed in" and its inscrutable elusiveness with "ran, deeper than midnight." [It was all too brief, his presence, like a flower in early Spring fading to brown after one day in the sun. Running deep, like a silent river, darker than midnight, shining with the searing sweat of an unforgiven martyr.] A whistle blew. She felt the spaces grow. He left a fleeting touch, more bruise than memory. Above, I felt that you have really achieved an economy of words, have sliced 'closer to the bone' though I am so attached to "A kiss goodbye should be a memory, not an experience." "She felt the spaces grow" and "fleeting touch" and especially "more bruise than memory" capture the evanescent nature of experience superbly. The anagrams of "felt/left/fle(e)t(ing)" provide sensation of time's fleetingness, an ungraspable elusive quality that is the cause for sorrow. Why can't we turn time back - reverse it - hold it? Mold it to our need and will? You show how we retain experiences in the cells of our bodies - perhaps much more indelible than 'mere' memory. For example, a smell will evoke the whole of an experience, while 'thinking' about it will likely produce a series of vague impressions and images. [The whistle blew and she felt his slight nearness. She barely touched his offered lips. A kiss goodbye should be a memory, not an experience.] And finally -- "The train dwindled into dust. She heard the wavering sound of distance, fading like forgotten vows." as contrasted to -- "The train left. She heard the wavering sound of distance fading like forgotten vows." L1 of S6 is incredibly moving - exquisitely poignant - in the best sense of that word. The final two lines complete the poem with a sense of melancholy that, too, wants to slip away. I am so caught up in this poem, once more. From a personal standpoint I simply cannot imagine it differently. I think you have honed it to perfection. I will be interested to see what other readers may contribute. I hope this helps, and count it an honor to be among those whose comments you will consider in your creative process. In one sense, a poem "is" - as Rick Barnes once said to me. In another sense, it is always giving birth to itself. My very best wishes for your success with this work. I feel that it is a "sure thing" if ever one exists. All my best, Joanne	2004-03-18 12:53:38
Funeral	Emma Quinn	Emma: Welcome to the website! I am delighted to find your poem and have a chance to comment. Your 'voice' is very musical and even though the poem's title would tend to predict a gloomy sort of work - quite the opposite is true! I also imagine that that is the point. How happy we are to be among the living, how celebratory our gatherings to commemorate the departed. What a fortuitous find this evening. A jubilation of relations -- I was caught here with the glories of these sounds hums round the house, thumbs busy with beads, with bread, with bones, I suppose I won't be able to find a way to express how much I appreciate this poem without rambling on. "jubilation of relations" is so incredibly lyrical - and then, the juxtaposition of "hums/thumbs" and "busy/beads/bones." Hmm - a layering - "bones" suggest ancestral, burial, skeletal remains, as well as the kind left from devouring chicken wings. "beads" seems an allusion to rosary beads - and yet - I can't help but picture jewelry - especially amber beads. The triplicate plosive b's at the beginnings and silently in "thumbs" almost seem to signal a brimming aliveness, like bees. Or Mary Oliver's "sweet-hungry ants" - at least to this imaginative reader. When I find a poem like this one (which isn't too often, outside of a bookstore or library) it stirs up all kinds of other remembered poems and experiences. runs off to the store for more ice, more food, more beer, reveals secret skins of stories (there is a heady deliciousness to "secret skins") pressed into tiny layers of secrets, celebrates a life, mourns a death with orange (surprises) and flowers. The internal rhyme of "store/more" and the repetition of "secret/secrets" and the slant-rhyme of "pressed/death" are an example of parts, which, when taken together equal a surprising, refreshingly original reading experience. The underlying sense of mystery, overlaid with business and the good cheer of a family picnic make me want to find out more, read much more of your writing. Brava! Warmly, Joanne	2004-03-17 23:05:31
