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Displaying Critiques 491 to 540 out of 540 Total Critiques.| Poem Title | Poet Name | Critique Given by Joanne M Uppendahl | Critique Date |
| Border Clash | Thomas Edward Wright | Dear Tom: Your latest submission is no less a puzzle than any of your other poems, which is why I especially enjoy them. Some mysteries are not meant to be completely fathomed. But I will take my chances. (Under the careful eye of the Hawk) In ancient Egypt, the hawk was the symbol of the soul, I believe, and perhaps also a symbol of victory for the Egyptians. I believe this has to do with the way the hawk swoops down on its prey with power and ferocity. From his elevated vantage point, the hawk views the flight of the passengers in the Maroon coupe. We wonder what thoughts he entertains. Northward we run Through and away from Fast and sleek in the Maroon coupe - Does the Maroon coupe represent the physical body of the speaker? Does the direction of running, "Northward" imply cold and darkness? To Native Americans, north represented the realm of the ancestors, the realm of death and rebirth. Perhaps a return to the land of one's birth. The stark black earth, naked, somber as Wild turkeys stalk row upon row of once tall corn Past the last half acre of brown beans Over a modest river bridged long ago The "earth, naked" is a feminine image, at least to this reader. I think of Mother Earth, or 'earth mothers' or the earthy, sensual nature of humans. Nakedness implies either vulnerability or a state of being unadorned. I hadn't thought of wild turkeys as a somber species of birds, but perhaps with the onset of the coldest weather, and the bleak outlook for others of their species who have been domesticated and masticated in this season of the year, all turkeys would have reason to be somber. "one tall corn" implies a state of shriveled fertility, as corn is an ancient symbol of fecundity. The "black earth" and the "brown beans" add their tenebrific tone to the piece. The "modest river" suggests, at least to this reader, suggests a feeling of time slowing, of change happening but at a glacial pace. Iowa, your silo studded horizon mesmerizes While November, hung-over Pregnant with her first snow, threatens. The images of "once tall corn" and "silo studded horizon" imply a kind of surfeit, but not a curved goat's horn overflowing with fruit and ears of grain flowing from the traditional cornucopia, symbol of abundance. The pregnancy of November seems bleak, and as you have limned, threatening. Snow can be a symbol of purity and cleansing, but here it seems to represent a frozen state of being, a kind of blocked expression. On toward home. Ah, "home." One's physical habitat, one's spiritual destiny, or cause for anxiety if for example, the plumbing is clogged. The obstructed water in the pipes that is a frequent happening in November, especially in the Northern hemisphere, is not a celebratory occasion. But, nevertheless, the speaker moves toward it with a kind of benumbed acceptance of whatever fate awaits. How fine, how proud, how safe that first broad lake This shallow valley, her wooded hills make us feel. Celtic symbolism held that the Land of the Dead was at the bottom of the lake. Nostalgia for the feelings of safety and pride of "that first broad lake" seem to beckon the speaker, though ambivalent, towards an ultimate destination, home. The annual Thanksgiving trek? The shame, with the cloud deck, lifts slightly. Gold scarves wave to an old wind, an old friend. It is the wooded hills of the valley which "make us feel/The shame", lifting slightly? The "gold scarves" which wave "to an old wind" seem to be a metaphor for the gold leaved trees, moving in a chilly wind, beckoning to the speak (and speaker's family) as "an old friend" would do. The blood of war dries slowly. Scars repair; yet remain and remind. Even though decades pass, "the blood of war dries slowly." And who fights a bloodier warfare than close kin! I am reading this couplet as a metaphor for the sense of woundedness felt by the speaker (and those closest) from past encounters. These "scars repair" and yet, when one returns to a familiar setting and time of year, one is reminded of historical "border clashes." The ambiguity and layers of potential meaning, and especially the gloomy tone are some of the reasons I especially enjoyed this offering. If I have missed the point entirely, I can only hope for the mercy of the poet. In any event, I have enjoyed the opportunity to read and comment. Happy holidays! My best, Joanne | 2003-11-18 14:44:26 |
| Watermarks | Mell W. Morris | Mell:
I could not pass by without commenting. I don't know what the challenge is (was) and
found myself searching for a clue within the poem. Usually I dive into a poem like
a snorkeler. Looking and feeling and swooshing about, photographing some, taking
back some samples for closer inspection. Losing myself. This time I ended up in
Lake Michigan! I began to hear music - Count Basie, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett. . .
Printing...
his life. Family
inheritance from
those long urned.
Very witty - the wordplay of earned/urned.
Office on the thirty-
eighth floor; the decor:
a close view of the lake
in that town with
a great State Street,
where you lose your
blues, toddling.
If he's on the thirty-eighth floor, "a close view of the lake" would likely be
a photograph of Lake Michigan. This man is at a great remove from ordinary life, it
seems. A town with a great "State Street" seems somehow universal - there's one
in almost every town. But this has to be Chicago, and I am now hearing Tony
Bennett in my head, singing.
"Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin' town
Chicago, Chicago, I'll show you around
Bet your bottom dollar you'll lose the blues in Chicago"
dum da dum . . . hum, and I think . . .
"On State Street, that great street
I just want to say
They do things that they don't do on Broadway, say"
Now who is this man who "avoids the print" (stays out of the paper?
And the "smudges" and "drudgery" could be tabloid-like news.
He avoids the print
shop with its stench
of ink, its smudges
and drudgery. Yet his
soul glows at fine-
textured, personalized
stationery. The tactile
basso-relievo of embossed
paper: a sensory rush
much like his last touch
of a soft palimpsest.
Love this last word, "palimpsest." I found this reference to a Buddy Guy performance, using
"palimpsest" as a search word:
"Hs set is a palimpsest, a layered model of Chicago blues history: from industrial to
postindustrial synthesis, from vocal to guitar music, from folk origins to assimilation
by rock, from a form of popular culture grounded in the Black Metropolis to a museum-quality
roots concert music housed in the precincts of the service-professional classes."
And then. . .
"epending on who's telling which fragment of this story, Chicago blues can be seen as dying or
booming, rising or falling, developing or decaying. The blues is all right and the blues is not
all right. It's in a distinctly bluesy condition." Carlos Rotella, Boston College
Unwed, his obsession
with printed paper
precludes interest
in all save examining
monograms. Some think
him odd and doddery,
quaint and querulous.
What a puzzlement. A wealthy man, but one who is obsessed with printed paper
and "examining monograms." I keep hearing jazz, especially in "odd & doddery"
and "quaint & querulous." I imagine him as having very sensitive fingertips,
which might have better employed playing a trumpet.
His life is a gift to him,
sated by reverential
admiration for initials
he created.
I think of Chicago as the blues capital of the US, and have heard of its Printer's Row
which was a hotbed of vice before the Chicago fire. But I can't solve the puzzle.
You would be utterly amazed if you knew how much I want to know! Whatever the challenge
I am certain you met it. This reviewer didn't get past Tony Bennett. | 2003-11-09 23:35:01 |
| Sweet, Sweet Music (II) | Mell W. Morris | Dear Mell:
I hope you will forgive me for being so late to critique!While I was gone for a week I
also sprained my wrist, which makes writing one-handed a tedious endeavor. But I read
this wondrous entry before and enjoyed, absorbed and reveled in it - now I want to offer
my appreciation and a few words. This is definitely a poem to fall in love with. You
write so well of music - and the theme is in many of your works- if not directly then
indirectly in your sounds. But this one is HEAVENLY! "balm of Brahms" - indeed! I love
your description of music as your "truest reality." I believe, also - more than that -
feel - that music is what the universe is made of and one of life's greatest pleasures.
I felt that this poem was dedicated to 'me' as well as to all lovers of music as you said
in your Additional Notes, because it is truly one of the required ingredients for quality
of life. I am rambling - because I can think of so many responses your poem evoked for me.
Fusion jazz, razz-ma-tazz,
Bach, rock, and rap. Happy
the treat of a Scot-sweet
fling then a sigh for Cliburn's
hand span. *******************
I'd be happy had I only read this far - and made 'stars' after "hand span" because I
have to tell a story in response to this stanza. Well - it's more of an autobiography
but I will try to keep it short. | 2003-11-01 00:25:33 |
| Forever Daddy | Jordan Brendez Bandojo | Jordan: WOW! This poem has to be one of the most wonderful events in your father's life. Few adult children thank their parents in the superlative way that you have, in the inspirational soaring voice of a truly grateful son. It is of great value to your father, without a doubt, but as a poem it soars. Who reading this will not think of letting their living parent(s) know of their appreciation? It is truly inspiring to read of your father, his words to you, and your gratitude. One, two, three, four, five,... I tried counting the stars above But they clustered in zillion "Daddy, their number I couldn't reckon!" Like the untiring efforts you exert for me I become a man of principle and discipline. I love the way you began the poem with counting. It is as if you begin at "age one" although you are beginning to count the stars. I love the way you've used words to make this poem incredibly uplifting. For example, "they clustered in zillion" and the matching sounds in "principle and discipline." I was once equipped with a sonar, I tried determining the Pacific's depth But it's unfathomable, "Daddy, its bottom is beyond measure!" Like the paternal love you bestow on me. The final line of the strophe above combines with the one above it, in the young child's voice, with the grown man's voice. The depths of your love being returned to your father in this poem are very moving. What a wise decision, to share your gratitude with him now, while he still lives! I was once a capricious dreamer, I yearned I can fly Like a bird gliding from afar While zephyr's blown across the azure sky. --delightful use of z's! Ah, yes, I did soar! You gave me wings Your wisdom levitates me into a lofty seat of understanding. These three lines above are so touching - so much so that I can feel a catch in my throat. But I am writing instead of speaking, so that you won't hear that I am near tears and choked up. I was once a merchant, searching for fine pearls Risking my life to unknown places like a vagabond, And at last, I've found the place where fine pearls are treasured In your heart, dignity and heroism of an ideal father reside in quintessence. You have garnered the truest treasures in life from your wise father, and share this appreciation with us. This strophe above reminds me a bit of the Biblical story of the Prodigal Son, though I know you weren't like that. It is a personal example of how a parent can truly teach a child, not so much by what is said but by what is lived. My childhood flashes back When we were flying a kite In the verdant fraught with delight. "My child, hold the string tightly so it won't get lost out of sight!" You uttered in bravery. And you know, Dad? The kite is still flying! Your nobility and greatness hold its string. The pleasures of kite-flying tie in so well with the character of your father. Truly, a wise and brave parent allows the youngster to venture out, but continues to hold the kite string. That you still turn to your father's example of nobility and greatness is heartwarming. Now, I grew up With virtue you molded, my armor I learned to take up the gauntlet, I delve into the world Prepared as a militant soldier in a battle With wisdom you imparted, my helmet. Strong-sounding words, such as "armor/gauntlet/militant/soldier/battle/helmet" show that he gave you strength with his wisdom. These are all words usually associated with the masculine gender, and this is so appropriate as he was your role model for manhood. Now, let me tell you, Daddy I may be ignorant of the world around me Yet one thing I'm sure I know You do love me and I love you, too Forever long. This is the most moving stanza of all! I have a feeling that he admires your modesty in this piece ("I may be ignorant. . .") but views you with great pride and a thankful heart. The bond between you truly cannot be broken - not by time, nor death. It is an honor to read and comment on this loving tribute to your father. Bravo! All my best, Joanne | 2003-10-23 19:21:33 |
| Drought | marilyn terwilleger | Marilyn: This is an incredibly richly-textured piece, which is alive with color, sound, motion and strong verbal imagery. I read it aloud, with deep enjoyment and a sense of really comprehending the title's "Drought" in a new and more profound way. When I did so, I found myself pausing at intervals when I needed to breathe, and the idea occurred to me then that making your line breaks at those intervals might enhance the flow of this masterfully-written work. However, the long, drawn-out lines *are* like the suffering of seemingly endless drought, however, and perhaps you are showing us this with the line length. In that case, please disregard this suggestion. You are the artist! You accomplish word-magic here. Ecru grass crackles neath my feet arid desolation saddens (the) green Where gardens smiled Ahhh - the allit. sounds of hard 'c' in "ecru/crackles" are superbly done. The assonance of "crackles/saddens" and "feet/green" completely immerse me as a reader in this surround. The past tense of "gardens smiled" is understated, whimsical, and shows us your tenderness for those no longer smiling gardens. A ruthless sun suspended in cloudless sky scorches earth as weeds Wilt in shapeless ruin Oh, and the sibilance! - and the multiple u's ululating in a type of cry, the kind which could emerge from dry land, grass and weeds is aptly mournful here. Water robbing winds moan ---WONDERFUL! amidst leaves as the rosy blush Of life flees It is almost as if reading this intensely imagistic poem causes desiccation in my bones and joints. I can literally feel the life ebbing. But next is the strophe which made me sit back in wonder. The sounds here are consummate, impeccable, and the imagery at its starkest -- Ebon and ocher pansy faces frown at the Danu of death, roots grab the Glebe with idle grit Stunning ironic twist to have the Danu (Earth-mother-goddess) representing death. Highly original phrasing in this strophe makes it a stand-out at least in this reader's estimation. "Danu of death" and "roots grab the Glebe with idle grit" are incredible linguistic feats. I looked to find "glebe" as a term for soil. That you have capitalized it gives it specificity. Amazingly deft handling in this personification: Peachy poppies with hunched backs bear down to yield birth of their seeds To an expectant garden The saving grace of the fecundity of nature is displayed with artistic flair par excellence here. The image of the seeds, the archetypal symbol of new beginnings, whether "seeds of consciousness" or of hope and kindness, to germinate in an "expectant garden." What splendid wordplay! The double meaning or layers of meaning in "bear" as in birth pains, or as in bear fruit - and the "expectant" garden which is at once hopeful and pregnant. I am rambling, as I tend to do when I am excited about a poem. I can't decide what is most thrilling here - your magnificent diction, the sense of hopefulness I feel inside when I read these words, or the thrill at finding a poem which I truly love. This one speaks to me of the underlying LIFE within all created things, which will not be denied nor destroyed, placed there by the Creator. Marigolds still standing stare skyward defying Helios with his inflamed ire. Scourged by drought I love the thought of the empowered marigolds, "defying Helios with his inflamed ire" like a celestial Rumplestiltskin. As if that weren't enough, you exceed it with the final line in this strophe's sound pattern: "scourged by drought" The ravaged ground splits and cracks as my barren herbage feebly awaits Winter's cape of snow I think having "crackled" and "cracks" in the same poem emphasizes the 'c' and 'cra' sounds, and calls upon us as readers to surrender to the split ground, to await the comfort of "Winter's cape of snow." Surely, this garden will prove once again that life itself is indestructible. I find in this poem a powerful and sublimely beautiful metaphor for life and death. Though our bodies may die, though we may be "scourged by drought" (physical or spiritual) in our weakness we shall be sheltered and reborn by the grace of God. These gardens which no longer smile, (perhaps a parallel to the original Garden?) will smile once more! This poem gives hope: The "seeds" have been sown, and though we are covered over by "Winter's cape of snow" (death) we too shall grow once more. Wondrous, marvelous work, Marilyn. Take a bow - brava! - and brava again. All my best, Joanne | 2003-10-22 19:06:24 |
