Joanne M Uppendahl's E-Mail Address: grizwiz@aol.com
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Displaying Critiques 51 to 100 out of 540 Total Critiques.| Poem Title | Poet Name | Critique Given by Joanne M Uppendahl | Critique Date |
| The Wall | Mell W. Morris | MellO: This poem gives me a sense of déjà-vu, as if I have already read it. It may be a re-post, revision, or I am, once again, imagining things! In any case, it is always like winning the lottery for me when I find a poem of yours newly posted. The title is visually like a ‘wall’ as it begins with ‘the’ and ends with ‘wall’ leaving nothing else to look at but itself. And then you begin the poem with a portrait of the heroine of this poem as shown by her support from well-meaning friends. First the statement that her friends have the knowledge of “how to mend her heart in ruins” and “how to save it.” This seems an impossible task. The irony appears in advice, often arriving “like a brown paper-wrapped package filled with sawdust.” The care and warmth suggested by the brown paper package is familiar, but the contents leave the recipient empty. Sawdust is an insubstantial material, a by product of the lumber industry, or in times past, of sawing trees by hand. Once living tissue of a plant, transformed into an organic material that can be used for composting. Mostly air, if analyzed by volume. So is the advice from friends. A product of their own experiences and lives, but no longer viable, except as substance in which other things can grow or rest. Sounds as always are like music in your poetry. “friends/mend” and “advice/arrives” for example, treat us to the assonance and consonance of a well-crafted poem. The plentitude of ‘p’ with its little pops in “paper-wrapped/package” suggest a trace of humor along with irony, and nothing of self-pity in this piece. I wonder if the nicely-wrapped packages, though the contents are meaningless, at least communicate to her that her friends love her but are unable to give what would truly “mend her heart in ruins”? This next stanza is most powerful. It speaks to the effects of a man on a woman, on the lingering response to sensory cues that once sparked a fire between our protagonist and her lover. “pure verb” says so much with so little. Readers can supply their own verbs. BYOV. Certain cues, such as scent or the timber of voice can send us into reverie, or anguish. Best line, “Squared the circle.” The circle is the ultimate feminine symbol. It signifies completeness, wholeness and the never-ending cycles of life. Breasts and wombs. That it becomes square hints at the four elements of earth, fire, water and air, the four directions, the four seasons. The energy of changing from one thing to another that was not part of the original design is suggested her. I think of the analogy of a square peg in a round hole. There is a sexual connotation here. Maybe I spent too much time with Freud in college. Or maybe it's just me. ;) Music her surcease, her sole (I hear this as ‘soul’) release. Lines define her ramparts falling, the wall kept in place friable, fracting I know someone like this. Music is her everything. It is her only outlet for passion which must find an outlet, a channel, a vent, or damage its container. L3 is gorgeous enough to weep over. This is pure jazz – it is Winton Marsalis, or Coltrane. I can allow myself to feel the tiny particles, experience the dissemination of the fractal equation into tinier and tinier parts until they are molecules, drifting, little solar systems, whirling “in shards and traces.” 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. The woman in this poem exemplifies grit. I know someone like her. Maybe still in the “daze of healing.” I cannot pass by the wonderful internal rhyme of “spurned/earned”, cannot ignore the dropped final line “of courage.” Several words jump out at me as my eyes pass over this poem once more - “wall/will/well” suggesting with their yielding consonants that though there was/is a ‘wall’ that the heroine of this poem will yield to the call of her life force; “go on” as you show us. “She will.” Strong statement of individual determination and bravery. Your poem reminds me that we never see the tenacity, the steel will, the perseverance that it takes for many among us just to put one foot in front of the other some days. You let us see it in this woman, who finds surcease in her music, comfort in the rhythm of her life. She’s a role model, if we can recognize her. We are lucky if we can because “she’s not a languish- in anguish type.” You share her portrait with us. I love this poem and its author. Let some cry ‘favoritism’ – my reply, “Yes, and your point is?” Despite the sadness in the poem, this is not an unhappy reading. It is rich with language, euphony, Mell W. Morris turns of phrase, and beauty of soul. Like a gnarled tree, this isn’t wispy or insubstantial but points the reader to inner strength. We each have to find it for ourselves. But it helps to have pointers along the way. Sustained applause. Good on ya, mate! A year’s supply of linen paper, fountain pens with scented ink, and a handsome scribe to take your dictation. Brava! Never-ending love, Joanne | 2005-10-24 10:48:41 |
| My Old Sock | marilyn terwilleger | Marilyn: I had to really look for this, as I saw your reference to it on the Forum. Just shows what I have missed the last couple of days! The title didn’t prepare me for what was ahead. An old sock seems an unlikely, surprising place to keep something as great as these memories! If I did that, I would never find them again, because the sock would get mixed in with all of my sentimental socks. You know, the ones you wore when… Eventually, even I have to get heartless and stuff them all in bag for charity without looking otherwise, there’d be no room for the ones I wear now. But you saved this one for us. I wonder if it’s a patterned sock, or a knit wool, or? The first line is grand! I like it ‘as is’ without moving onto the next. “I own some leftover lilac” reads compleat, even without the enjambment and sense of L2. Then in L3, you give us a multiple-meaning phrase “in an old sock safe” by itself says one thing, then “from prying eyes.” completes that thought! And yet, in writing the poem, you have opened the sock and dumped out its contents for us. I could go on like this, line for line, but I am going to jump ahead. Yesterday I gave the old sock some tears and pain, but then I added some smiles that I stirred with indigo moonbeams. I am undecided about whether the second line’s ‘tears’ rhymes with ‘years’ or ‘tears’ - tares. I decided it must be the liquid kind, but then, as in “old sock safe” it could be both. And I like to read it that way. I pictured you reaching into the sock and in doing so, tearing it as you tried to pull out the pains that were inside. Then I realize that you gave it your tears, and then imagined you wiping your eyes with it, a comfortable, soft old friend, like the sleeve of pair of flannel pj’s. I drink deep of my own dreams and savor the innocence of peace that shelters my soul when I peek inside this old sock. The sock as a container keeps its contents from becoming scattered or judged or examined by anyone but the owner. This is a lovely idea. I especially love “I drink deep of my own dreams” for the sound, for the permission the speaker gives herself to feel the feelings which belong to her. Some things are just not for public display, not for ‘reality’ TV or talk shows, only for private viewing and remembrance. My only qualm is the consequence of sating this unexpected trove. A philosophical question arises for me here. To me “sating” is to satiate someone with something. I am unsure if this implies that you could become tired of reviewing these memories, so replete that you might turn away? It may be that your meaning here is a little unclear to me. The question below implies that, in any case, you would miss the memories to which only you are privy. Where then shall I hide my lilac memories? The memories are more valuable because private, and if found would lose their value is my inference. There is a side to each of us that no one knows, will ever know. No matter how much is spoken, can be read from our body language or heard in our voice. It is the inner ‘I’, the unspoken, the treasure (trove) of what makes us who we are are as human beings. Thank you for this lovely poem, which empowers us to recall our lives with reverence and to keep some things only for ourselves. Very graciously done. My best always, Joanne | 2005-10-18 20:49:12 |
| The Last October | Mell W. Morris | MellO, What a find! I was gone all day yesterday and didn’t find this this morning until I looked at my list’s bottom. There was I became drunk with your words. This morning, coffee is my drink, but my eyes drunk, swimming in your October. As always there are layers in your work, you bring me news of your star, as it suddenly increases in brightness, then fades to its original luminosity. Only the supernova explodes and becomes no more. And thus, sitting in the light of your brilliant nova, I am reassured. It gives light to this room, still dark though it is morning. Every year, wind brings smells of autumn: burning leaves and memories of attempts to oust the sadness. The wind begins to rise from whispers to wails, from soft breaths to rales of inhalation, to gusts of musty In the fall, we turn within to the inner light. You can smell the burning leaves, being transformed into their original carbon state. You give us whispers, then let us hear your rales. Rales are alarming, more so than novae, as symptomatic chest sounds. Only heard in terminal illness. “Materiel” is a word from my history class. It was spoken by Frank Pavia, our high school wrestling coach, about the way the Pyramids of Egypt were built. He said, eschewing any supernatural means, that they were wonderful examples of use of “men and materiel.” Ochre cliffs which ‘lash’ seem cruel. Wind which “hurls” clumps of sod suggest to me that the wind coughs up residue which has lain in ennui, in repose, but is now sloughed off. What are we, in our bodies, but “clumps of sod” meant, eventually, to be blown about until we is dust, once more. In our recumbent state we sense of scents of apples and pumpkins, the fruits of summer and early fall, the association is with dunking for apples and carving pumpkins. Here is no revel in the celebrations which attempt to deny the darkness of the season which we brighten with candled-jack-o-lanterns, or parties in which we seek to mouth the ‘fruit’ of the Garden of Eden. The relenting granite “deep beneath” – how beautiful! Granite of mountains is also that of the gravestone. It's sandstone, a sturdy stone used for stone and brickwork. It is the substance which is unchanging. “Of apples and pumpkins assails our senses and we are drunk with words for October.” Your hunger for language and appetite for words informs this poem, though noir, it lifts my spirits. It's so effulgently you, Mell. October is a bittersweet month for me, as you know, the sweet made sweeter by the contrast of extreme pain. I can’t