Seeking Comfort	Jane A Day	Jane: It is so good to have you back. I hold this poem like a candle. The candle flame lets me see the "empty room" - and the effect is both warming and chilling. That metaphoric room opened from your imagery of the "cold" which "reflects from moons/ of our fingers." I don't know where I am, except that I can feel that chill, see that light. I think that the poem can perhaps symbolise "winter" in one's life, with its "rain of frost" -- seemingly unending partings and losses and exclusions - prompt us to turn toward our soul's habitation - "the inside of the house." Forgive me if I have wandered far from your intent. Turned blue as a gum tree's underbark, -- Though unfamiliar with this vision, I can still see it. I am reminded here of your poem - "Blue" -- "Earthy blue under the crow’s wing//where black seems all but total." But I am back, turning toward the "inside of the house" - wanting to "press into the new light" "of window, flint and flame." Three elements which have an almost sacramental feel. The window allows light - but is hard in texture - as is the flint. The flame is not something one can touch, either. I am caught up in your exquisite sounds - from fricatives in "fingers/frost/flint/flame" as well as with the imagery of "moons of our fingers" and a strong emotional tug. As always your poetry is as meaningful to me as a whispered conversation with a close friend. Thank you for writing this and allowing me to wander around in it. Luminously done. My best to you, Joanne	2004-03-17 21:36:26
APPROACHING FULL CIRCLE (a self portrait)	Marcia McCaslin	Marcia: Like Ken's, your new poem for the 'challenge' disappeared to the bottom of my list. I am so glad I checked the new poems, or might have missed it - at times if there are many poems, my '1's' disappear from the list entirely. It is a double - nay, quadruple treat. First, as a new poem from you, whose poetry I've thoroughly enjoyed in the past! Secondly, as an entry in the challenge to do a poetic self-portrait. It inspires me and spurs me on. Thirdly, as a poem - for the sheer beauty and enjoyment of this art form, which gives more than entertainment, as much as I enjoy the sound of language for its own sake. Fourth: poetry's memorable when it sustains us as readers, rather than merely diverting our attention from whatever may be front and center in our day-to-day lives. This is a message in a bottle, in a sense, because in our search for meaning, for definition, for purpose, we are alike - stumbling a bit in the dark, towards the latter part of life, going by the lights we have and reaching out to touch others and be touched by them. You do all of this with your trademark honesty and gentleness. The title is apt - for it gets us right down to business. It welcomes us into the moment in which the speaker is reflecting upon her present focus upon essentials - the friendship with the self (child) with which one began life. Everything else seems added on, the speaker implies. My childhood has caught up with me. The nature of the circle in everyday language - coming back to the beginning. No need for quantum physics or Elizabethan phrasing - this essential pared-down language is real - the way we actually speak. I gave it a firm brush-off, for I had important, compelling things to do, and it would slow me down. Funny how much speed we seem to gather as we forcefully push away from "childhood" things and awareness. These lines remind me of my former perception (many years ago) of older people (in which category I now dwell) as perhaps those who might "slow me down" in my search for . . .? For a long while, it waited in the distance, a child in shadows, admiring me, wanting to be my friend-- and my equal. You've captured our capacity for duality here - how one part of the self observes, and another acts. In this instance, it seems the "child in shadows" approves of the momentum and accomplishments of her 'older sister' - the adult Marcia. When my first grandchild arrived, I heard myself talking baby talk but not only to her: to friends, my husband, my coworkers. This is what I mean in my opening paragraph by the "message in a bottle" because as I've repeated more often than is bearable for listeners, the birth of a grandchild was one of life's grandest, most deeply soul-satisfying events. This small being, the child of our child, who reminds us of the child within. We can't afford and don't have time to have this awareness in the early child-bearing years. We are far too busy with diapers, bills, spouses, inside or outside jobs, and all of the rest of it. The poem in this section especially strikes home to me, as this little one looks remarkably like her 'wrinkly' progenitor - me, as a child! All the years in between: the pregnancies, snarled relationships, pets, children, horseback riding, skiing, Dancers' Workshop, the little certificates of achievement have gone--poof! Yes - yes. Whether it is illness that forces us to simplify and accept what is now before us, or merely the recognition that we are running out of string (length of days) you have 'nailed it' precisely here. All of the things that were important before, you show us artfully, "have gone--poof!" Only the child remains, holding my hand, listening to my stories, being my friend-- and my equal. You don't tell us how you learned to be a friend to "the child" but leave it to each one reading to discover. It is a very deeply personal poem, but universal in application. It is humble and tender. It is Marcia McCaslin in full voice, at her finest. Thank you for giving us the gift of your self portrait. It is one which inspires me to be a better friend to my own "child" who awaits. Brava!! Roses tossed. . . All my best, Joanne	2004-03-12 13:26:23
