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Displaying Critiques 51 to 100 out of 241 Total Critiques.
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Poem TitlePoet NameCritique Given by Elaine Marie PhalenCritique Date
Larkspur and LilacsMell W. MorrisMell, this is a splendid depiction of a familiar sort of character. I see a bit of myself in her, in fact. That "degree of pain tolerance among the students" is definitely part of most drama teachers' assessment scales! (I taught both Drama and English, which seems to be a frequent combination). The mix of church and classroom is another staple of Western education. So many individuals direct plays and/or choirs for both. In S1, I love the way you slowly work us into the setting. Those "brittle songs" of the stars will come back later; they convey the awe-inspiring vastness of the night. "Stars" can also have a subtle double meaning, since the play's cast will no doubt include a few stars, too. The changing of "Ain't" in the song title made me chuckle. Your Hilda Taylor sounds like an iron lady, all right. But we can tell how deeply she cares about her production and the students in it. For her, that bouquet must have been magical. "She bowed her head and I imagined the tip of the sword on her shoulder." Yes, indeed --- a knighthood would have been fitting. But community admiration is a close as it gets. By the time we reach the retirement banquet (also a familiar event for me) with the students' serenade, I've totally warmed to the woman. That she is perceived as "ancient" speaks of a time when teachers lacked the luxury of retirement much before seventy, I'd say. It may also reflect the speaker's once-youthful perceptive that anyone over forty or so must have been incredibly aged. The style here is unlike most of your work, which is why I notice it. There's a prosaic feel, and line breaks in unusual places, such as after "and" or "the". Enjambment happens often, too. You're going for a true narrative feel and I'd say you have certainly succeeded. Although this is definitely poetry, it is a story-telling kind of piece. The focus is on the tale and not on the diction. Its very directness lends it added charm. The speaker is reminiscing, like most of us do, as a regular human being rather than purely a poet. She is reaching into the heart and soul of her past to find Hilda awaiting resurrection. In the end, those softer stars herald the teacher's presence. She's up there now, making sure everything is properly arranged. "Grammatically correct" is a delightful way to conclude. Talk about "music of the spheres"!! A real treat ... I must make myself a copy of this one! It strikes home, for sure. Brenda 2005-05-07 20:10:26
Bethany RevisitedPaul R LindenmeyerPaul, this is really striking. The white smoke, the chimes pealing across the square, and the appearance of the new pontiff ... it must have been a moving experience for all who partook of it. In L2, I suggest a minor change in syntax: "and cathedrals' clanging chimes"; otherwise, it sounds as if it's the cathedrals that are clanging, not the chimes. To call the Pope "Lazarus" is doubly effective, because he is raised up, the successor to the dead ... and he is a friend of Christ, as we know Lazarus to have been. He - Benedict - has spoken of his commitment to making Jesus the focal point of the Church. "Yoked with mandates" implies the weight of his new burden, which will never leave him until death. He could not let the cup pass from his lips. The "lost" and "hungry" may refer to something beyond shelter and food; it may also be a spiritual metaphor. In either case, the new pontiff appears ready to reach out and be a force for good in the world. He is the conduit for divine mercy and grace; his predecessor has taught him well, I think. I feel that this man will be remembered in millions of people's prayers and will offer up his own in return. He definitely has impressive credentials! May he hold his office for a long time and in good health. Very honest writing here, and nicely done. Brenda 2005-05-07 19:27:02
Weep No MoreHelen C DOWNEYHelen, this is a wonderful poem. I've read it repeatedly, enjoying it more each time. My mother (whose name, oddly enough, was also Helen) passed away not long ago and I wanted, for her, the sense of absolute trust and peacefulness that your speaker is offering here. I like to think she felt that, at the last. The opening line of every stanza makes this read rather like a lullabye ... it is soothing and so rhythmic. The listener (whom I assume is dying) can respond only with gratitude and even joy, for his or her burden is being lifted onto the shoulders of the other. Shush now and weep no more. .... I love the sound of "shush", so soft and gentle. I am here to brighten the darkness Lift the