pass a single leaf without remembering “Holy Fragments” or “October Reflections.” “But the trees were gold.” I feel connected with you in this poem, as my own heart is ripped and sewn again, every fall, especially in October. We are hungry for the fleeting life which empties itself in the colors and scents of this month, “assails our senses.” We are reminded of the ephemeral qualities of our lives and pleasures. We are united, Mell, in our love for fall, sandpapered fingers touching each fine leaf, whirling in the wind of our poetic minds. I felt this to be a poem in which you want to sweep me along with you, in our mutual drunkenness with words “for October.” The waxen blue of breadfruit leaves draws my country heart and I succumb to a helpless lowering of my head at sunset when there's Maybe no one will draw this analogy of “waxen blue” as I do with someone who no longer breathes. In death, the skin is waxy, and a shade of bluish grey. When the speaker lowers her head at sunset to observe “A half hour the color of regret” she realizes that there is no turning back or changing anything. The lowering of her head is an acknowledgement that nothing can be done for what has passed. Her “country heart” is still drawn by breadfruit, which joins the apples and pumpkins. Breadfruit leaves are known to be good for ailments of the heart. The blue of them draws her eyes, for sustenance and to prepare her heart for the “half hour of regret.” And then, the warmer tone of the poem observes the chill rains, the spotted patterns on the porch. What are these observed patterns but the cyclical woof and weave of life and death? Then come autumn rains which blow oak leaves into spotted patterns on the porch. Harvest done and we feel a grand return for our efforts, never noting the daily bounties He sends. When harvest is complete (life or agriculture) we are aware of the totality of its yield. Looking back it is easier to see the ‘daily bounty’ which may have escaped our notice, for we believed that there is always more, just ahead. This poem is written in the now. What is there in the accounting of now? For a while, the speaker/writer is caught in “regret of sunset” -- of awareness that such sunsets in life cannot be retained, must move the speaker toward the darkness which always follows the setting of the sun. The most telling line, to me, is “I feel granite chips in my blood.” It’s as if the granite chips are connected to the place “deep within roots of the mountains” where the writer has released parts of herself with the “clumps of sod.” The dual imagery of granite and sod evokes a deep melancholy in this reader, for both are elements found in a cemetery. Eliot told us that "April is the cruellest month," but I believe he was wrong for Only in October does nature wither and die. Again, it is unmistakable to me that this is a noir poem, and yet, and yet – with a light at the end of it. This recognition of mortality is visible and palpable around us this month. The celebration of the Dead on Hallowe’en, the putting on of the macabre to deny death’s reality. How to celebrate life in the midst of physical decline, of the half hour of regret at sunset? And the increase of the spirit’s “bright, brilliant shine” which makes the writer more luminous to us? You have given us this time to spend with you, with your thoughts in this poem. It is splendor and richly harvested wisdom from a mind nonpareil. And a strong wind sighs, burnishes me to a bight, brilliant shine, more luminous than a nova so you may see me again... As your title “The Last October” makes me weep aloud, I also retain great joy of knowing that I cannot lose you! The love of our friendship is eternal and as kindred spirits we shall meet again… Next October. I see you now, in these white-hot words. Your words not weaken but are like a welder’s torch, emblazoning these words of hope in my heart. With love always, Joanne | 2005-10-18 10:17:00 |
| I Wonder | Nancy Ann Hemsworth | Nancy: This is a 'bittersweet' poem, and as such appeals to me particularly. Life is bitter and sweet by turns. Those who say they love us drift away, sometimes for reasons unclear. It always hurts. Add up each playground kneescrape, each bout of flu, each needle poke and still, the quantity would pale by comparison to waking, knowing that our lover/mate has grown indifferent to us. The memories are there, as you show clearly here, but will they 'lift the soul' or 'light the way' of the one who know seems not to see us at all, or if they do, as part of something that has past, far past that first flame of intense love that couples usually experience. "I Wonder" asks the question invisibly, as if the speaker is invisible to the mate, who may take her presence for granted. It may not be the end of the relationship, but the beginning of a new phase of it in which roles have yet to be defined. And there is the possibility that the roles have grown stagnant for each one of the pair. As you see, your poem has affected at least this reader with its poignancy. Well done! It's a joy to see another of your poems posted here. Best always, Joanne | 2005-10-16 21:29:03 |
| Trust | Karen Cribs | Karen: First, welcome. I have not seen your name here before. And I am assured by your first submission that we are in for a treat! OK, so I am known for positive critiques -- c'est la vie! I plead guilty: I enjoyed this poem immensely!! I mean, thinking of the enormity of thirty-thousand swordfish does something to my imagination. If they did near a ship, what might happen? Could they somehow leap onto the deck? If so, what else might happen. Your are some of the imaginative delights I wondered about while perusing your poem. I love the "bee" part, because I am a particular fan of bees. They have a system of communication that rivals our government's best efforts. I loved the sounds of "unmapped marshes and mountains." In particular I enjoyed the feminine 'em' or 'm' sounds. Delightful! The idea of horses who "run while slowly snakes stretch their skin" is delectable and worthy of a place on the winner's list, IMO. That the bears sleep in "caves of contentment" reminds me of the film, "Grizzly Man" about Timothy Treadwell, who was eaten by the bears he had sworn to protect. Are we afraid of bears, really, or of our imaginations of what they might do to us if they obtained us as food? I love the sounds of "safe in caves" for its assonance. And your use of fricative f's in "few/feeder/flutter/fear" for example. A signal to me of excellent poem crafting. I hope we will see more of you creative endeavors. This is simply delicious! Very much enjoyed this! My best to you, Joanne | 2005-10-15 21:30:24 |
| Anatomy | Dellena Rovito | Dellena:
Wow! I read this quite a few days ago, and pondered then.
You have a way of consistently surprising me with your
poetry. I found myself thinking from within the poem
as if I were you or the speaker, and found that that was
quite an assignment. | 2005-10-14 14:30:49 |
| "die hart siyabona" (The Heart We See) | Mary J Coffman | Mary: I love this poem, though it has taken me longer to find time to settle down to critique it. I have read and reread it, and benefited from the knowledge of such a one as the owner of ‘her heart’ which comes through musically in the poem, and of your devotion to the craft. I’m not familiar with this form, but am always interested in exposure to new forms. Your title is especially appealing for the sounds it makes and for its import. I believe I heard it in the trees this morning; the pulse of the forest sang it. The implication is that there is even more here, or in individuals than the “heart we see.” This idea is uplifting and gives me energy. Your first line sweeps me into the poem, with plosives and sibilants, and luxuriant ‘u’ sounds. Stanley Kunitz has said, “First the sounds” and I feel that your poem obeys this maxim of writing. Assonance of “mottled thought”, the word “encrimson” and “Oblata’s art” have taken me captive. I’ve read this so many times! The firs two lines of the second stanza “Cadenced, falls Serengeti rain tribal rhythms pulse soul's refrain” It’s ironic that you reference “cadenced” and the cadence of these lines is perfection. The comma’s caesura after “Cadenced” preceding “falls” gives a fermata or silent beat just as the falls pick up energy and hesitate before releasing their force. This makes of the poem a living thing, IMO! And then, as gales of empathy embark How like African skies, her heart you employ the hard ‘c’ sound within “embark/African/skies” to further enhance the sense of a heartbeat, or the pause between them. Once again, this poem has a life of its own. Canopied by her radiance a genesis in confluence of untold splendor, words compart --the ‘or’ and ‘ar’ sounds are exquisite How like African skies, her heart This Kyrielle sonnet in your hands is full of splendor, told. Thank you for this offering, which does much to raise my hopes that this website may yet be a showcase for the best in contemporary poetry. This goes on my winner's list immediately. My best always, Joanne | 2005-10-14 13:48:52 |
| Things Have A Season | marilyn terwilleger | Marilyn: Let me get to the point before I lose my most pertinent thoughts: I love this poem! I recognize it as the one we talked about and am honored to have its company with my own winter poem. Yours has whimsy and a sweetness I really enjoy. A sense of humor along with your wonderful word choices make this a stand-out. I especially enjoy the “I don’t mind …Too much.” It’s more than making the best of the coldest season, but a kind of rapturous ode to all of the seasons, your own celebration “in anticipation.” It’s delightful. I wanted to stick a word on the front of your title, when I first read it-- “All Things Have A Season.” And then I thought of the biblical “To everything there is a season” and thought that your choice is best. You aren’t really writing about “things” here, but perceptions of the moods of weather, of your longings and your faith. I spy decaying leaves and look on high to see black wings on blue aflutter. As I watched migrating ducks today, their black v’s against the sky, black wings on grey, I was moved to realize that change cannot be resisted. The wings can symbolize our willingness to move and be moved in the seasons of life. I love that you wrote “I spy” as if you suddenly saw them. And the internal rhyme of “spy/sky” is an example of the cool poetics you’ve used throughout this work. Here’s what I meant by humor: “When wind whips” and “sings for spring” and “wily winds to wheeze” -- You give personality to the wind and use lots of short ‘i’ sounds which lightens your touch, at least for me. The wind wheezes in your ear – how funny! Like an elderly relative, or an old, companionable hairy dog. You even have your “soulful zephyr” slinking – surely un-zephyr-like behavior, to be sure. And again, the sounds in “lumps of mud” with the deep vowels imply a soggy, sodden misery but you lighten it up once more, after the “sapless foliage which withers and dies” with your not minding, “too much.” {Even Blue Birds have no time to waste under} the brown brume of a winter dawn. –ooh, you knew I would swoon for this!! You use the plosive ‘b’ and ‘wn’ consonance expertly here. As your longed-for spring “trees quicken and shiver with new birth” and you make my fall-into-winter a lot more interesting and exciting with your creative expression. This one stands with your very best, MT. Brava! If you were a classical guitarist, I’d place you in the "Christopher Parkening Category of Excellence" -- A treat to the ear, my dear! Kudos, once more. My best always, Joanne | 2005-10-12 16:49:50 |