| Talking To The Trees | Mell W. Morris | Dear Mell: In your absence, it is apparent from this poem that you have spent quality time with your inner Muse. The poem is magical - it is all I could ever want and hope for from a reading experience. I am enthralled with its imagery, and particularly the personification of the leaves as messengers. How incredible to be able to conceptualize such wonder, let alone to give them ethereal voices as you have done. I am thoroughly under your spell. Falling leaves give eulogies to autumn seasons and for love- long reasons and with crisp songs, please myriad beings. The rhythm in the second line above captivates me completely. "love-long" is a wonderful, fresh word, which enjambed gives variant meanings to these melodic line. The idea of "crisp songs" is exactly what I meant by magical. One can hear and feel the textures in a way that is transcendent. Your ability to lift the ordinary into sublime realms never fails to illuminate your work. The reference to "myriad beings" is thrilling as well, for we may visualize elves and sprites if so inclined (and Irish) or angels, or even the waiting microcosm of teeming life on the forest floor. Crushed hushes occur when leaves tell tales: those grand raconteurs, relating music of dallying breezes and tallies of tree-bole rings. Sound magic in "crushed hushes occur" give me all-over chills. The whimsical thought of the leaves telling tales, of them as "grand raconteurs" (YOU are the Queen of Assonance, my dear!)is sublime. I have the strongest urge to open the windows and listen! Those pointed, crisp t's in "tell/tales/relating/tallies/tree-bole" allude to the slightly papery tinkle of those sounds. Not overdone, but just enough to prick a listener's ear so that our senses are heightened and we may hear along with the poet. These moments pass - and the ability to hear them as you suggest is fleeting, I think. Herein is a gift given to readers: Leaves are like pages of poetry that assuage loneliness. Come, fill empty spaces by listening to their lore of teardrop traces. Indeed, as you suggest (or as I infer) the "empty spaces" are a grace, granted to the listener in order to hear in these sounds the response of one's inmost being, a listening that requires utter quiet and surrender. Such a state is a prayerful one, with a touch of mournfulness. For after all, you show us here, the leaves are in a state of enhanced beauty and stimulate our reverence as they approach their transformation. Belief suspended, the din of life aside, attend with an inner ear. Ah, the glory of their stories! Such riches to learn from turning I think I expected "disbelief suspended" but either phrase will work, because we are listening on a different level. Phrases "din of life/inner ear" ingeniously contrast the noisy external world and the inner one of perception, the one which is capable of "listening to the silence." Your "glory of their stories" is an example of pure Melli-fluence, gifted by the lovely liquid r's rolling softly throughout L2-4 above. Leaves. I love the way you dropped down to the last word. It then does service to the poem as a noun and verb, for the careful listener. We are illuminated by such writing, which shows us the unexpected glory in acceptance of life's changes, hear the love songs inherent within and without as we connect with the nature's cyclic changing of seasons. One of your finest works to date, informed with a quiet spirituality which lifts it to the level of hymnody. Exquisite in every sense. Brava! Cedar woven baskets of fall leaves, set gently before you. All my best, Joanne | 2003-10-21 13:19:32 |
| A Thousand Vacant Bodies | Eddie S. Iris | Dear Eddie: The impact of this poem is such that I was unable to respond on first reading. You touch upon a very personal issue for me, and an important topic (to say the least) in our day. On a personal note, I lost my own son to suicide - the anniversary date is next Wednesday. If your poem awakens one reader, stimulates conversation, encourages a parent to talk more with a child, it is more than worth the effort. You aptly define the hopelessness, the alienation and the anger that often precedes this self-destructive act. It is impossible to read the poem and have no emotions about it. In my opinion, this is the work of poetry - to leave the reader feeling something different than when they began to read. I think that this poem definitely deserves a wider audience, and is certainly one I feel would be well presented at a poetry reading. the stars weren't out tonight they were sick they left us too the sky was jet-black and beautiful calling out to us telling us to find peace through the bullet That there is little peace in the world places the responsibility squarely on the shoulders of the reader. The often-accepted solution to conflict is violence. You've used the absence of stars to depict the absence of light, of hope. The void beckons; self-annihiliation seems the only solution to the seeming purposelessness of life in a world of no-hope. Roger Moore in "Bowling for Columbine" commented on the pervasiveness of violence and guns in our (American) society. A society which fails to acknowledge the effect on youth of the culture of violence is one which, in effect, turns its back on them. Bringing these thoughts into the open is the best way to change what is happening. pull that trigger tighten that noose swallow the whole bottle douse yourself in kerosene and light that fucking match mass suicide in suburbia Here we are reminded of Columbine, other school shootings, other individual acts of desperation! no one notices the dead bodies piling up on the edge of town how can you ignore that smell how can you disregard the screaming how can you not notice a thousand vacant bodies marching past - excellent! why can't you just look into the face of your child and ask if he's okay why do you let your friends slit their wrists and why do you hand out the guns? I read somewhere in a book about writing poetry that we should never write about "the dead dog lying in the road" - that is, never offend our reader's sensibilities. I think that *breaking* that so-called rule is key here in this poem, which may serve as a wake-up call to the complacent. To the neighbor, parent, teacher, friend of someone who may be prevented from taking an irretrievable step. Perhaps we are not so much complacent as fearful. To turn away from that fear and denial and to look directly at the situation is what you ask us to do in this poem. I think that your title is stunning, and that the line - "how can you not notice a thousand vacant bodies marching past" is incredible use of the power of poetry to stir and to awaken. Keep speaking out, and I, for one, shall be listening. Brava! All my best, Joanne | 2003-10-20 14:19:31 |
| Cycles (Diamante) | Dan D Lavigne | Hi Dan:
I would have sent you my comments sooner - but you got me started on a project! | 2003-10-16 20:35:09 |
| For The Sake Of All Lovers Lost To This | Rick Barnes | Ah, Rick! I read this aloud until I came to the ninth line, and then I stumbled, because of involuntary tears. I felt chills of recognition of what cannot be, at least within our limited scope of things. The yearning within this poem for that which cannot be is so palpable, the incompleteness with which we must grapple as we grieve because we are seemingly separated, one from another. And yet you paint a much larger picture as a backdrop for these two lovers. One which is so large that they most likely can't perceive it. As we cannot perceive our place in the universe except from our immediate standpoint. We cannot take the larger view and look at ourselves as we are seen by the One. It doesn’t only come down to you and I. There are violins guiding our every move Incredible. "violins guiding our every move" This is why you are a poet-philosopher. You hear the violins, and translate their music into words. No two people, nor any one person, can operate outside of the matrix created by the "violins" or, if you will, the "music of the spheres" about which Pythagoras wrote. Perhaps Pythagoras was not the first to hear this music, but quickly taught others to partake of it. He believed the stars to be attached to crystal spheres revolving about the Earth. These heavenly spheres produced harmonious sounds only the truly inspired could hear. Whether the music he referred to was actual or metaphor doesn't matter, I think. For we sense what you show us within the poem, and what Pythagoras may have meant. An underlying perfection and beauty to all that is. In our limited human experience, we may wish to alter the greater pattern to suit our immediate desires: And the aroma of myths we live by Fill our lungs in passionate breaths We have no choice but to breathe. You combine many subtle elements in "aroma/myths/passionate/breaths/choice/breathe" for example. "Aroma" imparts a distinctive quality or atmosphere, and is sensed by us with our limited sensorium. And "myths" are part of a world view. Not a personal view, but a more universal one. How can we separate ourselves from a pervasive aroma and equally pervasive world view? We are breathing creatures, and have no choice but to act as such. We inhale both aroma and myths. We are "passionate" in several ways. We are capable of and express intense feeling. That is our nature, and shown strongly in "We have no choice but to breathe" for we are breathers. Lungs represent the breath of life and taking in life, but yet they are often associated with grief. Oh, how I wish I believed This was all conceived In the genius of our two hearts. The two "Oh, how I wish" phrases strike a resounding chord of sorrow within this reader. For all of the things that are not within my power to change. The ancient Egyptians left the heart, alone, as the only organ in a mummy. Perhaps they considered it indispensable to the person for his or her journey into infinity. The three lines above imply that the speaker addresses a situation that was not conceived by two human hearts, but by a greater force. Oh, how I wish our fate belonged, If only in part, To the granting of wishes And the power of desire. Here is the irony! We are made as "breathers" of "passionate breaths." Our very framework, as such, responds most strongly to "wishes" and "desire." This is the greatest paradox. It is our desire and love which cause our suffering. But it is in our very nature, our breath. What is meant by "fate" - an absence of free will? Or is the experience one which is incomplete without suffering in separation, lest the longing for union be lost? That just this once, For the sake of all lovers lost to this, Since first four lips created a kiss, There could burn such a fire With such passionate force That our love become flame And our souls be the source. --WONDERFUL! "Flame" can reference the transcendent state between humankind and spirit, a kind of bridge, if you will. Does the speaker wish, "for the sake of all lovers lost to this" for a consuming "fire/force/flame" to reconcile all souls with the Source? The transition from "desire" to "love become flame" to "our souls be the source" speaks to this reader of the divine nature within. The poem is so much more than a lover's lament! (Rick, there you go, transcending again.) The elements of poetry within this work - sound, cadence, imagery, voice - are all sublime. It is easy to take these for granted in a Rick Barnes poem. They are of such quality that the reader may immerse completely in the poem's essence. And yet, the reading is not finished at the culmination of this poem, the final line. The echoes of this work continue long past the reading, and the poem continues to write itself on the "single most necessary organ" -- the heart of the reader. Wondrous, in every sense of the word. Joanne | 2003-10-15 13:32:21 |
| Past | marilyn terwilleger | Dear Marilyn: Oh, how I ache for you! I know the healing value of writing a poem like this. You compress so much emotion into this brief poem, which I believe makes it all the more powerful. It is an excellent poem of mourning and remembrance. "The past never passes" --- how very true! What an original way to describe it, to show readers how the past "lurks patiently" until "haunted by the mind." The concept of the past being "haunted by the mind" is incredibly vivid. It is the mind which seems to replay scenes of the past, much like a movie projector which has taken it upon itself to replay old films. But it does so unexpectedly, as you show us, for the mind finds the past 'movies' as it "lurks patiently." These actions seem to take place outside of the will of the speaker. The unexpected descriptor of the mind as 'haunting' is brilliant, in my opinion. Giving the past a persona capable of lurking implies so much about the painful quality of revisiting the past. Consolers say "This too will pass" but waves of memories catch cobwebbed corners clutching them Ah! How completely mapped is the territory of grief in this poem. Platitudes such as "This too will pass" are not helpful - minimizing the anguish of the bereaved with a phrase. It is essential for the one who grieves to have the painful feelings, and, as you have so aptly shown, the memories which come in waves. I am reminded of the way labor pains work, or the way pain if often experienced as a gradual building up, and crescendo, and then a diminishing. Memories seem to intrude in just this way. But are they intrusions, or the gentle presentation to our psyches whenever we are sufficiently able to withstand them? I can't answer that, of course, but your poem is so accurate and so evocative. "Cobwebbed corners clutching" is so onomatopoetic - as the 'c' sound is like the sob, catching in our throat. I truly feel that "consolers" mean well, but they are uncomfortable with our pain, and want us to 'feel better' even if it means that we do not experience our own feelings of loss when they occur. This is not helpful to the bereaved. Our minds are such that we hold on to memories, painful or not, you show us, because we still need those vivid mental pictures and emotions in order to remember the beloved ones we have lost. close to consciousness. The past remains present, lest I forget the comfort of your arms That you did not end the poem with a period speaks volumes. The remembering goes on, and will continue. You will never forget your husband, though your life circumstances may change. I am so sorry for your sadness, but I wouldn't have you diminish it in any way. It is yours, and a precious gift. I will keep you in my thoughts and prayers. I am sorry I didn't see this sooner to respond on the day. I know that day holds great significance. My own day of remembrance approaches soon. Your excellent poem helps me cope with my own "waves of memories" which at times seem overwhelming. But I don't want to part with them, for the worst thing imaginable would be to forget my son, including the sorrow I feel at his loss. God be with you, and peace. All my best, Joanne | 2003-10-14 14:00:49 |