At The Mammae of Modernity	Thomas Edward Wright	Dear Tom: Laughing so hard -- I can't breathe. You irreverent progenitor, you. Touché! Your points are made (though visibly missing). Additional response may arrive by email, vaunt-courier, or in this very venue. It is feasible, isn't it, in the foreseeable future, that males may be able to carry a fetus to term abdominally? The requisite mammary glands could be forced to function, I found in a short article called "Male Lactation" by Professor Patty Stuart Macadam of the Department of Anthropology at the University of Toronto (Compleat Mother, Fall, 1996, Volume 43). "It is possible, and has been observed in animals and humans. In 1992, 18 Dayak fruit bats were captured from a rainforest in the Krau Game Reserve, Pahang, Malaysia. Of the 10 mature males captured, each had functional mammary glands from which small amounts of milk were expressed. A breast is a breast. Male lactation is physiologically possible and, according to Dr. Robert Greenblatt, production in males can be stimulated by letting a baby suckle for several weeks. Indeed some human males secrete milk at birth and at puberty. Historically, male lactation was noted by the German explorer Alexander Freiherr von Humboldt prior to 1859, who wrote of a 32-year-old man who breastfed his child for five months. It was also observed in a 55-year-old Baltimore man who had been the wetnurse of the children of his mistress." http://www.unassistedchildbirth.com/milkmen.htm Thank you for the dedication! *And your dedication Smiles, Joanne	2004-03-10 14:48:36
Terra Incognita	Mell W. Morris	Dear Mell: I am so honored by your additional notes. And to be in such company! These are the true questions - maybe the only ones worth bothering about - better than any others I can think of. What is that gap which separates one person from another, and how do we bridge it. To tell, truthfully, what one sees, and what one thinks is the most difficult of tasks, and poetry seems one of three ways in which this can be done. As a poet, you bridge this so-called gap with the poem. Just as an artist in drawing captures both the object drawn and the empty spaces surrounding it, you limn the unknown with great skill - and most of all, with what I can only describe as soul. I feel very lonely reading this piece, and very warmed by the ethereal fingers which touched keys to write it. The soul encasing the body which is Mell's using her brain and hands to form words which flew through space to find my mind-soul. Together, we (all reading/you) make music. There isn't anything better than this dance, in my opinion. Our dogwood hasn't shed its leaves this year and I feel uneasy in view of all bare trees nearby. It isn't a Guinness event by any means, merely a small, unusual occurrence. I have amassed a collection of such episodes I glanced out the window when I read this - our dogwood is barren, except for lichen and buds. Your dogwood is sending a message. All of these occurrences are synchronicity, I think you are showing us, happening around us constantly. They are invisible to us unless we "see" them and you lend us your eyes to begin to do so. The associations which spring to my mind with your dogwood tree. Flowers of the dogwood have four petals which make the shape of a cross. The center of the flower resembles the crown of thorns with bright red, clustered fruit in the center representing the blood of Christ. A pagan belief that this tree cleanses wounds; another culture sees this tree as the wood of spear and arrows. but I rarely expose those oddities. I feel certain arcane experiences occur to others which enchants and entrances me to know what comprises and arises in other brains. Does it rain inside your head? Do musical What a glorious invitation and opening to expansion you give us here. Those "arcane" experiences make up a good part of conscious/unconscious life. "Does it rain inside your head?" I've been waiting my entire life for someone to ask me that. There's a 'movie screen' in there, or perhaps my head is the projector. The rain I see is made of a conglomerate of sensory impressions, reflected, upside down, upon my retinae. Our vision is poor - say, compared to a woodpecker's, or a diamond-eyed dragon fly. Their vision is more likely closer to the reality of rain. But the rain that falls in my head is made of years of observation of rain - beginning with the shimmering drops on the car windows when I was a