| Fishing for Marks, and an Herb | Thomas Edward Wright | Tom! You make me laugh! And that's not easy. I am cynical, much more so than I appear. A tale of two witties! Ha! Why? Were you both equally witty, or twitty? I have been accused, and rightly so, of being twitty. It's not something I'm proud of, but it is, on occasion, unavoidable. Two cc's make for a very nice occasion at times, BTW. Depending. Up-ending. Take care, Joanne | 2005-10-10 21:43:00 |
| In a Poem | Jordan Brendez Bandojo | Jordan: This is lovely, and so enthusiastic! I wonder if you have already presented this to your young woman? If so, I think it is sure to melt her heart. I love the metaphors you have expressed here -- for example: "I am but a silent Bee Trying to whisper the words through her petals" -- so sweet and yet, insistent! I think that Eros has awakened and serves as your muse in this one. I especially love this section of your poem: "So I fluttered backward and wended through the mist of hesitation, Afraid that the Lily would just scowl her anther and wilt If I see her honey-effusing nectar." This is so unique and fresh, and it made me smile! Joyous best wishes, Joanne | 2005-10-03 18:54:26 |
| Penetrated | Dellena Rovito | Dellena: It is named as an unknown 'something' that can only be indentified in the 'discard.' My prayer is that it will shrink and disappear before it is even found. If not that, then the next best, that it is nothing more than a harmless cyst where it ought not to be. The poem is mysterious but I gather that you are writing of a medical procedure or test, like ex-rays, ultra sound or MRI. Nothing can make us feel more invaded, I think. The inside parts being visible to outside eyes. As a poem it is good! Well-done, concise, and your title is arresting. It feels like being 'penetrated' (not in a 'good way') by unseen eyes and condensed into digital images. A number somewhere, on someone's list, with a name that is secondary to what the image portrays. The impersonal nature of medical tests is scary and depersonalizing. You show that expertly in your poem. I think the poem shows courage -- facing something, bracing for news. I am in your corner, cheering for you. May it be a 'false alarm' after all. Hugs, and more Joanne | 2005-10-02 18:42:40 |
| With Leaves Stirring | Mell W. Morris | M’elision I’ve only just discovered this bounteous boot, a cache of jeweled words at the bottom of my list. I’ve been wandering between the boundaries of Oregon and Washington, training up and down by the waters. I missed this until now! Your title offers the sensation of susurration most pleasurable. As always I know that there will be more than euphonious words, but music and food for my soul. You take me out of the present into no-time. Where all is infinitely possible, to smell the sage with you, to see colors offer readers, synesthesia, one of your greatest gifts of description. I’m on the mare, and wondering what’s making her step high, as when my mount did this, sometimes he was stepping over an offering left by a previous steed. But we are headed down the canyon, and you do not show us the same “old story” but present a vision to behold with freshened eyes. A word-treasure, ‘euclase’ of green or blue crystalline hue from your artist’s pen. I love the sound, the Mell-tone of “bespeak desert.” It is the voice I long to hear. A wind which arises “from no specific place” lends itself to height and depth of imagination’s realm. It is almost ghostly. As wind is often synonymous with spirit, I think that this poem hints at that realm rather strongly, but gently. I love the uplifted faces of the alder trees, especially with their “labile leaves” and the slight association this has with sensuous femininity. The Earth, or Gaia, is ever a feminine entity in this reader’s mind, and as portrayed by your perceptive soul and intelligence. The grasses seem to quiver with Eros in contrast to the stones, which appear to be lacking in desire. But then, the surprise – your poem always contain them – “utterly focused” the chips of granite which scatter offer their song of praise. My associations with granite are of granite gravestones, beautiful granite river stones, and granite enamelware. The hard beauty brought to life here is tenderly explosive, IMO. Grass when it waves, personified with the emotion of surprised, perhaps inspirited by the wind, along with the scattered chips of granite which offer praise for views nonpareil. You gift us with this vision in your trademark delicate yet incisive linguistry. A rare and lovely find, Mellimatia. A gift as vivid and gentle as its creator. Thank you for the pleasurable read and for inspiration, once more. Amethysts, smoky quartz and rose crystals in a basket woven by Mary Kiona for you. Always with love, LL Emeritus | 2005-09-26 15:13:26 |
| Stars | Dellena Rovito | Dellena: I had to go hunt for this as it disappeared! I read it when you posted and thought, this gal speaks my language! We have talked so many times of Brian Swimme, quantum physics, astronomy, life and love. But you have it all here. You give the stars human personalities, or you give humans stellar ones. You mix it up, and I love that! It is as dazzling, as the “fancy footwork” you write of. What it makes me visualize is the endlessly moving universe. No stasis in it except through our own limited perceptions of time and space. We talk of “fixed stars” as though they really are. The movement of the dancers “in and out of clouds” as fleet-footed as Fred and Ginger is a fabulous analogy. They twinkled on the screen, always in motion, and now are gone. The stars appear to twinkle and we see them, and in our tiny ant-life they seem as predictable and unperturbed as solid trees or mountains. And yet everything is always and constantly in a state of change. Even if you only raised a single thought here, such as “rhythm of the universe” you would have sent me into outer space – as I was prepared by your title to go there. I see the reference to Fred and Ginger as “captivating spirits” and smile, for recalling our discussion of the nature of these luminaries just makes me happy all over again. You paint them, or rather, produce/direct them in this ‘film’ of a poem, as beings. This is a fascinating idea that has captured me for most of my life. I can’t get over it, and you remind me of the happiness I get just from looking up at the night sky, and remembering – I do not know what. Someday we will find out what it was that we forgot so long ago. Wondrous!! Love it, D! Hugs, Joanne | 2005-09-22 19:33:29 |
| Unscheduled return | Mark Andrew Hislop | Mark: You vivify the inner landscape of riven relationships. If reconciliation, you show that it is not experienced without ambivalence. I'm not going to replay your words, as I so often do. Each one seems to stand for so many thoughts and feelings condensed into very small spaces. There is an aching vacuum, a trace of hope, a lingering dread. How embattled we are at times like this, and how little our spoken words can really express of what is felt. To me, this is the great gift of your poetry, as its nuance allows for deep comprehension. "So this is what it is like for him." Then reflection by each reader on what a similar or potential situation is/was like for us. Interior terrain, usually so invisible, you draw in detail as "My tongue, however, licks the floor with my footsteps" and "I can already taste the dirt." Beautifully done. Bravo! My best, Joanne | 2005-09-22 19:20:07 |
| Rumination on Love #1 | Jillian K Sorenson | Jillian: What a delight to see a submission of yours after a long absence. You were one of the very first poets I met when I joined five years ago and I recall the welcome you gave me. I’m glad I’m still here to welcome you back. Starting with the title and your name, reading and enjoying this poem was a certain bet for me. The word ‘rumination’ conjures spending time with thoughts, feelings, words shared generously. And that you title it #1 builds anticipation for the ones to follow. Are we ever done talking, speculating, or ruminating about romantic love? I think you make a very good case for an answer of “No!” I couldn’t help but smile at the pun within “scents we wear” – as ‘sense we wear’ whether intended or not. The titles of the fragrances are ironic, and actual. As someone who appreciates both fragrance and irony, I enjoyed the pairing of these on the counter. And you are effortlessly, endlessly romantic like a storybook prince. Such is the ideal of romantic love in the first stages of relationship. The keyword, as you have it here, is “endlessly.” Those long-married will smile. Some will smile more at “effortlessly” because of the untiring work that any long-term relationship requires, the constant adjustments, the shifting, the realignments with commitment. I think that most of us grew up with the ideal of the “storybook prince” which is still being touted, for example, with Barbie and one of her series of endless consorts – maybe Prince Stephan. What little girl is not going to be on the lookout for this noble prince when she grows older? We as women are also taught to envision ourselves as someone desirable by princely standards from an early age. The keyword in the above lines for me is “fairy-tale” – can anyone live up to the unreal? Everyday Monotony, Constant Commitment, Occasional Argument. I prefer the fairy-tale, where princes never turn into toads. I love the names of scents you have chosen to replace the fairy-tale ones! The final word, “toads” strikes me as comical. But not a bad compromise. I happen to really enjoy the company of frogs and toads. They are not argumentative, do not have to have the last word, are not bossy, do not have unreal expectations and nor expect maintenance and upkeep. They are never short-tempered and they are good listeners until they decide to hop away and find their ‘hoppy’ place by the pond. In short, I really love this poem. I can think of other fragrance names, now that you’ve got me started. Great stuff. I am looking forward to the next installation. My very best to you, Joanne | 2005-09-21 19:41:53 |