| In Search Of The God Particle | Drenda D. Cooper | Dear Drenda: Ahhh!! Life is good, indeed! The combination of this poem, written by you (I love your poetry) and the subject matter seem tailor-made for happiness for me. I love quantum physics, too, and have read "The Dancing Wu Li Masters" and other, similar books, but it was a long time ago, so I may not be current in my understanding. But my appetite is whetted by this poem to pick up those threads once more. I think that your title, "In Search of the God Particle" is excellent, as titles are what draw us to poetry (as well as the author) initially. What an amazing contrast between the two ideas -- "God" and "particle." And then your fascinating epigram: "Physicists are praying that their 4-mile-long machine will detect a tiny bit of matter so elusive that some consider it practically divine." ...excerpt from Popular Science Magazine, Nov., 200l. I practically swoon when I read something like this, for I fully expect that at some time in the future, science may embrace a more spiritual outlook on the universe. I am aware that Einstein was a deeply spiritual man. Physicists' minds flex and spew Complex theories of flux. From realms of the unseen Highly imaginative possibilities Step up to mathematical probabilities --love the 'ilities' rhyme here Into incomprehensible equations, akin To mystical, for those who think Inside the box of three-dimensional. WOW! You have dazzled me with sounds, like "flex/flux/complex/box" with 'x' standing for the unknown number. "flex and spew" are particularly apt verbs for the mental energy expended. I love the sounds in "akin to mystical" - the short i's and the hard 'k' sounds lending to a sense of the mysterious. Giant accelerators smash particles Into waves, as great minds hover over Hoping to uncover miniscule articles Of their faith. A few, highly esteemed, Have deemed the most fundamental to be 'Higgs boson,' the ultimate source; Designated by some to be 'divine', The reason that matter has weight. The honored consonant of the first stanza was 'x; in this one, it is 'v' as in "waves/hover/over/uncover/have/divine." Internal rhymes like "esteemed/deemed" add literary delight to shivers of possibility for this reader. I love considering what may come of this research. "Higgs bosons" are hypothetical elementary particles predicted by particle physics. These may play a fundamental role as carrier particles of the Higgs field which is thought to permeate the universe and to give mass to all particles. These particles were first predicted in the 1960s by the Scottish physicist Peter Higgs. Unready, yet, to let go of the past, Skeptics hold their breath and wait. Unable to embrace new paradigms That include non-matter, they need pictures; Concrete proof of bizarre conjectures. For fellow scientists the need arises From competition for the Nobel prizes. So stretches this search into the sublime. The 'star' of this stanza seems to be the long 'i' in "arises/prizes/sublime" and of course the incredible sibilant 's' in the strophe's final euphonious word, "sublime." To the brilliant few who remain on course -- I think 'remaining on course' is the secret of genius. . . The 'Higgs' will become defined, confined; No longer (divine), just the smallest thus far To take its place in proper perspective, Reflective in the continuum of space-time. For physicists, once more, will push the envelope; Bend thought into understanding; destined to grope For the core of that which has no beginning, no end. Your final stanza predicts that scientists will continue to formulate new hypotheses, but will continue to struggle for understanding of the eternal, ineffable "God particle." Fascinating, thought-provoking and beautifully written, once more. Kudos! All my best, Joanne | 2003-10-11 18:03:51 |
| Haiku (Life a new) | Dan D Lavigne | Dear Dan: This very emotionally intense poem is infused with deep love and sorrow. I think technically that these may be more similar to the traditional Japanese renga, or "linked poem." I think you've chosen an apt form for this poem, because the spareness of language accentuates emotion, but at the same time give it a container. It is difficult to respond to this work, as it calls me to quiet reverence. I am deeply touched by the courageousness of the subject of this poem, as well as by the admiration and devotion expressed. In the final stanzas, you depict the inner as well as the outer being. The irony of suffering observed is that we cannot lessen the pain or loneliness of our loved ones as they approach that doorway through which we cannot go. I think that your poem, written from the standpoint of the one who is ill is more than deeply compassionate, but empathic (suffering "with" him) and as such is an offering of deepest anguish. Craving dignity As I lie in wait for it Silence as it comes Blinded by darkness Deafened by screams of silence I reach ascension Released at last from the body which can no longer hold the soul, he enters a new realm of awareness, a new beginning. The essence of life As winter gives way to spring A child cries, new life As all are a part of the cycles of nature, our earthy bodies become one with the matter which formed them, and new life begins. I am not certain if you write of the reincarnation of this individual. Or, if the implication is that one's essence is absorbed into the whole, one's spirit once more part of the Great Spirit, from whom all life begins, and a new life begins as "a child cries." In either case, the poem demonstrates the ongoingness of life, a statement of hope in the face of what some might see as annihilation. I am reminded of the words of the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: "Life is real! Life is earnest! And death is not its goal. Dust thou art, to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul." The tenderness and anguish you feel for Gary as he struggles with his illness brings those of us who cherish his gentle, kind and perceptive presence into the circle of his family. For this I am deeply grateful. He and you continue to be in my thoughts. You remind me in this poem that love cannot ever be destroyed, and that our love for one another is the most important part of life. May that love comfort you in the time ahead. All my best, Joanne | 2003-10-11 13:10:46 |
| Point of Reference | Thomas H. Smihula | Hi Thomas: I enjoyed this piece for its deeply reflective tone. I found in it a parallel to the sacred maze/ labyrinth. Perhaps this is not your intent, nevertheless it is the way I found myself journeying mentally as I read. Poems with several levels of interpretation are among my favorites; this is one no exception. A maze/labyrinth is an ancient symbol that relates to wholeness. It combines the imagery of a circle and a spiral into a meandering but purposeful path. The maze/labyrinth represents a journey to our own center and back again out into the world. That you have capitalized "Maze" gives this reader the impression that you are speaking metaphorically of an experience with our Creator, walking through the often confusing puzzle which makes up most of our lives. Enter this maze of reflection turn in another direction finding your way Labyrinths/mazes have long been meditation and prayer tools. They are a mysterious archetype with which we can have a direct experience. We can walk them as a metaphor for life's journey. They provide symbolic experiences that create a sacred space and place and take us out of our ego. Likeness is found revolving around Now a piece of the riddle Labyrinths and mazes are often compared. When most people hear of a labyrinth they think of a maze, like a puzzle to be solved with has twists, turns, and blind alleys. A labyrinth really only one path - the way in is the Way out. The journey leads us on a winding path to the center and out again. This involves intuition, creativity, and imagery, perhaps more than a merely intellectual exercise in logic and analysis, you show us here: Think that you know lacking the whole part of the puzzle With a maze many choices must be made and an active mind is needed to solve the problem of finding the center. It is difficult to be in an upheaval of emotion and anxiety and also negotiate the twists and turns of the maze: Knowing no fear Not shedding a tear unable to find a bearing Paradoxically, there is truly only one choice to be made. The choice to enter or not. A receptive mindset is needed. The choice is whether or not to walk a spiritual path. We must accomplish this, I think you are showing us here, by faith and not by "sight": knowing your plight one might have sight the final part of the set I believe that this poem contains a metaphor for the journey to the center of our deepest self and back out again with a broadened understanding of who we are: Facing reality Enter totality here is the way... Through this Maze Beautiful meditative poem, Thomas! Thank you for sharing this with us. All my best, Joanne | 2003-10-08 13:21:07 |
| Hymn to Autumn | Rachel F. Spinoza | Hi Rachel: Sometimes I hear and see things in poems that I don't think poets meant to be there, so if I interpret this differently from your intent for the piece, I apologize in advance. This poem brought the lyrics of "Cowboy's Lament" to my mind and I am hearing it sung. I think this began when I read "dressed up in linen" and then intensified with the final strophe: This will be private: The dying, my darling This will be private, The dying alone I recall that the young cowboy was dying, and gave instructions for his burial: "Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin; Get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall - " Perhaps the only similarities are that the speaker makes a request for certain things to be done whilst she (or he) is dying -- Go now, go swiftly, To the veranda, Tune up the piano, Drink cider and bloom which are in contrast to wandering about with a downcast mien, as well as the reference to the pavement which has "dressed up in linen." But the title is "Hymn to Autumn" and in the first strophe, the images are soothing - or at least soothing in the kinds of ways we are soothed when recuperating from an illness: Nestled in eiderdown, Flannelled and balmed, --soothing liquid l's in all four lines Autumn left quickly Sans rancor or blame Autumn *does* leave quickly - and autumn's intense beauty is partly due to the dying of the leaves. How can we blame autumn for what cannot be helped, one might conclude here. "Softly" in the second strophe evokes, for me, "Oh beat the drum slowly." But the texture of pavement is harsh, especially dressed in its linen "Of twice-frozen rain." But instead of the "slowly" of the Cowboy's Lament, the one to whom the speaker addresses this hymn instructs, "Go now, go swiftly." I somehow feel that the speaker addresses an other, who, as innocent and guileless as a fleeting autumn, must leave the speaker to die alone. The repetition of "dying" and "private" imbue a resoluteness (no change of mind possible) to the speaker's words. This is a mournful poem which greatly intrigues, and an excellent read. Splendidly done, as always. Bravo! All my best, Joanne | 2003-10-03 15:33:44 |
| Poetic Linkage | Terrye Godown | Hi Terrye: I may be the last one to shout "Bravo!" for this highly enjoyable piece! I have been waylaid by a virus; but the poem brings cheer, wit, and that especially light-hearted quality that I find so often in your poetic works. (I'm going to start saving for a trip away if it can infuse me with the kind of energy you display here.) The catalyst of mental conceptions Honed through electronic oblivion Enlivened by spontaneity and humor -- As you demonstrate so deftly here! Pondered by enthusiastic minds Oscillating through carnal channels Energizing spiritual awareness -- WONDERFUL! Tokens of life’s lessons learned Intrinsic combinations of character Concoctions infused with ingenuity -- brilliantly put Laminated on cyber technology Inspiring unrecognized talents (This is the place, and right you are!) Navigating the perimeters of intellect Kaleidoscopes of diffusing expression I think that besides capturing the fun 'intrinsic' to these "combinations of character", you've made quite a few profound observations about what it is that takes place in a cultural sense in the Internet environment. I LOVE anagrams and word play, and hope you'll treat us to another like this soon - Kudos! All my best, Joanne | 2003-10-03 13:44:27 |
| Blinded | C Arrownut | Dear Gayle: I really like this poem - for it uses simple language to convey profound thoughts! I can certainly see why this has achieved a high standing on the winner's list thus far. Your sustained metaphor is so apt. Reading this poem is kind of an 'of course' experience, if you take my meaning. Had you not written it, it is as though it existed in unwritten form in the collective unconscious. Reading these lines -- And in our sealed enclosure, how can we know car beams from the moon or streetlights from the stars? I can't help but be reminded of a bit of dialogue from Plato's Republic, Book VII, concerning humans as cave dwellers who only see from the light of a fire behind and above them, and there is a constant parade of images, like shadow-puppets, which are but dimly discerned and randomly interpreted: "What do you suppose he'd say if someone were to tell him that before he saw silly nothings, while now, because he is somewhat nearer to what IS and more turned toward beings, he sees more correctly; and, in particular, showing him each of the things that pass by, were to compel the man to answer his questions about what they are? Don't you suppose he'd be at a loss and believe that what was seen before is truer than what is now shown?" Your excellent poem gives us another, more accessible view (no pun intended) of our limited points-of-view. I especially love the lines - "slump in the not-so-easy chair of our one-room universe" There are those who believe they *know* based on convincing evidence. The poem seems to shed light on the reality that the best we can hope for, from the standpoint of our "one-room universe", is knowledge that may be obtained from our limited vision. I value poetry that opens a door of perception, and I think that this one does, without seeming doctrinaire or nihilistic. There is the beginning question, "For how long?" which follows upon the title, "Blinded." You do not give us the answer, but it occurs to me that the beginning of sight is increasing awareness of the limitations of our vision. Brava! All my best, Joanne | 2003-10-03 13:32:58 |
| Tempest Fugue | Rachel F. Spinoza | Hi Rachel, I love it! It is exuberant, lively, lovely and enticing. I find the verbs you've chosen for this piece especially delectable. The joyous, unrestrained qualities of this piece are contagious. Soon, I will tell you sea tales, tantalize you with sagas of typhoons and cyclones - yarns so vertiginous ----WONDERFUL! you will fall overboard. Splat! "tell/tales/tantalize/typhoons" and "vertiginous" are rich with witty 't' sounds Then I will carry you ashore, resuscitate you, until you undulate in sea rhythms and become salted to my taste Above, "resuscitate/undulate" are especially luscious, droll and completed with the sensual suggestion of the lover becoming "salted/to my taste." Afterward I will marry you to adventure you, who is lounging, so deliciously, on the blue couch - "lounging/couch/deliciously" soft with splendid assonance hypnotizing my cat with yarn It's impossible to read this and not become infatuated with the tangy, zesty promises of "adventure" and playfulness. The "siren" who speaks to the "sailor" or mermaid invites her into exhilarating companionship and affection. Sometimes life is very, very good. This is one of those times. (Within the poem, and for a reader who enjoyed every syllable.) Kudos! All my best, Joanne | 2003-10-01 13:17:16 |