child. Trips at night enchanted me, as I could watch the rainbow-hued drops mingle and flow with a certain unexplainable feeling - closest metaphor I suppose would be cool jazz. instruments produce colors with their sounds? (yes!) Do tubas always bellow yellow for you, too? (I am in love with this line, infatuated) Do you free-fly through space, awed at a feast of colors and lights, wonders never imagined, yet feel intrusive as if ignoring a no-trespassing The wondrous thoughts (memories?) stimulated by this poem distract me from my desire to make comments on its structure. "free-fly through space/feast" is a dance, and a 'feast' in itself. I am still resonating to the tuba's 'bellowing yellow' *a dark, amber yellow* -- you've touched upon on of my favorite topics - synesthesia. It is embarrassing to discuss this openly, as real-time listener's faces may reflect not only skepticism, but also slight smirks. rule? Do you experience diurnal deja vu? My life is filled with unwilled happenings that tap into neural cells and I cannot understand that which wells in my own brain nor do I know my place, if one exists, Shivery sounds of liquid l's abound throughout, and the triple treat of "diurnal deja vu" make this poem better than a triple fudge sundae, at least for me. The mysterious happenings within "neural cells" sober me up somewhat, though - as not all "unwilled happenings" are of the pleasant kind. "cells/wells" - from the tiny to the expansive - and out. What is knowing one's "place" you ask the reader to consider, within the greater macrocosm? The "grand scheme" which makes sense only if looked at in small bits, or through telescopes (my favorite view) or microscopes. Those bits can be given names, attributes, mathematically measured, and we may comfort ourselves with our neat categories of everything. Until another "unwilled event" comes along, to belie linear perceptions, accumulated 'factoids' about the nature of things. in the grand scheme of our universe...all queries and no responses. Which brings me full circle: what quirks, majesties, ----lovely sounds - "circle/quirks" - delicious! and mysteries teem in the heads of others that forever will remain A truly humble person asks these questions. A humbled and admiring reader asks them within. The desire to understand the Other overwhelms. The loneliness of our being confined within smaller self-units becomes stifling, oppressive. You opened doors with this poem, letting in fresh air and visions. unseen and unsaid? Those two words contain universes within them. The poem is like an antiphony. I want to respond to each word and line with a chant. I heard yesterday that 'antiphony' is the way angels communicate with one another. You've allowed me to hear the colors of your sublime music once more. Your angel has told my angel that they're going off to listen to some Coltrane and Ella Fitzgerald. What an amazing person you are, Nekk. How fortunate I am to experience your poetic magic once more. If I could, I would extend a star to you, with your name. All my best, always Joanne (L.L.)	2004-03-09 18:03:57
Swimming With Mary	Thomas Edward Wright	Tom. Migod, this is beautiful. You shared Mary with us - someone who knew how to live and how to die. Synchronously, I read in this morning's newspaper of a local woman with cystic fibrosis who is 36 (way past expectations) and spends her time fund-raising for research. She's not Mary, but from the article, she knows how to live. The "how to drown" seems to me one of the profoundest lessons - and most difficult. We face it or don't. Her graceful, dignified crossing "to the safe side" lends meaning to the present for all of us. The entire poem is one of elegant, crisp, honest observation, but these lines are ones I won't (can't) forget - In her best cyanotic blue She drifts in and out, Smiling as she gasps, Pursing her lips - politely – As if we’d mind her fetid breath Or even notice fetor – Thin as a rake handle. Eaten. And still a smile. What a combination - 'physician-poet' - and I count myself fortunate, because what I've learned from your poems opens new dimensions for me. It is impossible to defeat death, you show us, but we may be more fully present for others because of the insights you've shared here. Stunning in every way. Perhaps controversial for some - I don't know. Bravo! Awed, Joanne	2004-03-08 14:56:39