| Time Ends | marilyn terwilleger | Marilyn: This exquisitely mournful cinquain contains great beauty. I am caught in the image of shattered bits of mirror reflecting blue emotion. Dreams filled with fragments which seem to endlessly replay memories. A longing for the past that cannot be fulfilled. With the surreal sense that the dreams are all that remains is a sense of despair as we cannot fully recall our dreams when waking but can only experience them while sleeping. A contradiction in consciousness as dreams are so illusive. I have the sense that the writer longs for sleep and reunion with the beloved. In the final line "time ends" with the couple still united. I feel that this line vividly reflects a sense of time ending when your beloved husband died. What you telegraph in your title is that "Time Ends." I think the repetition of the title and the final line serves to emphasize the hopeless, endless feelings of despair that are a part of mourning. If it can only be bled out a little ... as in a poem or tears ... one can rest more easily for a while. I wish I could offer consolation, but sometimes the only consolation is recognition of what another is experiencing. I sense your suffering in the moment, and wish I could relieve it in some way. At times all we have that remains of the missing loved one are our dreams and emotions. Thank you for sharing this evocative poem here. It is heart-rending. You are in my warmest thoughts and prayers. Peace, Joanne | 2005-09-20 22:10:09 |
| why? | charles r pitts | Charles: I like, especially, poems of difficult times, spelled out. You do that extremely well. It is a form of suffering, I am certain, to write a poem such as this, to see your words make specific the anguishing circumstances circulating throughout this relationship. It is a point of view that asks the reader to not try to 'fix' it, but to merely read, observe, allow the poet to speak to one's own heart. I can't help but want to 'fix it' but I am not going to try. That's not what you're asking, IMO, as in my own experience I want a witness (or witnesses) to what I am processing, want others to allow my experience to filter into each's own consciousness through the beauty of the language. Something beautiful made of another thing that is painful. I fixed on the these lines as most powerfully affecting and calling up a host of associations for this reader: Transformed did love and life then change Despite my efforts to be strong Preventing being strung along With time my wall began to crack --images of Humpty-Dumpty elicited by this line now at the point no turning back And things once sweet turn harsh and sour -- the sounds here and below, so poignant a rift that's growing by the hour But sadly I’m in far too deep And nagging doubts begin to creep My best is never good enough -- almost a familiar phrase from a quarrel We can’t get past the little stuff --yes, it is the little stuff that's always biggest And though I feel us fade away Only find wrong words to say Want to show how much you mean Pride and passion torn between I think that the above lines clearly show that at least from the speaker's point of view that the greater anguish comes from ambivalence. To feel wholly one way would be less searing -- but to swing between hope and despair takes much more out of any of us. And when do we begin to realize that things have moved into that irrevocable state as in the first line below? Til one day lives don’t touch at all Painful pictures on the wall Memories that linger on Cursing darkness, cursing dawn The final four lines seem to hover in an unknown future. The final line displays the speaker's pendulum swinging from darkness to light and the return trip is almost guaranteed. We never tire of the dramas, plays and poems that depict our sense of being 'caught' in something that some call Fate and others name as our self-made destiny. Which is it? "The Lady or the Tiger"? Either way, perhaps unlike animals, we are blessed/cursed with vivid memories which we can extend into a potentially unrelenting future. I haven't really critiqued this poem in the sense of offering suggestions, but merely given you my response to it. I've enjoyed reading it, despite its depiction of suffering, or maybe mostly because of its emotional impact. If we name it, paint it, sing it, write it, perhaps we will have achieved at least a measure of peace. Thank you for offering this poem for comment. My best always, Joanne | 2005-09-20 20:20:27 |
| Senyru 157 | Michael J. Cluff | Once again, you treat us to an enjoyable tidbit from your pen. A small poem as this with its witty bite demonstrates its power in the afterthoughts it stirs in the reader. The sibilance within the first and second words in L1, and each word but single article in L2, and the final two words in the third line almost hiss with a serpentine allusion. The words “poison” and “sideways” in L2 suggest one of the most lethal of the rattlesnake species, the sidewinder, at least to this reader. Also, the end word “smidge” adds humor, giving a rather TIC effect, to my mind. The short ‘i’ throughout also serves to mute or understate the coming drama so that in fact I cannot help but smile, in spite of knowing that the victim, surprisingly named here, is going to have a very uncomfortable digestive tract and possibly heart failure. In short, this poem gives me a kind of guilty pleasure. Very agreeable, indeed. Thanks for this one! | 2005-09-18 17:38:34 |
| The Climbing Levels | Mark Andrew Hislop | Mark: This is a poem that has such elevated diction that I felt a bit unequal to the task, but I have read it at least five times and marveled. Now I am willing to comment without knowing that I will get all of your references, simply because it is a poem that deserves response. To refer to deity as “Wisdom” makes great sense to me, and it is a fresh approach. The surprising elements in this poem show up from the beginning. The ether, floating, in empty space, and then referred to as “honey” takes on another coloration entirely than the biblical account. And yet there is the feeling of Genesis in this account. Mythology is a rich background tapestry in this poem. I can’t omit comment on a poem which includes Saturn and his castration. Comical to consider him “under great conifers, ruffled at home on the high hills.” Instead of in the cosmic pantheon, he dwells, wounded under pine trees! I can see him in the forest behind my home, his great hoary head bent in angst for his loss. “Every corner he gave the bright ground of heaven’s Shawl” –exquisite imagery, recalls for me William Blake’s “Tyger, Tyger.” Till earth and sea seemed one – a single sea. Age, Flood, Lycaon, Lesser gods came hurrying. In Greek mythology, Lycaon was a king of Arcadia who served the god Zeus a dish of human flesh. He and all but one of his sons were killed by a flash of lightning or maybe they were turned into wolves. I love the idea of the earth and sea as a “single sea.” Eventually the Maker, conceiving a holier revision— Skyfuls of fist, quaking the earth— WONDERFUL! Fired dust and slaked it with the pure spring water. Rushing up through the elements Of ours was the mighty God: He wanted us to think Him Me (and so attempted to do away with me) Perhaps you lost me here. The God of the Hebrew sacred texts and the Christian ones wanted to dispel individuality? Or wanted to be seen as a personal god in a different sense than the old gods who only disported with one another or served human flesh to eat, killed them by lightning or turned them into wolves in a playful way but did not as them to worship Me? The last few lines are what made the poem one I returned to again and again. The “fire in the atom/Deep” is so mystical. Vulcan residing with his fire in each single atom – quantum physics presented by poetic pen, a raging son of Zeus within each atom. The blacksmith and his forge, hammering away, shedding divine sparks. Vulcan, the god of volcanoes, present in the invisible atom, which if split can divest us of our life and destroy what man has made. I can’t synthesize this, early as it is, as many side trails as I explored. There is a summation, I suppose, of all of this, “The Climbing Levels.” Are we climbing the ladder of evolution towards godhood ourselves, or merely getting weaponized to destroy all that the gods and man have wrought? If there are gods already in the atoms, and science hasn’t found them except in destructive form, how more we deserve the title “rascal” than does Vulcan. I am looking forward to see what other readers will say about this poem. I enjoyed this chance to comment this rich poem enormously. Best always, Joanne | 2005-09-16 07:00:16 |
| Last Dream | Rick Barnes | Rick: The loss of personal ego, the complete submersion of self in the other are the things that stand out in this poem for me. The separation of one being from another when two have become ‘one consciousness’ seems as painful a state as can be imagined. In the process of extrication of one identity from the other, the sensitive lover feels the anguish of both. In romantic love, it seems for a time as if the other becomes resident in one’s own thoughts, feelings and body. At first, an inner observer, a voice that is the other’s, makes dwelling as one discrete individual less lonely. All perceptions are altered, as the lover is present mentally at all times. The only similarity I can think of which is as intense as this is grief, in which the preponderance of thoughts are of the loved one who has died. Nearly all focus and concentration is on the missing individual, so that other thoughts are crowded out. One literally is beside oneself with the feeling of emptiness and having been ‘halved’ at the parting. All of this comes through strongly in this poem. It is painful to read, and yet cathartic, for as another human being I am taken to my own remembrances of such searing disconnections. At the time we wonder if survival of the individuated self is possible. To experience the parting of both, alive in each of “the pieces of our parting” seems beyond endurance. "I exhaled each breath you caught/ As you ran further and further away." The speaker does not willingly release the other, nor is this possible because of the melding of two in perhaps a symbiotic pairing. I watched you through your own eyes In those mirrored moments When reflections betrayed you. I felt the palm of your heart As it pushed me away Only to leave me lay In guttural pain that felt so like fear In the swallow of your throat. I don’t think I have read any lines more poignant of the ending of a romantic relationship. The pain described is eviscerating, lancing. The pushing away, by the gentle “palm of your heart” implies the most inward kind of perception. The “guttural pain” here is heart rending, and shared by both parties. The speaker seems not to withdraw in a self-protective mechanism, but to approach this agony willingly, as if to embrace it and thus fully realize it. Make it final. As one does in grief, reminding oneself that the loved one has died with every third thought, so that remembrance doesn’t utterly shatter sanity. When your tears were summoned one by one And gathered to pond your eyes, It was I who pushed them over the side That they not linger long. Compassion for the suffering of the other seems overwhelming here. Magnificent use of “pond” as a verb. Each word and line is so lightly placed, as delicate as to cause less pain for the one who “laid awake lightly across your mind.” But just ‘til morning found you, Past that I couldn’t stay. I awoke and forgave you, A thousand miles away. The entire poem seems to rest on the final line’s distance. It’s as if the speaker, as a disembodied soul, overshadowed the beloved in sleep, experiencing her suffering along with her, tenderly easing it and letting her go in a final release which, at dream’s end, includes forgiveness. The speaker seems not to be counting the cost of the subsuming of self with the lover. This is a haunting, evocative poem, Rick. You allow the reader to enter into that most sacred inner sanctum, the broken heart. This poem seems written at no safe distance from the experience, as it doesn’t even assume the form of a rhymed and metered expression, but comes directly from the most immediate kind of reflection, as action which still takes place in the present moment. This is the kind of intimate poem that makes the reading an exercise in expansion of my awareness of my own life. In an eerie kind of way, this poem enhances my understanding in that the poet gives words to states of being that are so subtle as to be indescribable. This one belongs with your finest work, IMO. And yet, it stands alone. The closest analogy I can find for my own reaction to your poem is this: To be present at the vivisection of one’s own soul and writing of it. As always, your poetry seems to sink in for me ‘where I live’ as your provide a language of feelings that supersedes anything I’ve read elsewhere. Remarkable in every sense. The suffering which produced this sublime poem is too evident for me to write 'bravo' or other intrusive exclamations. I'd only like to give the poet a hug, if possible. If this is your story. Joanne | 2005-09-15 07:46:56 |