| Strapped | Thomas H. Smihula | Hi Thomas! Your additional notes explain why I had a feeling of familiarity when I read this in September! I am glad to have this expanded version, but don't remember exactly how you closed the original poem before revision. There is such a sense of "rightness" about it; whatever you've changed or added seems to have enriched this offering. You share this journey, this venture, with readers. The speaker is no ordinary seaman, we learn. When the eyes were closed I felt sensation as the wind carried me to new heights above the deck and in my nest now Strapped to the Mast... Wonderful assonance in "felt/sensation/deck/nest" and especially "Strapped/mast" enhance the first strophe. I read this aloud, and changed "the" to "my" as I read it, almost unconsciously. There is almost a detachment from suffering evident in the article "the" instead of the possessive pronoun, "my." The speaker realizes that surrendering to his conditions allows the "wind" (often a symbol for spirit) has "carried me to new heights." It is only because of his willingness to embrace the experience that it can lift him "above the deck" I believe. Alliteration and assonance of "yonder/yard arms" is just one of the poetic pleasures contained within this piece. Deft use of sibilance, as well, with "salt/sing/sunlight/ sea" as well as "lashed/lips/tipped." You make it possible for the reader to feel dry, cracked lips "tipped with thoughts of salt" and to feel the singe of "the heat of sunlight." But most powerfully, as a reader I felt "adrift on a sea of fury" to be a kind of credo. Regardless of circumstances, we may rise above them, if we are willing to "venture on." I am greatly inspired by these words. Embraced in a mist from Aphrodite past the throne of Neptune into the calming waters next to the isle of wonders I journey on What a mystical, metaphoric journey - and what incredible imagery - especially "next to the isle of wonders." I clench the fist of thunder sail with the Flying Dutchman drop into a massive cyclone engulfed by swirling waters I continue on This intrepid speaker, like the ordinary human, "continues on" in spite of thunder, engulfment in a cyclone, and the other passages on this metaphorical passage through life, with its storms. He (or she) will "continue on" though aware of the things which might hinder his progress. Strapped to this Mast I like the way you have separated this line, as it emphasizes the limitations of the speaker. Having no choice, he nevertheless embraces life, to "rise up from the depths" in his search. Thrown, bounded by the abyss -- WONDERFUL! fathoming the sea I emerge, rise up from the depths to the surface once more In search Will the albatross fly above find a resting place upon this shoulder use it as a nesting sanctuary In need In the early 17th century, mariners believed drowned sailors were reincarnated as albatrosses and feared that killing them would bring bad luck -- the theme of Samuel Taylor Coleridge's epic, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." Here the speaker seems even willing to allow on to rest "upon this shoulder" and nest there "in need" rather than kill the bird as the "Ancient Mariner" did. But not through fear of bad luck, you show us, but through willingness to do what needs to be done, with compassion and awareness. Alas the thoughts, drained except for one that has bound me to this yardarm Love... Aa Coleridge wrote "He prayeth best, who loveth best/All things both great and small;/ For the dear God who loveth us/He made and loveth all." Your original work, with allusions to this beloved classic, reminds us that it is truly love which anchors us, and "binds" the speaker to the yardarm. I sense that the speaker is courageously enduring the many trials of life despite being "Strapped to this Mast" for the sake of loved ones. For after all, this poem seems to show us, what we endure is closely connected to *why* we endure. One always makes a conscious choice, you seem to show us here, to stay the course. Love is that one force which connects us to one another and to the Creator of all. Masterfully done, Thomas. Kudos! Best wishes, Joanne | 2003-10-01 12:48:11 |
| japanese verse 26 (Camel) | Erzahl Leo M. Espino | Erzahl: It's clear to me that you have something which I can only relate to as 'genius' for this style of poetry. So much is compressed within your seventeen syllables! You position the "gentle traveler" moving in a downward direction, and brilliantly picture him as "carrying the hills." What an incredible image. The metaphor of the camel as a beast of burden, who "carries" hills captures the view of distant sand dunes as well as of the rounded hump of the dromedary. Or is it a two-hump camel? In any case, the direction of travel, the barrenness of the landscape, the patient, plodding and burden-laden walk of this animal and surrounds are all contained within this very brief form. Amazing! And then, the sounds. . . The sounds of the 'n' within "down/barren/land/gentle" are superbly effective in conveying the sense of movement, of the placement of four heavy feet, rhythmically on sand, 'down, down, down' down' - amazing. Best of all (at least for this reader) is the final line, with the liquid r's and l's - implying a softness and ease, an elegant naturalness that is extremely soothing. I don't know how you do this - Erzahl. But however it is that you do it, I hope you will continue indefinitely! It is eye and ear-pleasing poetic-crafting. You make me look at the camel with more appreciation now. Thank you for another brilliant gem. All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-30 21:46:09 |
| The Pilgrims Prospect | Frank J Glynn | Dear Frank: I await new poems from you (or those I have not yet read) with anticipation. They are always rich with meaning, and offer me a view of life which I would not otherwise encounter. This one's cadence seems written with an 'andante' tempo. And at times, I imagine I can hear Beethoven's "Tempest" with the subject's intense re-tracing of steps. I believe that this poem invites inner dialogue, and rather than deconstructing or attempting to make suggestions for revision (which I do not believe it needs) I offer my responses. He has seen the fireworks and the ups and downs, He’s done the torture and the ecstasy and lived the route. The climax at the end was waited for and when it came, tears flooded. And when the wanderer’s clothes were burned at the shore, The past lost its touch and all that would ever be left would be Memory. The phrase "lived the route" encompasses so much of living; this is a man who has experienced much or most of what life has to offer. Internal rhymes are eloquent and terse, as "end/when." The imagery which suggests itself with "wanderer's clothes. . .burned at the shore" is of a ritual burning of clothing for someone who has visited 'foreign lands' where plague and pestilence may persist on one's clothing, so that a returning seafarer could be purified in a sense by the burning of clothes. In this instance, perhaps the sojourner was 'cleansed' of all "the past" to live with only the remnant of "Memory." But now what is to be done, as he re-traces his steps, Facing the way he came, all the old struggles in front of him: The debt and the arguments and the unforgiving children; The crops waiting and the solitude. And all the hay that still waits to be cut. No-one back home understands what he wanted His aims and dreams that surfaced on the pilgrimage. That were the taunts and bullying and the laughing at home. Poignant assonance in "Facing/way/came/re-traces." A walking tempo, indeed. All that the wayfarer left behind awaits him, "all the old struggles" and "debt and the arguments" and saddest, "the unforgiving children." We see him as having fled "taunts and bullying and laughing at home." If one cannot find safe harbor at home, where one's physical and spiritual self are meant to be protected, one's "aims and dreams" nurtured, where can such a man find peace, this poem seems to ask. "Dare he keep the shells?" As symbols of his journey, where "aims and dreams" surfaced? His "shell" within this "pilgrimage" where he could close off from the outer world? Is it time for him to enter into a more active period once more, attending to the "crops" and "all the hay" ? Shells can also connote emptiness. Was he, in returning, an "empty shell"? At least, the shells could be proof to himself that he had once experienced something else, as well as a time where his "aims and dreams" could safely surface. But would the reminder lead him to leave again -- How can he live now as he steps back over the mountains, Jealous of the anticipation in the face of the others still going forward. Are the mountains here symbolizing 'attainable' goals, such as baled hay, good crops? Or do the mountains represent spiritually uplifting experiences, which he must now renounce to take up mundane tasks once more? He has 'been and gone' and comes back disillusioned, our wayfarer. He has heard that some just carry on, looking for new routes, collecting new shells. You see, like him, they could not face the return journey. They diverted their lives and turned again to the clam shell And the prayer and the walking away. In thinking about the "clam shell" I wonder if there is an allusion to "clamming up" or not talking of his inmost dreams in the presence of those who scoff. It seems he could not communicate his truth, and perhaps had secrets he could share with no one. This solitary man considers the option of "walking away" and the contemplative life of prayer. In any event, this is a deeply thoughtful, somewhat mournful poem of self-examination for which I am grateful. I hope I have not gone too far afield of your intent for this piece. Thank you for this immensely thoughtful piece and the opportunity to offer comment, once more. Bravo! All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-26 13:37:51 |
| Eagles (Tanka) | carole j mennie | Dear Carole: I love this abbreviated, intense form. What is left unwritten is as prominent in the emotional tone of this piece as the images given. One image is flowing; the other is stark. The reader is left to contemplate the brave, whose hand is "shriveled", along with the book he holds. With your title, "Eagles", a reader immediately thinks of the ultimate symbol of soaring freedom. The first stanza represents, exquisitely, that freedom as "he circles." In the second, the "pinion" has become a "plume." It is fascinating to look at the word "pinion" and its Latin origins - it has the same root as the word 'pen' and also 'feather.' "Plume" is also a feather, but looked at in another way, becomes a 'prize.' We see the young brave holding a book in his "shriveled" hand, implying that he may not raise it up to defend against his enemy, but must seek the book to find his power once more. His people were physically imprisoned on the reservation, but he may find his freedom in soaring above those limiting conditions by mastery of the contents of the book, while holding the plume, in remembrance of his heritage. These are all my own interpretations, and may not be what you had in mind for this piece. What I especially appreciate about this poem is that the reader may contemplate so many possibilities as the form lends itself to subtlety. The eagle has long been a symbol of the Creator to native peoples of the earth, connecting with the Great Spirit above. Though the young brave may be mired in the situation of being born on the reservation, he may view life from new heights as he holds to the meaning of the eagle's plume. The human hand in art and poetry has often expressed a state of being. His hand is shriveled, showing the young brave to have suffered a loss of power, of the ability to act within his circumstances. Some opportunities in life have been closed to him; and yet, he holds a symbol of the eagle and of writing in this "withered" hand. One hopes that with this powerful symbol and the book he opens, he will regain lost freedom once more. The book may hold wisdom and knowledge as well as provide some keys to the sad lessons of life which he now must face. The young brave may symbolize his people's deep, primordial connection to nature, which has been greatly affected by the spread of Western culture and the appropriation of land and Indian rights in the last 200 years of American history. This young man may now be using the best tool available to him. The poem is saddening, and yet there is hope within this piece. As the young brave "opens" the book, as a reader intensely hope that the future will open to him and a new and better chapter in history yet to be written will emerge. Thank you for this stirring, meaningful work. Brava! All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-25 13:39:32 |
| A Theory of Composition | C Arrownut | Hi C. I can't help but think that this poem has something to do with psychology. There is a logic to it, as well as a mystery: perhaps mysteries are merely those things for which we do not yet know the science. At any rate, I've been very intrigued by this and have read it several times, waiting for insight. I think several poems flew by. What does occur to me is that given a blank space to stare at, and enough "ennui" or lack of stimulation (sensory deprivation) our minds will come up with something. That's key to the creative process, I think. Perhaps what Flannery O'Connor was saying. Perhaps if our mind is cleared of debris - emotional detritus - we are able to focus inwardly (staring) and writing may occur. I stared at this poem, and read it in several directions. The creative process was ignited by just such meandering. I think perhaps the poem reveals that the greatest blockage to creativity is the 'assumption' rather than the question. The little self's perceptions so dear to it are perhaps the writer's greatest enemy. It is in the present moment that we create - by listening, by "reading" diagonally, vertically, horizontally, and not left to right, line by line. We have to somehow break out of our self-hypnosis or enter another kind of awareness that is less programmed to tap into the well of "What we can write" in order to experience "Why we are here." I especially enjoyed the "Um de dum dum" cadenced sounds. It is possible to write a passable poem just by starting with a "beat" and then add words - any words. I am reminded here of Stanley Kuntiz's description of his style of composing. He said, "First, the sounds." Maybe he wanders in his garden a bit, making "Um de dum dum" sounds and words attach themselves to the cadenced and 'felt' "somethings" which bubble up from the unconscious. Like finding the sculpture within the raw, unshaped clay. I think the key you are showing us here is that we do not know what it is, hence we must CREATE it, or allow it to create itself through us. I found this to be a stimulating experiential poem, and hope that I haven't ambled too far afield of your intent for the piece. All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-24 13:36:15 |
| Straight At It | Rick Barnes | Rick:
After this poem, I realized that you've just eliminated all of my excuses for
procrastinating. Once more, I have the eerie feeling that you wrote this
poem for me, or I am discovering it in a dream as a not-so-cryptic answer
to my constant questions and objections (re: everything). It is as if the
poem lived inside my head and reading it now, I thought it. It is an "of
course" kind of experience. A bit like seeing the ocean for the first time.
It is an answer or reply to fear, consternation, stalling, anxiety,
perfectionism, ambivalence. But it scares me, honestly. I have no more
fiddling around to do; once having heard the truth, I am now responsible
for recognizing it and acting upon that recognition. I DO realize, Rick,
that this is your poem, your 'aha' which can't be mine, that I read it
and I can comment now and move on, and read something else, and still
put off knowing that you are absolutely correct in saying --
"So, now it is time,
to simply go,
straight at it."