I Have Memories	Sandra J Kelley	Sandra: Somehow, can you make the anthology available for purchase on a website? I'd be interested in purchasing one - and I think others who read here may be, as well. Your poem is lovely and sensual. It's not in my nature to be 'brutal' but I'll give feedback. It's the least I can do for you considering how many of my poems you've read and responded to - with very helpful ideas. I love it when we can 'workshop' poems here; if a writer requests feedback, I am happy to give it. I have memories of being alive This line suggests to me (and possibly to me alone) a disembodied spirit! of sunlight touching my skin at the point when it is burning The fire element - I recall this theme in some of your earlier poems as well. Somehow I want to bring more clarity to "at the point when it is" - something like - on fire - ablaze - flaming. Perhaps 'flame point'? The element of the sun's light along with a burning sensation in the skim make this poem immediately sensual. I don't think anyone has not had this sensation. We are most aware of our living within our skins when this amazing organ of our bodies communicates warmth or coolness. And you expertly contrast the heat with the "cool water lapping" to add an element of auditory imagery. memories of cool water lapping at my ankles as we stroll on the beach the liquid l's add to the liquid, soothing feel arguing about latex This line really surprised me. I can think of a number of contexts for this argument between two people - and it almost seems like eavesdropping to read this. This word lends texture to the piece (no pun intended) as well as intrigue. memories of my heart beating deep breathing and sweat excellent near-rhyme and rhythm in 'beating/breathing' - great metonymy other than that I remember nothing not the sound of your name or the stretch of my throat as I spoke it I do not remember the brush of your hand in my hair the ----'sensational' spacing between several words here and below warm flannel covering your chest the gentle suck -- excellent! of your teeth as your breath filled my ear the (rhythm) we created movement bodies entangled I do not remember The gentle irony as the speaker not only "remembers" everything vividly, but nudges readers to remember similar sensations. Nice, earthy 'th' sounds Working my way through this thoughtfully, I couldn't find anything to suggest changing, aside from tightening "at the point when it is burning." This is good - "include this one" is my suggestion! Best wishes for this worthy project of your writing group! Let us know where to look for the anthology, if you can get it online. :) Joanne	2004-02-29 19:37:39
I Have Memories	Sandra J Kelley	Sandra: Somehow, can you make the anthology available for purchase on a website? I'd be interested in purchasing one - and I think others who read here may be, as well. Your poem is lovely and sensual. It's not in my nature to be 'brutal' but I'll give feedback. It's the least I can do for you considering how many of my poems you've read and responded to - with very helpful ideas. I love it when we can 'workshop' poems here; if a writer requests feedback, I am happy to give it. I have memories of being alive This line suggests to me (and possibly to me alone) a disembodied spirit! of sunlight touching my skin at the point when it is burning The fire element - I recall this theme in some of your earlier poems as well. Somehow I want to bring more clarity to "at the point when it is" - something like - on fire - ablaze - flaming. Perhaps 'flame point'? The element of the sun's light along with a burning sensation in the skim make this poem immediately sensual. I don't think anyone has not had this sensation. We are most aware of our living within our skins when this amazing organ of our bodies communicates warmth or coolness. And you expertly contrast the heat with the "cool water lapping" to add an element of auditory imagery. memories of cool water lapping at my ankles as we stroll on the beach the liquid l's add to the liquid, soothing feel arguing about latex This line really surprised me. I can think of a number of contexts for this argument between two people - and it almost seems like eavesdropping to read this. This word lends texture to the piece (no pun intended) as well as intrigue. memories of my heart beating deep breathing and sweat excellent near-rhyme and rhythm in 'beating/breathing' - great metonymy other than that I remember nothing not the sound of your name or the stretch of my throat as I spoke it I do not remember the brush of your hand in my hair the ----'sensational' spacing between several words here and below warm flannel covering your chest the gentle suck -- excellent! of your teeth as your breath filled my ear the (rhythm) we created movement bodies entangled I do not remember The gentle irony as the speaker not only "remembers" everything vividly, but nudges readers to remember similar sensations. Nice, earthy 'th' sounds Working my way through this thoughtfully, I couldn't find anything to suggest changing, aside from tightening "at the point when it is burning." This is good - "include this one" is my suggestion! Best wishes for this worthy project of your writing group! Let us know where to look for the anthology, if you can get it online. :) Joanne	2004-02-29 19:37:21
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