| love | charles r pitts | Charles: I like it! You have such facility with rhythm and rhyme. And you capture the emotions so readily recognizable to anyone who has lived long enough to experience the 'ins and outs' of the 'ups and downs' of love, off and on. ;-) But it's not trite. It is fresh, which IMO is difficult to accomplish about one of the most frequently addressed topics in poetry. It is as if you summarize volumes in your unique style. Here are some parts of your poem that I especially enjoyed : “mutual woos” “Invisible injuries” “Fledglings forgetting” and “pained previous blues” “both players all in” – this poker term seems so very apt! At times we have to be willing to put in all of our chips, holding back nothing, risking everything. “Blinded eyes open though everything seen Skewed not as they are but more as they seem” How susceptible we are to our wants and projections in any of the stages of love! “Not love nor mere friendship-somewhere between” –so difficult to define, but you’ve caught it in this line “Weighed against fairy-tale childlike ideal That both truth and trust can only make real.” I appreciate the concept that love can only be made ‘real’ as was the Skin Horse by “truth and trust.” Those are the qualities of endurance in any relationship, but especially on the often very rocky shoals of romantic love. Overall I really enjoyed reading this. Very nicely done! Best to you, Joanne | 2005-09-12 19:03:51 |
| Wrath | marilyn terwilleger | Marilyn: It looks like we both hit the ‘submit’ button at the same time. I had also just finished critiquing Latorial’s poem about Katrina, and am happy to see your submission on this topic. It is such good use of the public venue of TPL to voice a literary response to this incredibly tragic event. I believe that it helps us to put things in perspective – in the broader world and in our own as well. Here you use your talent to great effect. Your ways with sound and imagery are so apparent here. The title is exactly right – and fitting. A mighty hand shook the sea and sharpened the teeth of wind. The fallen roof of sky roared How we as mortals are subject to the winds, the sea, as it has always been and will always be. The “mighty hand” suggests that of the Creator, but reading on, we see that it is the great Adversary who caused the misery and “stench.” The elements obey natural laws, but this event seemed beyond what we have experienced in our time. The auditory imagery of “fallen roof of sky” which “roared like hell” is cinematographic. We can see, feel and hear it. That parts of earth were “swallowed from sight” reminds me that we truly are at the mercy of the elements as mortals. This passage suggests biblical passages. We are taken in thought to times of great disasters and reminded that we are alive by grace. like hell and parts of earth were swallowed from sight. Mortals fled unguided in this Your uses of enjambment throughout the poem increase its strength. ghostly hour and drank of their –so vividly drawn own breath. Somber streams of supplicating tears spilled to meet the indignant sea. Fumes and stench the aftermath of Satan's wrath. Internal rhyming of “aftermath/wrath” add emphasis in the final line. Certain words throughout, as “sharpened/teeth/hell/swallowed/ghostly/tears/fumes/stench/Satan” suggest the ultimate evil. That the supplications went unheard is heart rending. The tears blending with “indignant sea” is so poignantly limned. We read and weep, and realize that we are one human family who need one another, and who must grieve together. These supernatural forces are at work. And for those who disbelieve, perhaps the ‘forces’ can be seen as metaphor. In any case, this is an excellent poem. An example of your finest writing to date. Bravo! My best always, Joanne | 2005-09-12 18:45:06 |
| After Katrina . . . | Latorial D. Faison | Latorial: Once again, you have given voice to the voiceless in your tireless, spirited way. I applaud this poem, for its sentiments are strong, its tone full of righteous outrage and so it should be sung as such from every housetop. The anger helps mitigate the shame I feel for what has been the most horrendous neglect imaginable in time of disaster in this nation by other Americans. Unthinkable. And you address it mightily. If I were a poem, I'd flow with fury right now Separating wisdom and virtue Without even knowing how. The ferocity comes through – an inspired response from a talented writer who speaks with her unique and powerful voice in times of need. The emotions come through strongly – gaining strength with each stanza, even after the intensity of “I’d flow with fury right now” – not later, but NOW! If I were a poem, I'd ride the beats of an African drum Releasing fear and bitterness Upon the rising of the sun. The fear and bitterness must find release or act as a poison upon the nation, upon the people who were left to perish in the most unimaginable circumstances. I'd be poetic words In search of better tomorrows. I'd be answers to questions That have been birthed from our sorrows And the answers must be sought, after the release of the fear and bitterness, after the outrage is expressed. The sorrows connect to other sorrows, all unanswerable without a search “of better tomorrows.” Is it because of our status That help passes us by? Is it because of history That we watch each other die? These questions are on the mind of everyone of African American ancestry and on the mind of every caring citizen of the US regardless of ancestry. These are our questions, And we ask them duly, But can anyone, will anyone Answer us truthfully? The future will tell the story, and will it be truthfully told? How will things change now that we have all seen the extent of suffering which was allowed to continue for the people trapped in New Orleans? The deaths, the humiliation, the hurting, the lies? If I were a poem, I'd flow with fury right now. But because I'm human I'll write the madness down. The best use of poetry – because it engages our feelings and our energy. We may add this poem to what we have experienced and join our madness with yours. Join our purposes as writers and as citizens to better the circumstances for those who live in America by waking up to what has happened, is happening still. The world watched in awe As Americans endured hell. And though help finally came, There are still stories to tell The stories must be told, and this is a beginning. A prelude to asking and listening and responding. Though many have now been helped, the enormity of the injustice will not, can not, be forgotten by anyone with a heart or conscience. Your words are empowering and inspiring and most of all, truthful, telling it ‘like it is’ one more time. I believe that your talent is such as to be a part of the force for good in the world, a mighty one, at that. Keep telling, keep asking, keep the fire burning. Excellent in every way. Brava! Kudos for use of the poetic form to change things – a righteous anger moves us as readers to do what we each individually can do. My very best always, Joanne | 2005-09-12 16:50:16 |
| I Am Fred Chapter V | marilyn terwilleger | Marilyn: Playful Fred is most welcomed on this rainy, grey Saturday here in the PNW! And Chapter V is as lively as your other installments. Fred seems to have continued on with his mysterious life, in the interim since we last heard of his exploits. Wouldn’t it be amazing, though, to learn of the secret lives of statues, other ‘seemingly’ inanimate objects which populate our gardens and homes? In my yard there is a giant dragonfly, a statue of St Francis, and one of Our Lady. Then there is a reading fairy candleholder, an assortment of angels of every variety, and such winged creatures. If they have lives as colorful and piquant as your elf, it would seem a shame for me not to have been their amanuensis, as you have been for Fred. But to your poem: "Where is the elf named Fred?" I said. "With his jaunty hat and suit of red." "Long ago he left in search of his beloved, the wee sprite mostly bowlegged." I’m very curious about who is responding to the speaker’s query, above. It sounds like an omniscient voice, perhaps the Queen of the Faeries? This brings a smile, as Fred seems ill-suited to the somewhat fragile beauty of a delicate fairy or nymph. Perhaps “wee sprite” is also of the elf species, since she’s bowlegged. I walked across my lovely garden bed and much to my surprise I spied the elf named Fred, he was leaning his head upon the garden shed. "There ye are, milady, I am Fred," he said. Fred seems to have been awaiting your approach. Your approach to Fred seems tied to your appreciation of your lovely garden. There is an intimacy to a garden that allows for the lowering of the thresholds of perception, if you take my meaning. Especially at dawn and twilight, according to legend. "Where have you been, dear Fred?" I said. "Searching far and wide for me sprite," he said. "Did you find her, are you now contented?" "I found her, milady, but I am most dead!" Poor Fred! I like the way you make “contented” past tense as it keeps the rhyme very plosive ‘d’ – a kind of dull, earthy sound in keeping with Fred’s rather blunt mien. "Most dead," I cried, "did she assault you Fred?" "Nay, milady, not me sprite (--) (‘twas) Mr. Toad," he said. –maybe an em dash & apostrophe here? "Why did Mr. Toad prefer you dead?" I said. "He wants to wed me sprite, but I am Fred," he said. What a shocking idea! Mr. Toad, fancying himself as marriage material for a sprite! I can see Fred’s outrage. "What ever shall you do? I am confounded," I said. –maybe eliminate the two middle quotation marks, here, and below – "I must bump him off, I am Fred," he said. "When will you do that? I am astounded!" "As soon as this lump is gone from me head," he said. Mr. Toad must have given Fred and awful blow! But Fred seems undeterred to his purpose of finding and wedding his beloved sprite. May all of the garden inhabitants aid him in his endeavor. "Remember I am Fred with me jaunty hat and suit of red." I remember him well, and send him, through you, amanuensis, my every good wish for success and marital fealty. Do please keep us informed. I am ready for Chapter VI! Applause! for Fred’s bravery! Boo! for Mr. Toad’s knavery! All my best, Joanne | 2005-09-10 09:41:42 |