And how you present these excuse-shattering profundities in poetic
form, in a way that could be enjoyed by anybody happening by, not
necessarily someone stuck in a quandary of indecision or incomplete
actions, or simple sloth, I don't know. That is beyond me. I don't
know where you came from - where did you come from? | 2003-09-22 17:21:48 |
| Taste of Life | Dawn Parker | Dear Dawn: What a wonderful sustained metaphor throughout this piece. It is a reflective piece, in free verse form which in my estimation suites it well. In the variable length of line is space for contemplation. This poem offers sublime food for thought. Loving hands of a passionate baker Kneading this tired worn heart Touched with the magic of yeast Your heat Causes this soul to rise And warmly remember All the ingredients necessary… For the recipe of Life Wonderful assonant sounds in "yeast/heat" and long 'i' sounds in "tired/rise/life." This has the feel of a prayer of adoration to the "passionate baker" in whose expert hand we are kneaded. I reveled in the tenderness of these words: "Your heat/ Causes this soul to rise." I think that the words "baker/kneading/yeast/heat/rise/warmly/ingredients/recipe" suggest the element of bread - necessary food for life, and necessary holy food for Life. Bread is often such a powerful symbol for life; hence the "bread of life." As part of the Christian sacrament, bread represents communion with the divine as well as with fellow humans. In the Jewish tradition, in the celebration of Shabbat, a prayer for eating bread is recited over two loaves of challah. There are many more sacred traditions around this food which unites the human family. Innocent seeds stored in winter Slumbering through dark outer storms Thrown across virgin soil Spring tears Demand roots to sprout And faithfully answer The call of darkened earth… For the journey of Growth Sibilance is apt, and splendid assonance of short 'i' especially in L2 and 4. Reading these lines, I couldn't help but respond to the soulful metaphor, the layers of rich meaning. I felt that the "innocent seeds stored in winter" may suggest individuals in nascent form, pre-existing and "thrown" into incarnation "across virgin soil." The call of "darkened earth" is alludes perhaps to the contrast of the spirit versus the earthy. Life is prepared in this womb-like darkness, and the seeds respond, "faithfully answer" this call for the "journey of Growth." Tillers unfold in the golden light Embracing the warm summer glow Jolted by evening winds The force Stimulates stems to strengthen And bend to hear The melody of emerging blossoms… For the song of Harvest Ahhh! Who are the Tillers? Poetic imagery is exquisite here, with "golden light" and "warm summer glow" blending with "melody" and "song." The element of wind or air may represent thought and intellect, or spirit and the celestial breath of God. In Hebrew or Arabic, the word for wind also signifies breath and spirit. A shift in wind may symbolize a shift in consciousness. Here it is a creative force which "Stimulates stems to strengthen/And bend to hear. In many native traditions of the world, the wind carries messages from the realm of spirit. The "emerging blossoms" are singing for the "Harvest." Two directions of necessary movement One for growth and the other for grounding Ripened at the perfect moment Our union Makes the purpose clear And the memories sweeter The seasons prepared us… For the dish of Wholeness "Taste of Life" is rich with allusion and metaphor. We must know the "seasons" in order to be prepared "for the dish of Wholeness" or holiness. We are gently prepared by the "baker" and the "tillers" for the "Harvest" and "Wholeness." The seeds which were "thrown across virgin soil" have matured and endured the seasons for the purpose of perfect wholeness and reunion. Though our hearts may also be "tired and worn" this poem is an assurance of ultimate fulfillment - union! The mysteries are abundant here and I feel this poem within my heart more than I can comprehend it with my intellect. It is luminous, and magnificently done! Brava! All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-22 15:45:56 |
| A Hope For A Thousand Tommorrows | stephen g skipper | Dear Stephen: This poem is like a love letter and psalm, combined. It is also like a soliloquy, in which the speaker addresses a another in a series of unspoken reflections. I realize that this is a very personal piece, and yet you invite readers to partake. In so doing, you enrich our lives with more than you may realize. The message I take from this piece is to cherish each moment, today, with a beloved! For the dear ones I have already lost, your poem reminds me of the hope of being reunited which makes their loss somehow bearable. But I have not faced your exact situation, and from you poetry I am learning of one man's bravery, love, and willingness to be vulnerable. I get downhearted Sometimes. Perhaps 'downhearted' is an understatement -- which serves to show the reader how the speaker endures - balancing the needs of the other with his own feelings - keeping them modulated at 'downhearted' instead of more extreme states which would render him unavailable to the needs of the beloved and family members. I forget about the ones, That I have trusted, With my limited love And foreshortened understanding Again, the vulnerability is allowed to be what it is. We have all been hurt by loving someone - and sometimes ask ourselves if our love has not been enough, or has hurt another. Our love is 'limited' and our understanding 'foreshortened.' You say it simply and profoundly. The ones, With all my todays and tomorrows, In their hands. This is where I felt the poem begins to sound like the Psalm s- a form of sacred poetry which has always been very comforting to this reader. It is because we love that we have our most searing pain of loss. It is because others hold "all my todays and tomorrows" that the speaker recognizes his connection with those others, and realizes that all love may lead to great pain, but is also the primary ingredient in a life LIVED. What is true, As long as blood still flows. I especially value the recognition that we are creatures of NOW (as long as blood still flows) and cannot truly know what follows, what *will be* true in the incomprehensible future. I want you More than a thousand times Wrapped as we are, In our circumstantial cocoon. The "circumstantial cocoon" is one of the most stunning phrases I have read in any poem - as it describes a time-limited situation in which the speaker may be ever more intensely aware of the value of the presence of the loved one. I am reminded of the long illnesses of both of my parents, and the sheltered, intense times I spent with each of them as a precious gift. Those gifts grows ever more precious with the passage of time. The "cocoon" is like a time-out-of-time, in which all is suspended but the awareness of the dearness of the one whose continuing presence is no longer assured. Once, with another loved one, an undiagnosed fatal illness made me unaware of the importance of each day with that person. My "foreshortened understanding" whispered to me, but I did not acknowledge it. My blindness to the message given was costly, beyond imagining. I forget, forget about our needs. I love and believe in you. I know that you will not cross the river now, Not today, No, not today. These lines are so powerful, so condensed, that it is difficult to comment on them. As long the beloved does not "cross the river now" there is the sheltering cocoon, the extension of time in which to fully experience love and belief. This is wisdom, in my estimation. "No, not today" implies that the crossing will take place in another, not too remote "today." But it is impossible to go there - indeed, ill-advised I think you show us. Lest the present be diminished, lest the speaker withdraw from the beloved to grieve in advance. This IS love. Yet another chance to put right The wrongs of a wronged man. Then shall my heart be lifted. (here is another reminder of the Psalms) Above clouds in clear blue skies And we shall fly, you and I Like starstuck lovers, Soulmates, Each others best friend. The hope of being reunited after this life shines from this piece like a beacon. It is impossible to read this without tears, without remembering that it is this hope which makes life possible (bearable) for so many, including this writer. That there is more than our physical life informs this piece, but does not limit it to those of a particular faith or necessarily any organized religion. It speaks to the heart - which is the job of poetry, in my estimation - to lift us out of our limiting circumstance to something higher. You have done this, and shared a part of your life in doing so that makes us all richer for the sharing. May these weeks and months ahead be filled with the greatest possible peace and love for you and those you love. "Together forever in a place of peace and love unlimited" Amen. Continuing prayers go out for you, your wife and children. All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-21 13:49:14 |
| God is in His Glory | Claire H. Currier | Dear Claire: Thank you - it is truly my pleasure! "Tully" is an example of a place which is rich in beauty and celebration of life. I think one could place one's own dwelling place within an imaginary "Tully" and find such beauty in it, as well. The reader well may substitute his or her own 'beauty spot' in place of the surrounds within this poem, and see and hear vividly within all that makes the heart sing with gratitude. Follow the sound Come early morning light You will find yourself going Off to the West I puzzled a moment as I read the last line above, wondering 'why' one would go "off to the west" but the answer is given in the next-to-last stanza, in which we read that as the sun rises "in the East" . . ."Angels descend to the West." I think you reflect the circular of creation within this poem, as we can observe a cyclical movement in daylight and darkness, ebb and tide, summer and winter, for example. Stop for awhile Take it all in The breath of life you feel Will consume your soul I love the suggestion of slowing life's often hectic pace to become more aware of the gifts given - especially "the breath of life" given by the Creator to all. It is an exquisite idea to feel the ecstasy of one's soul being consumed by this "breath of life" which serves as a reminder of our connectedness to all life. Lean back, relax, enjoy As you sit in the meadow Watch as God's little friends Arrive one after the other The birds fly in (,) resting Upon the branches Here my expectations raised, for this is a way in which this reader finds much consolation and inspiration. Observing the birds, plants, animals, changes of season -- the colors of foliage all lead one back to the sense that one is part of a greater whole, and thus connected to God. (The One, called by many names.) The idea of the birds "resting/Upon the branches" is very soothing and calls us to rest as well. Oh my.... God needs a baritone Mr. Moose is joining us today Followed close behind by Joe the coyote and Up from the lake comes Henrietta Followed by her twelve ducklings A bit of whimsy and humor enlivens this piece. I thought it an interesting coincidence that "Henrietta" had twelve ducklings, like the twelve months of the year, which follow, one after another. The auditory images of moosecall and coyote howl gave me shivers. I've mostly heard coyotes howl in groups - and it is a goosebump-raising chorus! Now as the sun rises in the East Angels descend to the West Bringing forth the harmony we hear ---lovely! And each little voice Joins the chorus Singing Praise and Glory to God The idea emerges here that no voice is 'too small' or insignificant to the Creator - even our human ones add richness to the multitude of sounds given by nature. But you have said it better - simply, and with grace. As the story is told Whether early morning light Or evening dusk As the angels begin to play The Lord smiles down upon those gathered Here in the woods of Tully On this exceptionally fine day This is a delightful and reverent poem, Claire. It gives me a feeling of serenity and renewed appreciation for all that is good in the world. The final two lines are my favorites. I think their specificity helps each reader locate herself or himself in "this exceptionally fine day" with gratitude for being alive. I've enjoyed this reading immensely! Thank you for the opportunity to comment on this joyous hymn to life. All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-20 18:46:40 |
| The Wall | Mell W. Morris | Mell: To paraphrase Rick, "Woman O Woman!" I am struck by the universal nature of this piece, in spite of (or maybe because of) its specificity. The one to whom it is dedicated has a friend who understands her pain and courage. Life usually offers only a few with such depth of understanding as will aid us in our healing at such time of loss. Some say that a broken relationship hurts as much and sometimes more than a death, because death obliterates all future hope within this lifetime, and we will not encounter the lost beloved in a restaurant or airport. Like other fans of foreign films, I am most most by the overall feel of this artform - visuals, and most of all, the music, the sounds of speech. The essence of feeling distilled into symbolic form. You accomplish ALL of these in this 'film noire' with a hopeful ending. Her badge of "courage" shows her to be a survivor, though her scar is yet forming around the fresh wound. Yet you do not offer such platitudes or "clumps of pap." Her friends know how to mend her heart in ruins, know how to save it. Advice flows in unwrapped lumps, clumps of pap like bad gravy. Wonderful euphony is your trademark music- "know how/flows" and "unwrapped pap" as well as "lumps/clumps." She's not a languish-in- anguish type but the scent of him made her pure verb. Squared the circle. "pure verb" tells us volumes - discreetly, yet passionately. To carry the film analogy further, a close-up scene of the couple beginning to embrace, a wind blowing curtains to shield from viewer's eyes their merging. Music her surcease, her sole release. Lines define her ramparts falling, the wall kept in place friable, fracting in shards and traces. WOW! It isn't often I've encountered the word "friable" or "fracting" - perhaps the latter is a newly-coined word, and these are among my favorites to find within a poem. Brilliant and yet discreet enough not to detract from the mood of the piece. I found a reference to "fracting" by doing a Web search, and found that it is a term used in alchemy for clarifying. It could be the clarification of a metal by heating it to a liquid form. The word also suggests "fracture/fractals/fractions" to me. "Friable" is a word I've heard a doctor use in reference to flesh - flesh is "friable" if it is weakened, tending to crumble or disintegrate. "The wall/kept in place friable" suggests a crumbling wall. The space - the drop to "in shards and traces" expertly shows us the disintegration caused to the tender psyche of the referrent by the emotional blow of the event which left "her heart in ruins." Go on, she will. The daze of healing. Her scar will turn to proud flesh, a reminder of love spurned and her well-earned badge of courage. "love spurned" has the sound of "burn" etched into it, and the words "daze/scar/flesh" suggest an almost surgical excision. Again, the artful drop to the line "of courage" tells us that the bottom line of the subjust of this poem is that she will keep her dignity and regain her strength. I find it impossible not to generalize this poem in a way that may not be your intent. The loss could be read as a death, as a loss of physical health, or a major disappointment of many other kinds - but only the ones which are so visceral that they take away our ability to breathe deeply without anguish. Powerfully written, once more. Mell-ificent. Kudos and a laurel wreath tossed. . . All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-20 14:57:21 |
| Translation | carole j mennie | Carole: Your poem brings me delight and soft tears. You remind me of author Walter Anderson's words about "true hope." This poem offers "true hope" for the person who can believe that truly, "there will be more flowers." If this is all I take from the reading, then I am deeply, richly rewarded. But there is so much more - The house sits on a side street where flowers, planted by my mother, turn joyous heads skyward, following the sun. The description of a house where those flowers still turn "joyous heads skyward" sets the scene and mood of this piece. The indelible mark which your mother has left on the world, on her daughter, is one of 'looking skyward' - of looking up towards a higher source of hope and being. That flowers heads do literally follow the sun speaks to her character, that she placed her values on what is 'good, is true, is beautiful' - to think on these things. That the house is on a 'side street' speaks to her humility and simplicity. As a reader, I feel deep comfort in this poem, beginning immediately with the first stanza. In the person of the speaker's (your) mother. Her nurturance continues through the inspiration of this poem - she reaches out from within you to us. Here, butterflies circle on Tiffany wings. Tiny brown birds nest in low foliage, guarding speckled secrets -- exquisite imagery in a green-leafed sanctuary. Again, the feeling of safety and sanctity, along with beauty, pervades. The frailest of beings, "tiny brown birds" are safely nest "in low foliage" and most evocatively, "guarding speckled secrets." The delicacy and gentleness which permeates this writing gives voice to the spirit of the woman who inspired it. I have seen her here mornings, in floppy straw hat with unravelling brim, caressing petaled faces, whispering endearments in perfumed language. This is when the soft tears began - it was the "unravelling brim" which undid me. We don't often encounter such tenderness in the everyday world. As a reader, on a personal note, I am reminded of my grandmother, who always wore a hat, tended her flowers and spoke to them, "in perfumed language." Life was never too busy for her to stop and admire a rose. A photograph I have of her is particularly dear to me - she is wearing her hat and a warm coat, and it's a misty morning in spring. She leans close to a rose bush, and brings one bloom close to her face with careful, gloved fingers. My father snapped the picture. This attitude of gentleness and reverence pervaded all that she did. I feel very similar emotions while reading your poem as I do when I looked at this treasured picture of my grandmother. Her garden always overflowed into the house, with multi-colored tulips, scarlet roses, and purple hydrangea. Yellow pollen dusted her tables, giving the polished wood a golden glow. This stanza above is sublime. It is luminous with the kind of beauty that your mother cherished. The colors are vivid, the imagery in this poem gives me as a reader the sensation that I am seeing and smelling those flowers, and brushing my fingertips lightly over the pollen on the polished wood. Your poems always have this quality of making an experience seem real to readers. Lovely alliteration and assonance, as for example, in "yellow/pollen/polished" and "golden/glow" enhance the mood of this piece. I put boot to shovel, wrapping in warm burlap a brittle brown shape, her favorite rose bush. Fumbling with the latch at the gate, I inhale a memory, a faint scent of her. The elements and actions of "boot to shovel" are a kind of foretelling of the burial of the subject of this poem, but also an action of remembrance of her and renewal of the growing life within her "favorite rose bush." There is hope here, for her daughter wraps the rosebush in "warm burlap" as if to offer comfort to both her mother and herself in the symbolic form of the plant. Words like "boot/shovel/ brittle/brown/fumbling/faint" imbue this poem with a mournful quality. A memory - after all, and not the person longed for. . .the scent is "faint." From beneath distant, machine-clipped lawn flowered in pale pink granite, among crisp, blown leaves, came her proclamation, to root and bulb; to me, a loamy litany carried on aromatic bursts. Certain words in the stanza above are harsh-feeling - "distant/machine-clipped/granite/blown" - but in spite of the seemingly impenetrable distance to be covered to reunite with her - she reaches out from within memory to proclaim, with a "litany" which speaks of the sacred and seems to symbolize, at least for this reader, hope of reuniting in the life to come -- "But tomorrow," she promised, "there will be more flowers." It seems almost an intrusion to comment after the final couplet. These are her words through you and from you. I hold them as sacred. Deeply touching poem which goes straight to my heart -- brava! Magnificently done. All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-19 20:45:54 |
| FALLING | Mark D. Kilburn | Hi Mark: It seems like this one rolled out as naturally and easily as that wind which replaced "the summer birds which fled." As a coincidence, I wrote a poem on a similar theme today, especially including those fleeing birds. As always your imagery is magnificent, and you've made meter look so easy! I love the easy, walking cadence, and dry wit combined with reverence (a trademark of yours) in, for example -- Days of deep freeze snow to your knees a hard life for horses and bums. You have to stay warm during blizzard and storm or while waiting for Jesus to come. Your two-beat meter for two lines, then trimeter for one, then two, then one is musical and makes your words stick in my mind. I caught the droll humor in "waiting for Jesus to come" yet know you are a believer. As such, I think people of faith can effectively inject humor and it doesn't detract from but adds to the theme. I especially love -- Cold longest nights brief icicle days faith is believing in him. (Suggest "Him") Just like you know when the winter winds go that a warm spring is coming again. The dual theme of nature's cycles and the return of the One is magnificently handled here, Mark. Encore! All the best, Joanne | 2003-09-18 20:36:17 |
| The Bandit Queen | marilyn terwilleger | Hi Marilyn: What an engrossing, colorful narrative poem! Much of history *is* often shy of facts, or is changed to reflect the biases of the day, true enough. Her short, tragic life, detailed in this interesting poem shows us a glimpse of this compelling woman known as the "tempest in a samovar." Many fascinating, often fantastic, stories led to the myth and legend of Belle Starr, whose true life may have been with less glamour. Belle may have actually been an unfortunate woman of her times, hardened by necessity's lash. This is a tale known by all In valleys wide and far Told by some just to enthrall The stories of Belle Starr I love the way you begin this piece - setting the scene by piquing our interest, at the same time letting us know that some of the stories about Belle were told "just to enthrall." And enthrall she does, throughout your poem! Born in eighteen forty eight In a farm house of mortar She grew tall and straight The girl Belle Starr I think the word "mortar" rhymes in a witty way, which is part of the appeal of this piece. Along with the story, there is word play and wit, terrific rhythm in this spell-binding yarn. Married young when only eighteen To a man less than stellar Gave birth, kept the corners clean The mother Belle Starr Bandits Cole, James, and Younger Evil enough for feathers and tar Dined in her kitchen from her larder The wife Belle Starr I especially enjoy the way you give her "life stage" as the fourth line in each quatrain following the first one, which sets the stage for the entire poem. Two husbands later she wed Sam Starr Robbed trains car to car She was a tempest in a samovar - my favorite line The bandit Belle Starr Served time in a house of correction Talk of her was popular Bandit Queen the general perception The outlaw Belle Starr Your deft combination of "correction/perception" is pleasing to the ear, and also allows readers to reflect briefly on the notion of 'perception' vs what may have been a much more drab experience for Belle. In time she lived in the Choctaw Nation Became a (citizen) exemplar An assassin (slew) her in shotgun fashion The life and death of Belle Starr The only 'lack' in this piece, as far as I can see, is that it left me wanting more. Great job, Marilyn! Encore? All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-17 13:35:07 |
| Sweet, Sweet Music | Mell W. Morris | Whoa!! This poem is wide awake and *alive* in a way almost indescribable. But I will try. It sails the reader into unchartered waters and combines images in a way that makes my mind go 'ping' and my soul ring with delight. Oh, this is knock-your-socks-off ORIGINAL! It is spiritual jump-start, a tune-up for the soul, a thrill to a lover of poetry, and a divine kiss from above to you to us. No one but you could have written this. Everyone "taps a toe to a tune" - splendiferous example of onomatopoeia! he knows and has a go at the piano. It's said to soothe the rabid beast, heal, promote real feats of growth in flora. So many modulated, syncopated, not-adumbrative sounds and words that telescope into -- whew!-- words with a carry-on life of their own. Music is more than thought before: ants sing at their chores, sand sings on New England shores, and rocks ring as long as one pings them. The first line recalls something I've been tossing around philosophically for years (and years) and then enjambs into another thought - "before." Music IS "more than thought" - and it really can't be defined by anything than itself. It is the core - I think - of what IS. That's the first line by itself, maybe. Then - you give us the singing ants, ringing rocks who ping as long as "one pings them." The interconnectedness of it all gives me a huge 'ping' of joy - I may not be able to state it sufficiently strongly without being redundant to a didickerous degree even for me! One of the oldest instruments, now preserved, is made of stones with the look and tone of a xylophone. As ancient man looked to a fan of sky, seeking the divine, his soul also "look and tone of a xylophone" makes me want to dance on down the street. Forget that it's dark, raining, cold - and I'm old - you bring life to these words that exceeds them, and their rhythm gives life to a real music within this reader, at least. I know other readers will be jolted back to life with this poem - and it's one I really feel deserves to go on and sing within the bones of many more people than can access it here. How can I be more emphatic? cried for lines of rhythm and rolls of sound. Let it be found! And God heard man's plea and in a delicious delivery, gave His new few a capacity for music. Chills and scalp prickles are tickling me, because your implication here, if I understand your drift -- of "His new few" is of a Creator creating us "new" and that is a very exciting idea. In that He gave us this capacity which He created, we are like him. Your poem honors creativity, the Creator, music, and - sigh! just about everything I could think of to put into the kettle. I LOVE this poem and "Let it be found!" is what I wish for it. Mell, you've outdone even yourself this time, and I hope you will believe me. Now I see at least in part where your son came by his musical brilliance. Encore!! Brava! All me best, Joanne | 2003-09-16 22:36:47 |
| Sole Mates | Rick Barnes | Rick: How did I miss this? I've been looking for something new from you, and kapoom, right away, as soon as you've submitted this, it is - kerplunk, down at the bottom of my list! I caught your import, I think, from the title. But as I suspected, there are layers here - and more. Not just layers of leather, either. My take on this will be a little off - because my father was in the shoe business, with a specialty in boots - workboots, dress boots, plain ol' cowpowkin' boots. I love the humor you've inserted in the piece, but as I said, I think you gave us a clue in the title. So, anybody'd know who's read any Rick Barnes that you'd have to look deeper than a worn-down pair of boots. Maybe you could be partially talking about your soul, because of the homonym with the title. Also could be talkin' about your body (life/self) because there's a lot of living referred to here. For example, You don’t stand as tall as you use to, You’re bent over ‘bout half way down. I suppose it’s mostly from all the kickin’ you’ve done In a wild whirl variety of towns. The simplicity of language fits these feet. The dialect of the ordinary, being spoken by the *extraordinary* (in my opinion) and certainly someone who is humble. At first I thought you were talking to me personally (again) as first few lines could apply equally to me, but then in the 4th line in the 1st stanza, I realized it couldn't be so. I never knew a "variety of towns" like these boots, like this man. The words are spoken with familiarity and dare I say - love! Not sentimentality. All right, perhaps only deep affection. The auditory effects of reading this poem aloud are soothing. I ended up saying 'spose instead of "suppose" because it just felt right while speaking the piece. You have been one constant companion. For every step there’s a shoe print Tracing the places, faces and spaces in between The stories we’ve earned and the good times spent. There are steps, taken in your life. You took these steps (or the speaker did) and some steps led closer to the goal, or maybe there wasn't any goal then but "good times spent." Truth to tell, I’m as worn out as you, Feelin like I’m all but complete. But I'll say this, “If there was a better pair of boots In this damn world, they didn’t fit my feet.” But boots are the speaker's connection to the earth, to the physical life. They allowed him to be grounded and at the same time, mostly protected from the elements. This last line makes me think: "Don't judge anybody until you walk in his damn boots." These are roles taken, life lived, comfort enjoyed, paths to and back away from various people and encounters along the road. The speaker sounds tired, but the "all but complete" has life left in it - grateful life. An acknowledgment of mortality, of accepted limitations. Jung said that man's feet are his direct association with the reality of the earth, I think. Feels like this speaker is very grounded and centered, and has also spent time walking barefoot on the earth. I also think that his feet (and his boots) symbolize his under-standing in life. I hope I am not putting my foot in my mouth. As always, when writing to you about one of your poems, I feel as if I am sitting at the feet of a master (poet). Since you can't physically throw a boot at me in cyberspace, I feel pretty safe to say that. And that this is a Rick Barnes worth waiting for . . . Ducking, Joanne | 2003-09-15 21:02:33 |
| Echoes From The Sea | Mell W. Morris | Dear Mell: First, Happy Birthday! And it is so like you to give a gift to others on your birthday. Though I know you posted this a few days ago, I found it today. And so I count my blessings. After the storm, winds scour the sky to lapis and along the shoreline, quiet voices of the dead blow out to sea. Ancient people believed that drowned souls lived on in seals and in this eldritch stretch of seascape, anything seems possible. This gives me shivers which seem to reach within my bones. "quiet voices/of the dead" speak to me through your words here. I am comforted and at the same time bereft. When one is feeling sad, it's good to go deep into the feeling, and you allow readers to journey on this poem. There are so many reasons why this poem is personally meaningful to me, and it might seem odd to list them now, but I will mention some of them. The sea has always been my place of personal retreat to deal with sorrows. Your mention of "drowned souls" that "loved on/in seals" is incredibly personal for me. As you know, I lost my son, and his birthday is -- soon. He had changed his major to marine biology just before his death. That last summer, he frequented the waters where harbor seals lived in his sailboat and kayak. Bruised moss on scattered stones marks the passage of others before me and I feel a need to follow the melody of souls to the deep. Rising sea-sighs lure as surely as smells of sea asphodels. Soon I sense an increasing gravity as if I'm in a burrow in the ocean bed with cold and golden tones circling my head. A womb-oneness with the sea: my first glance reveals a vast symphony of seals. It's too beautiful and emotionally affecting for me to write more now. Anyway, I can't see. I think of him there with "a vast symphony of seals." It's eerie, as though somehow in remembering Seamus, you have helped me remember Mark doing what he loved. Incredible writing, Mell. All my best, always Joanne | 2003-09-12 21:16:29 |
| Looking Back | Thomas Edward Wright | Thomas: You kept your promise; now I must keep mine. "I dropped into SimpliCity, a complex of canals under hard streets with harder denizens" A poem noir - cool jazz, with dialogue like a bass solo. "There are a thousand stories in the naked city and this is just one. . ." but I screamed (like she can’t) and heard the echo run and tell, they found me at the bottom of - Tell it, Jack. Come hell or high water I won’t go back I’d said and swore that’s just what happened though now "If a person waits long enough, good things are bound to happen." I'm here to tell you ‘bout how dark the river gets at night, how cold it is without no light; and why the voices of you might be, a perfect song for a bum like me. Yes, it's often dark and cold. But a little night light, an itty bitty book lite is shining, and a little wheel's a turnin'! I must tell you the story of my narrow escape. Later. :) Take care, Joanne | 2003-09-12 20:50:38 |
| MAN'S BEST FRIEND | Mark D. Kilburn | Hi Mark!! Come sit down beside me you fine friend of mine you’ve never complained and you never will whine you’re wagging your tail and it’s making me smile the best friend I’ve had in what seems like awhile. Thia is a magnificent poem. As I write to you I am across the room from my daughter and her dog. The kind of love dog's give comes without a price, without betrayal, without insincerity. You give us this insight in this fine poem, as well as insight into our own needs. The speaker has traveled down the road of life with many sorrow, and relies upon his canine companion in a way that recognizes the true friendship between the species rather than seeing the animal as a possession. Those eyes understand what it means to feel joy so smart and so loyal you’re a wonderful boy you keep me from lonely watching out day and night your eyes shine such friendship if I’m happy they’re bright Here you show us that it is indeed a two-way street! You enjoy eating grass but you can’t tell me why you are quite a tail-wagger and you’ve never been shy I’m grateful to have you you’re my family and home if it wasn’t for you I'd be here all alone You know when I’m hurting and you stay by my side -- unmatched companionship in my estimation you’re ready to walk and you’re ready to ride a constant companion excited each day always licking my face so we’ll get on our way. Like me you feel sadness like me you feel pain when I’m burdened with stress you will share in the strain you run with elation and walk with delight you sleep at my feet through the loneliest night. It’s said that you are lucky to have one friend in life I now am an old man without any wife still I am grateful for my four-legged friend we’re a pack and a family you protect and defend. Yes, you show us how dogs include us a a member of their pack, with the humna taking the alpha dog role. Who else gives such loyalty as a dog? If you pass-on before me what will I do then or if somehow I’m taken away from my friend the pain this would cause me if tragedy befell if I don’t see you in heaven I will bid them farewell. Very moving, and contains great truths! We must plan ahead for our animal companions if we are aged or ill. And to conceive of a heaven without them doesn't seem like something our Creator would do. Grand poem, Mark - thank you for sharing it, and for speaking up for dogs! All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-07 18:08:43 |