| New Orleans, Long After Katrina | Karen Ann Jacobs | Kay-Ren: Here’s every reason why you should come back to us. So much about this poem is personal and vivid, which makes it consoling. The overwhelming news stories make us tune out, from emotional overload. You let me tune back in, learning a little of someone’s story in your additional notes. Listening to you dialoguing with another, that other familiar with New Orleans. I never got a chance to know it. It’s hard to grieve something unknown. That it will never be the same is an understatement and something we hear all of the time. But maybe its real essence, its people and also the people who love it as you obviously do, can resurrect the most important things about it – the “humans, animals, and places.” Specific names, like “Yo Mama’s” and “The Fatted Calf.” Maybe, especially, Art and his whole family. Many times in a personal crisis, tragedy or emergency I’ve wanted to “skip to the part” where I know normalcy’s ahead, reprieve from the storm. Can we skip to the part where we’re sitting on a balcony, sipping absinth and laughing at the tourists’ tits and bead boys? There’s your trademark humor. Spicy and spot on. Can we skip to the end, past these days of seeking solace in that Katrina’s blow was only glancing, comfort from the help flooding in, and hope because ghosts always live on in New Orleans. The solace-giving last stanza makes it, IMO. The reminder that “ghosts” (spirits) always “live on” in places we love, in New Orleans, so known for its link with supernatural elements. I didn’t mention your poetics yet – and I have to say I especially enjoy what I’m going to call, for lack of a better description, a kind of ‘journalistic’ style with a heart, at least in this poem. To the point, specific, pictorial, emotionally riveting. Nice assonance, for example, in “solace/blow/hope/ghosts” throughout the piece. But mostly, it is memorable to me for the flash of hope it brings. And your personal style, much missed by me. More like this, please! Yes, this place is addictive. Glad you find it so, too. Big hugs, Joanne | 2005-09-08 14:44:30 |
| let me hold you | Christina Morrow | Christina: This poem appeals to me for many reasons, primarily for its emotional plea. Who would not want to be held in this way, with complete compassion which does not demand anything in return? I can imagine these as words to a child, a friend, a lover or many others with whom we come into close contact. Maybe these are words thought to a stranger in need of our care, a spiritual companion along the way. Are these words from one human to another, or from a spiritual being who sees us in our complete need? It doesn’t matter to me, as reader, because I can sense the universal application. Love being the one thing that we need more than any other life-sustaining substance or experience. Your spacing makes the poem feel very intimate, as if the speaker offers arms or shoulders in quite a literal way. The soft opening, with a lower case letter on “let” seems very non-threatening. An invitation offered with no requirements of the listener but acceptance. You repeat “let me hold you” as if knowing the listener is about to fold. I especially enjoy the lines “hear the story your face has told.” I was caught for a moment in the old “lie” or “lay” dilemma, forgetting which is proper grammar. The poem as a whole asks me to put down such concerns. But for a moment I wished for ‘rest’ as a word I wouldn’t have to mentally turn this way and that. The poem makes me recall many times of running my own fingers through my child’s hair, as it is the most soothing of gestures, to give or receive. Our hair represents our identity in some ways. It can be strength or its loss. It is very sensual to have one’s hair stroked. “What tomorrow brings, I surely cannot say.” The speaker brings the listener into the present moment, which in my estimation, is all we really ever have. We are asked, with the listener, to let go of all future concerns. “I’ll say I’m sorry, because it’s what you need to hear.” Does the speaker apologize in behalf of others, him or herself or simply to acknowledge that life is often hard? “I’ll rub your back and love you - because I want to be near.” These lines sound more like a romantic appeal than any other. Who doesn’t love a backrub? And the speaker seems willing to offer anything that will be of comfort and reassurance. I still can’t shake the feeling that these lines are addressed to potential others who are not only romantic partners, but others, as well for whom the speaker feels great sympathy. Very enjoyable read and tenderly done. Best to you, Joanne | 2005-09-04 19:25:40 |
| We Love Yet | Kenneth R. Patton | Ken: From the title, with its implications of enduring love through the ending which repeats the title, this poem is like a continuous wave of warmth from one being to another. Whether the love is romantic or filial doesn’t seem to matter as much as the reassurance of it permanence. It is for such love that we all yearn. Often it comes at great price, as you show in L1: “Our tears mingled” Why is love without suffering seemingly impossible? Or is it that we do not truly love unless we are ‘passionate’ in the truest sense of that word--suffering with another? “caught in a jar then hung around our necks Each in an amulet” There is something so soothing in reading this poem – I think that personally it is the reminder that such love exists and continues. We are not separate beings at these times, but truly connected at a soul level. Even reading can induce the sense, at least for this reader, of such loves in my own life. There are times when we feel at a distance even from those for whom we feel the deepest of attachment. But the poem reminds, with its “amulet” that we do not lose that connection other than becoming unaware of its presence. Our fears mingled sent from afar then flung from our lives …and we love yet To love without fear – this is the highest achievement, in my view. To be rid of doubts and past failings and insecurities. Whatever form those may take. To share the knowledge of the past fears, yet remain in the presence of the loved one – the highest achievement. This simply written poem speaks through decades of life, from one who offers hope to another. Who offers hope to the reader of the very thing that makes life most worth living. “We love yet.” There isn’t anything more that need be said than these words. Wonderful~! Bravo! My best always, Joanne | 2005-09-04 19:00:03 |
| Middle East | Jana Buck Hanks | Jana: I can see why this poem has placed well in the contest! It has everything going for it, from the title to your formatting, to the sounds and imagery. It is serpent-shaped, as the words flow down the page, giving the reader’s eyes an easy journey. In this poem I think that your great strength is your ability to build a visual and auditory image with intense sensuality and lyricism. The persona of the woman comes alive before our eyes. I really enjoy the way you have left out punctuation. There is nothing to impede sensuous motion of this dancing woman. Enjambment works well- we are entranced and enthralled from first word to last. Poetry-crafting is delightfully well-done above, as our eyes may so easily follow “liquid/swirling/silk/twinkly/thickly/satin/hips” short ‘I’ sounds, suggest motion, building to a feverish finish at the end. Yielding consonants serve this poem exceedingly well, for example ‘w’,‘s’ and ‘y’ in “swirling/silk/scarves/twinkly/satin/ skinned/swaying/soft/sexual/serpent/swinging/cymbals” and throughout the poem. In many instances you have two or more yielding consonants in the same word, as “swirling/swinging” for instance. We hear the coins clinking daintily with the movement of the dancer’s hips, are entranced by their glitter. Males and females are equally drawn to such beauty and grace as this. The beginning of the poem builds in intensity and increases with ”naked soft sexual serpent arms hovering through exquisite goddess veils” and we begin to see this woman as more than a dancer, but as an embodiment of the divine feminine, with “goddess veils.” You show her to us now as a sacred dancer, someone who contains more than attractiveness but is a living, moving temple of the spirit. You also more than hint at the sacredness of sexuality, showing it as personified by this woman as a hallowed expression of the mysterious force that binds all things together in the created universe. The beat picks up, and we can easily hear the music through your words. You bring in strong plosives with “encrusted/breasts/bracelet/cymbals/bells/beat/ driving/dance” for example, with ‘c’, ‘b’ and ‘d’ consonants express the beat. We are caught up in the dance of life. There is a heartbeat in this poem. dance the wanton beat of sweat sheen erotic soul driving slave heat Again, the yielding vowels in “wanton/sweat/sheen” suggest a flowing, uninhibited feeling. The long ‘e’ of “beat/sheen/erotic/heat” suggests intense feeling such as pain or joy or sexual release. The final line asks a question, in my view. Are the dances and the dancer, or those who view her ‘slaves’ to the passion expressed and felt? Or is it our most essential nature, often \unacknowledged in the western world, which keeps us enslaved? Would a more open acknowledgement of our human nature makes for lives of greater joy and creative expression? I think you show quite aptly that all parts of life are sacred, including our passions. Beautifully expressed poem in all respects. I can suggest no changes. I thoroughly enjoyed this delightful piece – a great read! Many thanks for submitting this for comment here. Brava! Kudos, once more. My best always, Joanne | 2005-09-02 07:34:27 |
| A Poem With a Title Longer Than Itself | Kenneth R. Patton | Ken: Who can pass up a title like this? Certainly not I! I note that your title exceeds the body of the poem by 20 letters? Très drôle! Now that's brevity. A laugh is something I sorely needed this morning, so thank you! If there were a prize for the shortest poem on record at TPL, I think you would win it with this one, hands down. Nice work! And I cannot possibly write a long-winded critique. So we are both spared. ;-) Smiles, Joanne | 2005-08-30 06:56:08 |
| Tomorrow's Forecast | Rick Barnes | O Rick O~!
Are you making fun of me? | 2005-08-29 14:38:20 |
| Don't Get Around Much Any More | Mell W. Morris | MellO Blues Singer with Red Hat: Some mornings are worth waking up to. This is one. It may be dark out yet, full summer is fading into fall, but your “Don’t Get Around Much Any More” sings me awake. Your poem makes me glad to be alive and fills my ears with music like no other. I’ve been doing either very brief critiques or opposite. The Rules of Blues might apply here. Sing it until we are done. You bring Coltrane’s sax, B.B. King’s smoky voice over Lucille’s love notes, and Lena. Anyone who has enjoyed Lena can always close their eyes and hear her still, but few can bring her sweet, intimate tone into a poem. Most rewarding in this velvet feast of song and sound – your voice. You make your title blue and bluesy, for as in the song, you “Don’t Get Around Much Any More” which brings your poem “Every Poem An Autograph” back vividly to me. “Every day the color blue punctuates my life like the cliche' of a sudden summer storm. I relish the balm of a Coltrane sax collecting shadows of the evening.” A poet’s poem, with punctuation brought to us by Mell’s shades of the color blue. It’s a smoky blue with brighter tones, depending on the time of day. It collects tones throughout the day and often long nights of its creator. And your poem reminds me that you ‘don’t get around much any more.’ Except that you do in ways you would never suspect. I mean, carried around in the hearts of a number of people who love you (and those are only the ones I know about) like me. You went to Alaska on the cruise ship. You sat in the empty place at the table, (there was always one) and sometimes tsk-tsk’d at my 2nd glass of wine. But smiled and shook your head, listening to my clipped Yankee accent growing a little softer. I think you tasted the desserts but never finished one. You synthesized the music, laughter, the sound of the ship’s engine, the blue, ever deeper blue as the evening wore on sea along with the leaping orca pods all into this poem. Then the sunset and the deep, dark of the night, nothing to be seen for hundreds of miles but stars. But I digress. “And all my years, the pellucid hue of sky mantles the byways much as velvet might.” All your years you wrote poetry with your eyes, with your presence. The sky allowed almost all light to pass through because you could, even then, see the light and knew on some level that you would pass that light on, your vision, to others. “The blues is about life and love, B.B. King says, and that about covers it...a man-and-a-woman thing.” Isn’t it though. Everything has gender (in my view) and polarity is what makes the magic, magic. The blues cover all of the important things we as humans can feel and understand. Only music and poetry can really extend far enough to embrace what is our essential nature. But here I go again, digressing, or riffing. You said it so much better in fewer and tastier words. It is so right-now and so then. The background music of what once was, the new chords you are playing here, the echo of what may be (or in some quantum universe, already is) is the rhythm that holds our cells together. “Those who choose to sing the blues have yearning voices, longing pain from strained smoke-filled clubs, night after night.” You put your poetic finger on the place that is most alive in any of us (IMO), the ‘yearning’ place. And how we express it, whether in audible voice or poetic voice is only a matter of style. Your voice equals Lena’s, hers, yours. Your voices join to make a syncretism of what choice of a song or poem can mean to the reader. Voices spin out soul-tones. Like smoke, pervasive. The reader/listener can allow the heart to feel, somewhat based upon the singer’s/poet’s skill. You cover it. We only need to be here listening and reading. I am getting too formal now, when what I mean is that you are reaching deep into me where I live, so that I am searching within my repertoire of responses for something to meet your extended grace. I can close my eyes and hear Lena singing "Stormy Weather"...a cool note of intimacy hard to achieve. She always has one last kiss to blow to her adoring fans, her own tears trailing down her face as she swirls from the stage. The most beautiful thing about Lena and her music is her presence. Her full presence within her music and with her audience, connecting with them, connecting each of them with one another. Connecting you to us. I hear a metaphor here which I don’t want to fully accept, as it breaks my heart to think of Lena stepping off that stage for the last time. She cries because she’s leaving them, having shown them with her song that she returns their love. The “Stormy Weather” is the truth of life, the reality of parting. After the intimacy, a drawing away into that separate selfhood that we seem not to be able to overcome yet. Though I believe in it, the overcoming of that separation, based in no small part on experiences with the writer. And those whose hearts she has moved. Nobody the same after hearing you or Lena. You might right now think that I am going overboard. If so, don’t worry, I can swim. ;-) And all (The All that Just Is) the while, B.B. keeps on coaxing and caressing Lucille... Keep living, you seem to be saying here. Keep “caressing” keep loving, keep receiving my love. Believe in the All, be it, as it is made of love and blues. I will never leave you, you sing, as you throw a kiss to those who do and will continue to love you wherever you are appearing next. Now I am out of things to say, but hearing your music, always. With love, LL Em | 2005-08-27 12:56:35 |
| I Think I Will | marilyn terwilleger | Marilyn: I believe this is your finest poem yet. Where do we go when we die, and how? What will it feel like? Will we be lost? I love every single word of this poem, for if I am honest, it captures my deepest curiosity as well. Who reports back, for certain, on what death is like. I especially love: Do we float unguided and un-swaddled, shading our brow from glare but straining our necks to see? Easy to imagine us floating in the Sun's light, completely vulnerable without our covering of flesh, in our soul's body, like a newly hatched butterfly. "straining our necks to see" -- what an apt metaphor! Our metaphorical necks, stretched taught, looking around at what we have never seen. Like children on the Fourth of July! How wonderful and original! I have decided I shall go undaunted and undismayed with a sprinkling of outlandish grace. MT, you have caught the wonder if it, and with your insouciance, the attitude of hope, humor, sparkle and joy that I have come to know in your writings all over the site, in your poetry and elsewhere. It is so you, and yet, so 'me' also. "undaunted/undismayed" -- completely yourself, and something more. At least I think I will Your humility, honesty, and ability to capture in words the ineffable along with your wit just shine here! I'm dazzled and bedazzled by this offering. I think you definitely have a winner here!! Magnificent in every way, my friend. Sigh! (I wish I had written this!) With love, Joanne | 2005-08-25 07:03:58 |
| Fire on Sinai | Paul R Lindenmeyer | Paul: Here is a fine example of 'less is more' and also, how to write with 'luminosity', IMO. You effectively use sound, image, concept, formatting (especially great) and again, sound. There is so much background to this piece that I won't attempt to address in these brief remarks. Some of the harsher sounds, such as 'z' and 'v' stand like sentries holding the the two tonings of 'i'. Those sounds, both long and deep, seem to resonate this one right off the page. Amazing. Well done! Peace, Joanne | 2005-08-24 21:02:27 |
| Captive Soul | DeniMari Z. | DeniMari: It is often part of a poem that strikes me and will stay with me for a long while, though the meaning of the entire poem may be lost. This is the part I love: Aided by the audience of silence and idle time at hand she drifts beyond the universe far deep to sleep in wonderland An echo of activity will stir her once in a while then light can shine upon some blessings that leave only a shadow of a smile It is the combination of sounds and images which you use that are powerfully affecting here. I especially enjoy your use of the sounds of "audience/silence" with the assonance and consonance you handle so well. It is hypnotic. And then the 'a' sounds of "aided/audience/activity" seem to suggest intense but restrained emotions. You cover the range with the short- and long- 'a' sounds. You use of the heavier plosive 'd' in "aided/audience/idle/hand' drifts/deep" for example lets the poem work itself into the reader's consciousness with rhymthmic effect -- add to that the final two lines' "divine/indifferent/design" and I think you have a fascinating poem not only in theme but in sound. My best always, Joanne | 2005-08-24 20:53:44 |
| The Marsh Cat | stephen g skipper | Stephen: In this poem's instance, it's the title that drew me in. I want to find the "marsh cat" somewhere in the body of the poem, but that, I think, is part of the mystery. It is good to leave much to mystery and keep the reader involved. I especially like "rain running sideways across the window" which matches the temperature of the "cold white wine" and contrasts with the heat of the lovers' embrace. Best wishes, Joanne | 2005-08-24 20:46:20 |