| Mistress of Briar | Terrye Godown | Dear Terrye: So very clever and artful! I missed this earlier, but I am glad for the chance to tell you how much I appreciate your wit and originality at last! As we sit in candlelight she lures him Blushing in her smooth burnished skin His amber eyes attempting to capture But her reflection flickers within A romantic ambience, indeed! Cleverly setting the scene for the denouement. Rhyming sounds of "skin/within" and soft 'f' sounds in "flickers" and "firm fingers enfolding" prepare us for a sensual encounter. I know the firm fingers enfolding mine Long to be warmed by her sculpted body ~ For a while I sense his full attention As we sip the ruby fruit of the vine But soon (upon) the slightest mention, I was thinking 'what a cad' before I read more and especially the additional notes! I thought the speaker to be exceptionally 'cool as a cucumber' while her love plotted an affaire d'amour! Lush sounds of "ruby/fruit/curves" deftly add to the sensual atmosphere of this piece. Your rhymes continue to delight, even though I was growing impatient with this 'cad' for his seeming 'unfaithful' thoughts. It becomes all hers not mine Her curves lay in wait in her leather seat For his lips to bring her to life His fingers break loose from our tender heat A desire for her ~ not his wife! By this point, I am laughing as I remember my sense of outrage at first reading. Too funny! So many clever wordplays, such as allusions of "flicker/heat/hazy/burn/flame" to fire and smoke. With these clues begin to build suspense. "Unlit" was the word, I think, that made me realize the droll purpose of the preceding clues. He excuses himself from our cozy nook Whispers his promise of a speedy return Into the hazy night they glide Unlit, his passion impatient to burn As her mouth flirts with the evening zephyrs His rugged hand wraps her long sultry waist --- WONDERFUL! That inevitable flame when his lips touch hers Folds their shadows in a smokey embrace I am giggling now. This is delightful and no wonder it is receiving many many votes this month! I wait alone, assume an unsuspecting air While he's enticed with such casual pace Can I ever offer such provocative fare? Quench that aroma of her billowy lace? HA!! How delightful - and how evocative. Now that I realize what's going on, I recall my grandfather's pipesmoke, and the "aroma of . . .billowy lace" with poignancy. It was his trademark, and as I loved him so much, a hint of pipesmoke evokes all of those very fond memories. My heart yearns to learn how she beckons… erase the tension from his handsome face Somehow in her mystery I must reckon how to arouse him with such sensual grace ---magnificent!! Without the notes, I'd be steamed at him to chase away the fog of her deception… lure him from his firey mistress' nape (too funny!) Become his destination ~ whenever he escapes Terrye - this is a splendid poem for a chapbook! It supplies a great deal of fun, and it is suitable for framing and presentation to your pipe-smoking partner! This is one I will print and keep in my notebook of collectable delights for future enjoyment. Thanks so much! All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-05 13:19:02 |
| In The Arms Of Morpheus | stephen g skipper | Stephen: This poem is concentrated in form, depicting the thoughts of the speaker as he observes his beloved in sleep. There is so much 'life' in breathing, as it is the one thing necessary to keep body and soul together. Breath and warmth of life are key in this work. So much so that ironically, the speaker's keen awareness of these bespeaks his knowledge of potential absence. The sleeping of the beloved is like the stoppage of time, in a sense, allowing the reader to share in these moments of comfort and safety in the closeness and warmth felt. The bedroom is the container, as is the poem, for what is of paramount importance to the speaker - the loved one's continued breathing. From the arresting title, I drew inferences on the mythology of Morpheus, who was the god of dreams in Greek mythology. According to poet Ovid, he was the son of Hypnos, the god of Sleep: "King Sleep was father of a thousand sons - indeed a tribe - and of them all, the one he chose was Morpheus, who had such skill in miming any human form at will. No other Dream can match his artistry in counterfeiting men: their voice, their gait, their face - their moods; and, too, he imitates their dress precisely and the words they use most frequently. But he mimes only men..." But I also thought of the book title "In the Arms of Morpheus" which details the "tragic history" the origins of laudanum, and morphine. And thus a note of sadness, perhaps a foreshadowing, is present in the title and sustained throughout the work. I feel your gentle breath upon my neck, Whilst you sleep next to me. The opening couplet, in which the speaker addresses the sleeping one, is an intimate portrait. It seems peaceful, cherishing and tender. I could not restrain tears as I read more into the work. Nothing about this poem is sentimental or treacly, as may happen in the hands of lesser writers. As a reader I felt a deep connection, and a growing lump in my throat. Especially after the next line . . . It is a reassurance. The rythmn of your breathing reminds me, Of a summers day, It lulls me and cures me, Of all my daily ills. The only time that a loved one's breathing is reassuring is if in anticipation of the moment when it may stop. I have been at this juncture in life, though not with a mate. One realizes the importance and the privilege of these moments, reading this poem. In soft understatement, we feel the deep emotions of the speaker - or our own resonance to them. This is the work of masterful poetry - to evoke emotions in the reader which would not otherwise be there. The speaker reminisces about the rhythms of breath "Of a summer's day" and feels lulled, cured of "all my daily ills." The significance of these observations are not lost on this reader. Wonderful use of languages sounds, such as in the third and fourth line above with the liquid double 'll' sounds, as soothing as a lullaby. All that has gone into this poem makes it one of the most powerful imaginable. It puts me on a beach next to an ocean, It swells in time with your breasts, As you exhale. I think the emphasis on "exhale" startled me a bit, because it reminds me that one day there will be a final exhalation. For the loved one in this poem, and for all. We are reminded of the temporality of all relationships, and of the exquisite pain and beauty of fully realized love. The imagery of the beach, ocean and the swelling breasts are so intimately soothing, and one can almost hear the soft sounds of exhalation. And one can weep or be present fully in the moment, grateful for each breath connecting to the next. This brings comfort, In the middle of the night, In the knowledge that you are near. The "middle of the night" is that time when he speaker probably feels most conscious of the fragility of the beloved, needs the reassurance once more of her nearness. These are moments which are absorbed as gifts, you show us here. We are reminded of mortality and the how we are connected, one to another in temporal existence, as long as we are in physical form. Throughout this work, the love which the speaker has for the one who sleeps is the pervasive emotion, along with a sense of mournfulness. This had to be a very difficult poem to write, and your honor readers by sharing it here. We learn from your exquisitely beautiful writing to cherish those we love NOW. You show us how 'now' is truly the only time we have. I feel the warmth of your body, As I would the sun on the shore. "sun on the shore" evokes thoughts of cool seas, or flowing rivers - times and places when warmth is most welcome. This phrase evokes sunrise and sunset, and arriving at a place of safety and warmth after a journey. The poem continues to build in intensity from first line to last. And all this is brought to me, within our bedroom door. Again, the image evoked for me speaks to a leave-taking or arrival - a "door" is something one enters or leaves. The speaker is well aware of the transitory nature of these moments. You have written a magnificent work, Stephen, one which is unforgettably stamped on my consciousness. Thank you for your willingness to share this incredibly personal work here - it invites all who read to comprehend what is so often easily taken for granted. You allow us to see the immensity of your love and longing. I am very humbled by a poem which completely knocks the wind out of me, as I continue think about its meaning. Bravo! All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-04 13:53:55 |
| Chameleon | Erzahl Leo M. Espino | Dear Erzahl: You are the poet laureate of the haiku form on TPL in my opinion. And while this poem is not a haiku, it has the intense visual appeal, short lines and decided syllabic meter of that form. The title is very euphonic, and appeals visually, sonically, and intrigues with possibility. I couldn't NOT read this poem! (Even if your name were not attached.) Watercolors Morning rainbows Festival tones - One chameleon Your cadence of 4-4-4-5 is lilting and I especially love how the fourth line *transforms* chameleon-like into a sustained pictograph of what this creature is and does. (I count 'cham-e-le-on' as 4 beats, though for some it may be just 3.) A camouflage Protective badge Fashion icon - All chameleons Each stanza has strong but subtle sonar accents, variable like the animal of your title. For example, in S1, the emphasized 'r' sounds in the first two lines. And in S2, the clever slant rhyme of "camoflage/badge" is fresh, original. In the third line of each stanza, you pair the 'on' sound of chameleon to create a fresh, musical rhyming sound throughout. It's hard to catalog all of the delights you have in place in this poem. Born pretender Endless pauper Skilled hanger-on - That chameleon Love those 'er' sounds in L1 and 2, and the popping plosive p's of "pretender/pauper" as well. We see the human parallel of this reptile in your clever description of "icon" and "pauper/hanger-on." Very witty and also, very accurate, but not unkindly stated. We simply see 'what is' through your artful lens. Just eclectic Eel’s electric No commotion - This chameleon And last, my favorite stanza, because of the droll rhyme of "eclectic/electric" and the implied 'electricity' behind this magician species who changes before our eyes. This poem is wonderful in so many ways - but I think I repeat myself. For a gorgeous view a very handsome chameleon, I found this website: http://web.ukonline.co.uk/wildphoto/html/img0209.htm. Thanks again for this -I am especially fond of any nature poetry - and this poem qualifies on that front as well as on delectable linguistic feats. If I say THIS ONE is my favorite of yours once more you are not going to believe me. So I will simply close with - BRAVO, Erzahl!! All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-02 21:47:30 |
| The Law of Mercy | Darlene A Moore | Darlene: The impact of this poem for me is to feel that I haven't truly understood mercy - until now! I've heard it perhaps millions of times, but it doesn't become 'real' to me unless I feel it and your poem made me feel gratitude for the (still) unbelievable sacrifice made on my behalf. By establishing an identification with the speaker (at least for this reader) at the beginning of the work, you have made it possible to read the entire poem with compassion and then that 'aha' moment of understanding . . .this is personal! "Is it I, Lord?" each of the disicples asked themselves. Your poem helps me realize the answer. Imprisoned in despair--- the debts I cannot pay. I tried to buy the substance of life with borrowed bits of tarnished silver. And now I cannot make good the loan. The reference to silver elicits the memory of Judas. In a subtle way, you make it possible for each reader so inclined to identify the "Judas" within, the debtor who cannot repay. The bars are thick black iron secure in brackets of stone. The light of day visits reluctantly the depths of my cubic cell and in a flash departs. Hard sounds in "bars/thick/black/iron/brackets/stone/cubic" convey a sense of solidity to the cell which the imprisoned narrator inhabits. Surely, there will be no escape from such confinement. I've lost count of the notches on the wall, the number of weeks or days. I starve on moldy bread and brackish water. Pride reduces itself into a skeletal lean body mass. Here, my reflections are so deeply personal that I can only say I am especially moved (stricken) by this stanza. "The merciful will be shown mercy." Hope sounds in the distance. The clatter of footsteps approaches through the cell block. And the key grinds in the lock. Above, the auditory imagery and the sense of approaching release creates a breath-holding moment of suspense and hope . . . I trade places with the lender— the one who ordered my arrest. I am given a bath, a meal, fresh clothes. My debts forgiven...redeemed, I bow before my sovereign King. Matthew 18:23-35 I find the sense of joy in the word "redeemed" so overwhelming here. The "I" becomes . . .no longer the narrator, but this reader. The effect of this poem will linger long after the reading. Your words carry the power of conviction and heartfelt gratitude. Shakespeare's words from The Merchant of Venice -- "The quality of mercy is not strain'd, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes" You have blessed us with this poem of ultimate mercy, and may you be blessed in equal measure. Kudos, once more! All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-02 18:07:56 |
| THE DEVIL'S DUE | Mark D. Kilburn | Dear Mark: I've read this poem many times over. I think you tell it 'straight' -- for the debilitating effects of depression can not be overstated. I very much appreciate the metaphor of black and red ink spreading. The black ink symbolized the darkness of depression which seems like a tunnel with no way out - and of course the 'red' ink is the way out that some choose. As you know, my son chose this way. I read your poem with a great deal of emotion, but yet, was able to see some light in the deep, dark tunnel. The light is this: You wrote the poem. You did not commit the act. The poem may serve to enlighten some about the seriousness of depression, as well. This poem needed to be written! The darkest hopelessness born of self-doubt spawned from distrust and self-pity. When hopelessness grows on regretful hearts depression is born denying all gratitude it grows with a dishonest voice like spilled black ink spreading, darkness obliterating all hope. -- very effective simile! Death is depression’s song, pain its melody, abetted by apathy its path is aided by surrender and weakness spreading exponentially its seeds germinate in terms of acceptance, (the blues, the blahs, the downs or just a rough damn time). Your use of the heavy plosive 'd' sound throughout the piece adds to the sense of intense despair - very deftly. Words like "death/darkness/self-doubt/dwell/downs/damndeceit/door" illustrate the relentless quality of depression's encroachment and overtaking of the personality. Profound! Strength’s depression’s enemy so depression saps strength certainly, --and fine use of sibilance throughout as well as first and foremost enabling us to succumb to the black inky spread. Proudly wearing victim’s names like badges for the brave, names and faces that dwell and haunt our conscious and subconscious, for sadly all were suicides. --an unforgettable awareness sinks in here Depression operates with a universal absence of good; deceit and lies its only form of communication or voice, its strength grows equal to its spread its darkness abysmal its brink bottomless. An icy skeletal hand chokes the spirit’s motivation setting in motion the cycle of despair. "icy skeletal hand" gives us a vivid, evocative and emotionally accurate picture of the hold of depression, Mark. Depression exhibits enduring patience never resting, stopping or sleeping especially when good fortune rules. Always close and waiting for an open door of thought, an unfair fight and foe for those who suffer and struggle for survival or search for mere smiles. A storm of boundary less and borderless hate non-directional, blowing through reality magnetically pulled towards those who have hard lives and troubled times. --you make this reader aware of the *unfairness* of it here! Enigmatic for the nothing is omnipotent, --might put "the nothing" in quotes enigmatic when that same nothing kills and seduces the suffering innocent. --so sadly, sadly true The sun will rise tomorrow silhouetting an empty parking garage, six stories tall with a sidewalk still stained, like red ink spreading. This compelling poem hits with the impact of concrete on living flesh. For those who do not understand this state of being, your poem will awaken a new perception. For those who are acquainted with this potentially deadly threat, the words will resonate truly. For some who have escaped from the 'magnetic pull' of depression, this poem may bring a sense of relief. It is difficult to revel in my own freedom from depression when those I love, family and friends, have succumbed - sometimes at the cost of death. As always, Mark, your poetry has the power to elicit powerful emotion. Bravo! All my best, Joanne | 2003-09-02 14:09:04 |
| Freeway | Rachel F. Spinoza | Dear Rachel: In this poem you give us a view of life as it takes place, richly, in places we often (as a society) overlook, or to which we turn our collective backs. You help us to *feel* the intensity of longing of those caught in these places. This is a subtle piece, and undoubtedly I have missed some of the layers of meaning, but this poem makes me want to pursue understanding, to look toward and not away. I sense my common humanity with all who speak within this poem - the rag man and his chant, the child who screams "Lookmommy . . .Mars!" This is the second poem of yours which I have read recently with a reference to the red planet in it. The first referenced 'wounded Mars' and this one references wounded humanity, I believe. But it isn't 'their wound' which you show us, but our own, if we will only allow ourselves to recognize it as such. Here is where the rag man steps on spiders on the cracked sidewalk These lines elicit the childhood chant, "Step on a crack, break your mother's back" for this reader. And the rag man is chanting He is chanting: Got you - gotyou - gotyou. Gotenyu As in "A gut morgn dir, gotenyu" - from a Yiddish song? Here, concrete pillars rich with graffiti, loom black and red The visual imagery is at once harsh, even threatening, but somehow comforting. It is 'home' to some, I think you want us to realize. splashed in pattern more worthy of The Getty than this ghetto near the 210 freeway Here we visualize the graffiti we've each seen in our own cities, much of which does indeed seem almost museum quality - or perhaps what is sometimes seen in museums is 'street graffiti' quality. this godforsaken debris of a California dream. Here is where last night at midnight The question arises for me after reading the above concerning whether the "debris" of a "California dream" (long neglected idealism?) is only so because of our (collective) neglect and disenfranchisement of the poor, the mentally ill, and the young (graffiti artists) and very young (the child who shouts in excitement at the sight of Mars). I heard a child’s voice screaming from a window: Lookmommy, lookmommy lookmommy, Mars! This poem hits hard. It needs to. How can we nurture those who live in the rubble of "The Freeway" - the speedy, convenient, 'free way' in which we each pursue our personal dreams, unaware of those who are not 'free' to do so partially because of our own blindness? These are my thoughts in response to this piece. Powerful, thoughtful work. Brava! All my best, Joanne | 2003-08-31 16:41:21 |