| Flashbacks | Audrey R Donegan | Audrey: Few reading this will understand the veracity of your words. I think your final line would be more effective in the additional notes, but I see that you don't want to alarm readers. That you have survived these circumstances and write as you do is a testament of hope in itself. I think that this stanza is particularly affecting and adds much to the literature of survivorship: I am the winter inescapable! In the midst of this summer’s valiant flight The days grow colder, More callus and shallow now And my genius fades quicker now. My eyes rarely meet the natural light As I ramble on and out Tongue-tied and twisted Mumbling to breadcrumbs of my fleeting sanity In the still of the night. I recognize your talent and that what you have written here is searingly accurate and frightening. You write viscerally, and survivors will recognize their strength when they read your words. My best to you, Joanne | 2005-08-24 20:33:23 |
| Morning Prayer | Joyce P. Hale | Joyce: A nicely rhymed prayer-poem to the Creator. I like your middle stanza, especially, as I so often find hope and joy in the moon, sun, rain and seasons. Your tender heart is showing. Best always, Joanne | 2005-08-24 20:28:28 |
| The Grooms Gift | stephen g skipper | Paul: It's a beautiful poem! Congratulations -- I wish you both much happiness. Thank you for your additional notes, which allow us as fellow poets to 'attend' your wedding, in a sense. This poem for your bride is luminous with your love and reverence for her. May the future bring every happiness. I especially love this Now I give to you my heart, feel it pumping in your hands, yours to do with what you will. Such complete surrender and trust is something that is awesome. The poem brought tears to my eyes. It was like being at the wedding and hearing you read this. Thank you for sharing your life with us here. Happiness always, Joanne | 2005-08-24 08:49:53 |
| Paula's Paris | stephen g skipper | Stephen: First of all, you know I am a fan of your writing. Secondly, I love romantic poems. Third, this has a delightful effect on me as a reader. There's nothing more wonderful than the feeling of "all for love and the world well lost." (Don't know who wrote that.) I was looking through a window pane, now I am standing on the hands of Buddha, Some humor here and a sense that life is grander than can be contained for the speaker, so in love. Today I am master of all I survey Parisian cobblestones pave my way. The world seems to reflect the joyousness and light-heart of the lover. I lie back in the hot June sun, between your legs and bare feet. Very sensuous and appreciative of what is, of living now in the presence of the beloved. Keep writing! Best always, Joanne | 2005-08-24 08:43:44 |
| Beautiful Energy | DeniMari Z. | DeniMari: I'm doing short critiques, to respond to as many as possible before month's end. I read this early on and was impressed by it. I think that this is your finest yet. I especially enjoyed Vanities lair has gone on hiatus riches are found in feelings laying aside the day and night As beauty fades she still might crave the knight to spill out his professed love on the pavement between heaven and hell It is rich with imagery, texture, color, the word play of "night/knight" and the vibrancy of "A sprig of life is found amid one cracked vein" I'd say that the speaker or writer is seeing the cup as half-full and embracing life as a celebration. Great stuff!! My best always, Joanne | 2005-08-24 08:40:01 |
| Hungry Heart | Michael Bird | Mike: Great to see you back on the site! I like this poem a lot for its song. I would love to hear it sung. This is definitely a poem to be heard. Very romantic, and rhythmic. I think you've got a great thing going here with the music in this one. Wish we had a recording feature on this site so I could 'hear' this spoken or sung. I especially enjoyed We`ve had a passionate start Just listen to my hungry heart I can feel the magic all around us And I`ve got you in my sights You`ll be mine tonight With this hungry heart One look at you and I know it was meant to be With my hungry heart If it is a 'true to life' poem, may she return your sentiments in abundance! Best wishes for success, Joanne | 2005-08-24 08:35:14 |
| Give Me Shelter | michaela z sefler | Michaela: Your title is appealing - a direct request, possibly addressed to a parent, guardian or to other significant persons in the speaker's life. It could be a prayer, as well, for it has a reverent tone, a direct appeal for generosity. I especially love the way you have formatted this poem to cascade down the page, taking the reader's eye along with it. Your sounds add much poignancy with many 'm' and 's' sounds, adding to an almost psalm like lyricism. Wonderful! I want to read more of your work. Thanks for this. Best always, Joanne | 2005-08-24 08:31:21 |
| There's No Place Like........... | Paul R Lindenmeyer | Paul: Makes sense that you'd chose the "Angels" for your ethereal side. But the team, when you are in Mariner's territory? Ah, well! ;)It's a good poem, and I read quickly to see what happened. You do baseball narration really, really well. And it was more fun than watching my team lose. I can never sit there and watch, even if the game is lively, as it moves too slow so I do other things around the house and peek in. I've always just missed the best play, when Ichiro gets a runner in by hitting a fly, or other action. The way you've shown the ump's nasty "Yerr Out!!!" is priceless, as is the humor here. You are obviously a close observer of the game and loyal to your team, earlier comments aside. Your meter is grand -- "The lunge, the grab, seams raised, good grip, as he begins his slide." So visual and paced with the action. Really great read. Thanks once more. Best to you, Joanne | 2005-08-20 16:09:15 |
| Shadow's Last Sigh | marilyn terwilleger | MT: I rememeber this. It contains lovely sounds and images, for example the sounds in "upon the wake of dawn and dark is gone/impetuous shadows cloak the yawning land." "on/awn/gone" and the k's in "wake/dark/cloak" give it a rich texture, and that resonance in the bones when it is spoken. Across the meadows and o'er the plain, ocean sands, and fields of tawny grain -- and here, your rhymes sing out Moutain shadows give life to a blanket -- this could be a double-entendre or not? of smoky gray and enclose the velvet lea (here I might say "enclosing velvet lea" for the meter, but I really don't want to suggest changes Deep purple mist of winter's noon cradles seas of shadows in shivering trees --- the 'i' sounds are brilliant notes Slithering night folds its shade, wily winds wave adieu to shadow's last sigh And closing with humor and tongue in cheek, the poem's melancholy changes slighty in tone. You did a good thing by posting this one again, and thank you for letting us enjoy it once more. You do nature really, really well, with spooky undertones. I love that!!! Best always, Joanne | 2005-08-20 16:01:41 |
| Of Frogs, Crickets and Vespers | Paul R Lindenmeyer | Paul: The title alone makes this delectable to me. I am following a new policy of brief critiques and your brief poem makes it easier. Now if I could just make these comments sublime, as you have with the poem. I see what you mean about what you wrote earlier about paring down. In this case it works fabulously well. A chorale to make Bach blush (love this!) Unscored resonance (these two words work together so well) Staccatoed continuums Vibratos too passionate (these creatures do express their passion without restraint!) Largemente Te Deums enjoining the setting sun in consecration of will to a crimsoned Creation. Simply exquisite, luminous writing. You do a superb job with language and imagery -- your own poetic chorale -- and it is as thrilling as the sounds I hear nightly from the pond. Thank you for this offering. On my list it goes. Peace, Joanne | 2005-08-20 15:49:05 |
| Contradictions | Audrey R Donegan | Audrey: I love this poem. You contrast the contradictions of life exquisitely. I could go line by line, but don't find that necessary. The poem speaks to me, and I hear it. I especially love your closing lines, for they are all I need today of inspiration and wisdom: "These days are filled with life’s contradictions, A timeless story weaving, unfolding As we turn the pages." To be fully in life, we must live it, and observe the weaving and unfolding "as we turn the pages" as we surrender to change. Simply sublime in every way. This goes on my list. Best always, Joanne | 2005-08-20 12:56:12 |
| Easy | Kenneth R. Patton | Ken: My new crits are short, for everyone. No less value of and appreciation of your work. I really love these lines - they are the whole poem for me: How glorious it feels to strip away defenses To live so light and airy Our own footprints can’t be seen Indeed, what a 'glorious' way to live! And thank you for this example of howing a loving relationship changes everything. Best always, Joanne | 2005-08-20 12:17:12 |
| A VESSEL | michaela z sefler | Michaela, I like your repetition of "blue" and "decorated" very much. I don't know what the "vessel" is but I would love to know, guessing that it is your soul. I wonder what the "new colors" are -- I can only surmise that they are colors yet unseen. Best wishes, Joanne | 2005-08-20 11:58:51 |
| Through My Dark Crystal | Jana Buck Hanks | Jana: I am following Mark S's determination to write short crits, thus gathering up power to vote for favorites. I am with you in this poem, which tells it as it is. The hypocrisy and "chastity-belt points-of-worldly-view" are well highlighted. I think that your "prisons of judgements" says it all. Love this poem! Keep them coming! (This is on my list.) Best always, Joanne | 2005-08-20 11:55:40 |
| The Dirt Farmer | Jordan Brendez Bandojo | Jordan: This poem of love for you father is very moving. These are the lines which really sing to me: Yet bluebirds glide in liquid notes Serving melody in the paddies, The trees dance gaily Witnessing him from a distance Through the mountain in its mantle of green. Exquisite! It's wonderful to see another of your creations. Best always, Joanne | 2005-08-20 11:47:37 |
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