| Doppler Effect | Joan M Whiteman | Dear Joan: This poem is exquisitely limned. I have read it many times, and felt a kind of hush come over me. I've delayed responding to it as I've somewhat overwhelmed by its sadness. It has the kind of poignancy which lingers long after the reading. The title is highly intriguing. You have used the 'doppler effect' as an extended metaphor throughout the piece to great effect. As the someone or something approaches, the sound waves are compressed towards the observer. The events between waves diminish, which translate into an increase in intensity or pitch. As the event recedes, the sound waves are stretched relative to the observer, causing the intensity to decrease. By the change in pitch of the sound, we can determine if the "train" is nearer or speeding away. If we could measure the rate of change of pitch, we could also estimate the speed of the departing event. A train whistle would give an excellent example. But here the approach, the presence and the fading are compressed into intensified time: 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? For example, certain words and phrases in the first stanza evoke a sense of longing, as "held. . .breath/sighed/remembered/rainstorms/saddened." 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. And then these words -"brief/fading/brown/deep/silent/midnight/searing/unforgiven" all seem to reach out from their lines and connect with a reader's own experiences of loss. A river which runs silently seems to be a metaphor for the sense that time escapes us, that intense, short relationships, for all of their passion, leave us yearning for what seems to have eluded us. The phrase "unforgiven martyr" has a tragic feel, and as a reader I am left with the feeling of relentless Fate denying this relationship. 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. That "the whistle blew" gave me the feeling that the couple had to be wary, covert, as perhaps a 'whistle' was blown, exposing their perhaps unsanctioned happiness. The words "martyr" and "should" convey a kind of trapped feeling here, as though the two people were forced apart by social mores. The train left. She heard the wavering sound of distance fading like forgotten vows. You make ingenious use of those sounds which evoke deep feelings in readers - "the wavering sound of distance" not only draws the reader's attention back to the title, but elicits that sense of melancholy that is nearly universal when one hears a departing train, especially the whistle. We are not ON that train, but ones we love are on it, and the space between us becomes wider and deeper. The final line may allude, with "forgotten vows" to promises made which were not kept, hopes which were crushed, or of inevitable parting because of other vows, temporarily "forgotten" by the one who has left. You've managed artfully to fill this entire poem with an emotional tug well represented by the titular "Doppler Effect" Outstanding in every way, Joan. Brava! This is one I shall not forget. All my best, Joanne | 2003-08-30 13:00:05 |
| japanese verse 23 (Tide) | Erzahl Leo M. Espino | Erzahl: You've created a masterpiece in just 17 syllables. The imagery of the crescent moon calming the sea by softly combing its surface "far from shore to shore" is exquisite. I can only comment on the perfection I feel in this splendid haiku, which abounds with siblance that gives us an auditory 'sh..sh' sound so like the sea. And you have also employed the soft 'f' fricative in L2 and 3, adding to the sensory impression of gentle action upon water by tender moon's ministrations. But it is the original idea of the crescent moon as comb which has most intrigued me here. The poem is subtle and raises goosebumps on my arms. You have done a magnificent job, bringing this whimsical piece to readers. I believe that your ability with this form is superb! All my best, Joanne | 2003-08-30 12:22:26 |
| Waiting in the Cradle (revised) | Rachel F. Spinoza | Roni: I hadn't yet read the first version of this work, until now: "Amanda, tender in her skin Extends a leg - and I suppose The tiny dimple in her knee As apt to change the universe As was the sight of Helen’s face And Cleopatra’s nose" I love it - for you've conveyed the perfection of an infant's "tiny dimple" and the cherishing view the speaker gives us and comparies it with the legendary Helen of Troy's face and Cleopatra's nose. This whimsical touch succeeds in allowing the reader to see Amanda through the adoring eyes of the speaker. I've been revisiting the Iliad, recently reading a book derived from this source. So the famed wife of Meneleus has been in my thoughts. The reality is that this baby girl literally may be as beautiful and potentially as powerful as these famed women, because she is beloved, She is worthy of such praise simply because of her being, even without the attributions of history. And I pray that as she grows older, her experiences will reflect the autonomy and freedom of purpose that these famed women may not have enjoyed! resulting in "Amanda, tender in her skin Extends a leg, and I suppose The tiny dimple in her knee As apt to change the universe As Cleopatra’s nose" I love this one, too. I do feel that the lengthier fifth line which was omitted was a grand preparation for the final shortened one. This revised version, however, juxtaposes "universe" with "nose." C'est tres droll! I think I would have to choose this one, which focuses more on Amanda as ot doesn't call to mind the complex political drama of Helen's life. All the best, Joanne | 2003-08-28 13:40:33 |
| japanese verse 22 (Water Lilies) | Erzahl Leo M. Espino | Erzahl: This is one of most exquisite of your illustrious gems. I absolutely love it! It may be because our home adjoins a pond - a large one with 'pond' lilies and those "keen suitors." It has everything - subtlety, simplicity, nature, euphonious sound, and most splendid visual and auditory imagery! You've exceeded even yourself here. In addition to the scintillating picture you've given us here, you include humor. I can easily visualize these ardent fellows, looking skyward and croaking their little green hearts out! The whole picture leaves me with an impression of having glimpsed a scene of nature's beauty through the eyes of someone who loves all of the gifts from the Creator and wants to share this love with readers. What striking images, what lovely cadence! Bravo, once more! All my best, Joanne | 2003-08-22 19:43:33 |
| Soul Mate | Mell W. Morris | Dear Mell: I, for one, can attest to the truth of your words! Your critiques of submissions here on The Poetic Link. When a poet puts his heart in print, risks ridicule and more, I ever pore slowly through the glint of his words, soul-melded at the core. It is a fortunate writer indeed who receives your response. And to those great ones who have written and gone on, you supply a rapt audience, and often refer appreciatively of their work, inspiring others to read. I love this ars poetica! You write beautifully, energetically, and originally of this mutual passion in a way that makes me want to stand up and cheer! Loneliness emanates from the lack of one with whom to share things most important, matters most cared about, the whispers of my heart. So I read poetry to feel I am not alone, to hear the tone of a voice reaching out with luminosity, generosity, and joy. That is exactly what *you* do in this poem. You reach out with exactly those qualities. I have two distinct groups of friends. One understand and appreciates this love of mine for poetry, and if they do not share the intensity of my own journey, they at least do not denigrate it. Then there is the other group. While there is mutual respect and understanding, there is a lack of comprehension for things poetical. This group may be more inclined to things pragmatic, and for whatever reason, do not share the "whispers of my heart." No one has said it better, IMO, than you have here. You may as well have said "So I read *your* poetry to feel I am not/alone" as so often your responses to my poetry and that of others on this site communicates a deep, visionary sharing. I theorize that if the so-called 'dead poets' could somehow sense your devotion, they would return it with the gift of inspiration. And cheer you on in your own amazing craft! I'd rather hear the wren's jubilation -- WONDERFUL! than partake of inane conversation. I prefer the rhapsody of a phoebe's call to the appalling apathy of almost all I meet. I excuse myself from endless events and become reclusive: rather Pound's elusive prosody than the company of today's citizenry. From my dictionary, I gleaned. . . Phoebe means "bright, pure" from the Greek 'phoibos'. This was the name for Greek moon goddess Artemis and is the name of a moon of Saturn. "Small talk" seems often empty, you show us here, and you keep good company with Ezra! I love the combination of sounds in "excuse/endless/reclusive/elusive" for example. Your poetry is always filled with rich sound. I revel in it. People bore while poems soar, scoring (Ain't it the truth!) a direct hit to my spirit. Revelation, freedom from limitation, the omphalos -- hefting my unabridged, once more: "focal point" of verse is to serve this celebration of existence. When a poet puts his heart in print, risks ridicule and -- YES! more, I ever pore slowly through the glint of his words, Slowing down to savor your thought and sounds, as you "ever pore slowly" - I somehow changed it as I read aloud to "pore ever more slowly" - oops! I like the way you have it better. "glint" seems to combine 'glitter/gleam" as of a sword 'of truth' - soul-melded at the core. Truly, an alchemy of mind and spirit, one with another. Beautiful, soulful reflections on the nature of poetic communion. You have excelled once more in stating what I feel but have not words to express. Phenomenal! Brava!! Laurel wreath extended. . .(were it mine to give) All my best, Joanne | 2003-08-22 18:40:01 |
| Upheavals | carole j mennie | Dear Carole: Your poem's title "Upheaval" serves as a foretelling of what is to come to the narrator of this poem. This poem has an incredible sustained metaphor. You allow the reader to experience the unnoticed value of the events, of the ephemeral nature of life along with a seemingly belated discovery of what is truly to be prized. I would say that your mother passed along this special "knack" to you, as evidenced by this poem! I found twelve, a dozen fossilized trilobites and brachiopods chipped from millennia-old strata. Your wondrous sounds are enhanced by liquid l's and variants of assonant i's in "fossilized/trilobites/brachiopods/millennia" for example. I plucked them from solid rock A rock is such a symbol of strength, solidity, permanence. I cannot help but draw a parallel her with the sturdy qualities of your mother as shown in the final two stanzas. on a field trip to Ontario, an adolescent brush with ancient earth sciences. They had been muck-dwellers; these simple creatures scuttling across the bottoms of ancient seas. Some supernatural Medusa -- WONDERFUL! who thought them ugly as I did, had turned them into sandstone-colored rock and thrown them back on land. Again, I want to stop and savor your use of sound - for example, in the 'u' of "supernatural/Medusa/ugly/trunk/unwashed" and finally, "plucking." The Greek mythology of Medusa, who turned anyone who looked at her to stone, and who was finally killed when decapitated by Perseus, seems especially apt here, and enhances your theme of transformation. At home, I tossed my prizes unwashed, into an old trunk thinking even eons couldn't improve this lot. The lines above remind us that often we fail to see the true meaning of the events and people in our lives under much later. Your thoughtful, meditative poem stirred remembrances from my own experiences. I believe other readers will profit from your perceptions as well. But I was wrong. A scant year after college, my mother's illness brought me home. Surprise! There, cleaned and polished, elegant in their simple shapes and intricate detail, I found my fossils on display, a Paleozoic parade across my mother's glass coffee table. This stanza with its vivid imagery and shocking discovery is highly evocative. What a gift to the speaker, and to the reader, of finding what is beautiful and meaningful in what has been "tossed. . .unwashed." Weeks later, after she'd died I sold the coffee table but kept the rocks-- trilobites, and brachiopods-- in which she had seen beauty. It is her vision which informs this poem, in this reader's view. She sharpens our own sense of aesthetics and ability to sense value in ourselves and others through her daughter's poetry. A true gift, and given as generously as she would have done. Mother always had a knack for plucking pearls out of any old oyster. I cannot find enough superlatives to tell you how much I appreciate this tribute to your mother's wisdom. I feel enriched by this reading, and am delighted, once more, to find another of your works. Brava! All my best, Joanne | 2003-08-22 15:19:29 |
| Petunia's First Flight | Mell W. Morris | Mell:
I read this earlier, with much enjoyment. It reminds me of a poem I wrote some
time ago, which features an 'emergency' kite in the trunk of my car. That yours
is handmade and purple makes it even more memorable. When I wrote my poem, I
was still working, and can certainly relate to the need for 'stress relief'!
This work is affectionate and endearing - and as such is certainly a keeper -
and filled with the delectable sounds which so enjoy in your poetry.
A bob, dip, curtsy, then a swift
uplift from a wind draft. My thumb
on the string, I watch the soaring
might of my hand-made kite, Petunia.
The verbal action is droll and vivid. Miss Petunia displays her 'verve'
as well as femininity with such motions as 'bob, dip, curtsy' as she makes
her maiden voyage on the air stream. I know you live in Texas, and
wonder where this takes place, as I envision the scene at the beach,
which is where all of my own kite-flying adventures have taken place.
Two balloons released for good luck
pre-kite flight and I admire the verve
and pluck of my purple flyer. A five-
feet tail, beribboned in the same shade,
The very feminine 'two balloons' symbolism is probably my imagination,
but then I see symbolism in everything. | 2003-08-19 00:11:23 |
| Day Time | Rachel F. Spinoza | Roni: What a terrific tribute to a friend! But it's also a highly rhythmic with kinesthetic imagery and the superb crafting I'd expect from your pen. You capture the sensations of skating, vividly - which I haven't experienced since my teen years. As "time" repeats throughout the piece, I suspect a birthday celebration is in progress here, and add my best wishes. Lovely sibilance, and teasing 't' sounds in this playful work add to the zest and sense of the celebratory essence of it. I especially love these two lines -- "Heals sorrow with glances, Seals moments in glass." Such a friend is a rare gift, and appropriately treasured. I hope that Jane is aware that her fellow poets at The Poetic Link admire her qualities as demonstrated in her poetry and critiques as well as critique replies. Time gathers to laud you Moves in circles today Skates up to applaud you Day-blooming Jane Day Outstanding tribute to someone whom I suspect adds greatly to the quality of life for all who have the privilege of knowing her, either through her poetry or more personally. Best wishes, Joanne | 2003-08-17 16:12:09 |
| An Immodest Request | Rick Barnes | Dear Rick: Often great spiritual poetry comes in the guise of passionate love poetry, i.e. Rumi et al. I feel that this one can be read on several levels - but it appeals most to me on the level of a love poem as received from the divine Other (via Rick). The idea of a mutual surrendering, soul to soul, spirit to spirit, is one which brings ecstasy that no merely physical union can do, except in a temporary sense. This poem also has the unmistakeable "Rick Barnes" signature - the crafting, the sense that this comes from within, from someone who has learned to 'listen to the silence' as my mentor would say. Show to me your hidden places Among exposed terrain. Loose your soft secluded laces That bind your last restrain. I love the word "restrain" instead of the expected "restraint" here. Invite my eyes to trespass where The light so seldom trails, And let my wonder wander there -- Wonderful! And offer its avails. Open to me your ministries And all that they reveal That I may know your mysteries By scent and sight and feel. This is clearly sensual and gently erotic. It invites the lover to a type of interchange that is seldom achieved in modern life. "ministries" and "mysteries" are often left behind in haste. This seems to speak of a type of physical exchange which is body AND soul. Lay down our hearts where passions lie Surround me through and through, And know at last that it is I Surrendering to you. Lovely in every way possible. The union with another is the closest we approach, you show us here, to that blending of essence which each separate individual longs for - what is sought in mystical and mood-altering experiences as well as sexual ones - the union with the Other which becomes a more conscious Self. I don't need to analyze more - for I think you have said it much better than I ever can. Thank you for this glorious vision of what "surrendering" can be. All my best, Joanne | 2003-08-15 22:26:33 |
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