heaviness in your heart To walk with you through dampened jungles. I find "dampened jungles" to be totally unexpected. But they seem to represent the Valley of the Shadow, a close and humid place filled with fear. But the "I" of the piece --- Christ, or an angelic emissary of God -- is the true companion on this dark way. I am reminded of the 23rd Psalm, which I love. Shush now and weep no more. Reach out to me with unclenched fist Look up and feel the warmth from the light ... yes, "look up" with the spiritual eyes even if the flesh fails Let the wall of fear dissipate ... "dissipate" makes me think of awakening from a dream; perhaps life itself is less real than what comes next "Unclenched fist" is unusual. It suggests a release of anger; perhaps the "rage against the dying of the light", to borrow from Dylan Thomas, is not allowing the sufferer to let go. Earthly concerns also bind us and we clutch too tightly to what is familiar. I recall telling my mother, at the last, to move toward the Light. I gave her permission to leave me. She was comatose, and I doubted she could hear, but it wasn't ten minutes after I said those words that she departed. Shush now and weep no more. I am to guard you from all evil Silence the thunderous noise that surrounds you ... I've heard that hearing is especially acute at this time Cut the blackness and see the light. ... "Cut" is a forceful choice; good! Not only is Chirst our leader and guide, He is also our guardian. He can silence the tumult, as He did on the Sea of Galilee so long ago; He can pentrate the depths of night. There is a power and strength here. It is an aggressive confrontation with the forces of evil and there can be no doubt of the winner. Shush now and weep no more. Hear the sweet music of my voice Let it sooth [soothe] your terminal wounds ... clarifies the situation Now take my hand and come. ... simple, direct and oh, so filled with promise! Ah, now it is made clear that this is a deathbed monologue. The speaker bends low over the wounded, offering such reassurance that the soul will consent to step above its broken shell of a body. "Terminal wounds" could stand for any fatal disease, not just an injury. For some reason, though, I get a sense that you have a personal situation in mind. Shush now and weep no more. Open your eyes to see me ...... This is a vision denied while we are mortal; but the blind can see at last. We will ascend to the whitest mountain There we will watch the dawning of the new day. How lovely this image is! The whiteness of the mountaintop implies purification. The dawn is a clear symbol of rebirth and new hope. "Ascend" is a perfect verb to use here. Shush now and weep no more. Yes, give me your tattered hand ... "Tattered hand" is an evocation of so much sorrow and weariness. Follow me lightly to our destination ... "Lightly" refers to the newness and release but also can be read as a sort of wordplay on "light(ly)" I will be with you all the way. ... Indeed. We are given grace despite our own doubts and anxieties. The rhyme of day/way connects these last two stanzas; the newly-liberated soul prepares to rise, and the journey then begins. Both speaker and patient are fellow travelers, although the one will support the other, for He already knows this path. What a pleasure this is to read! It will stand the test, I think; we can return to it often, and be freshly inspired with each visit. Brenda2005-05-07 12:21:52
DaddyAudrey R DoneganWhat a compelling-horrifying read! This is a significant poem for many reasons, not least because it's unflinching in the way the speaker addresses her absent, abusive father and shares her monologue with the reader. We recoil (as she must, also) from such horrors. "Kindergarten bones" is poignant, indeed; this is a mere tot, frail and vulnerable, with no knowledge of carnal matters. She would not even have access to the rumored information passed among older children. How terrifying for her to endure this! Yet she cannot question its rightness because of her own ignorance. "Love comes with a price/ attached to a cock". What a dreadful "lesson"! It will color her entire life and shape her adult sexuality in ways not yet clear, but undoubtedly ruinous. The woman who springs from this child can never trust, can never accept that there is such a thing as unqualified love which wishes only to give and not to take, The pain screams from these lines, and so does the bitterness. Invading me wholly again and again branding me with the dis-ease of obligation. What is love if not the lust in your eyes? The repetition of "again" speaks to the frequency of these assaults. "Dis-ease", hyphenated like this, conveys a sense of imbalance, the world gone wrong. The child's burden is an "obligation" one should never owe to any adult. Once more, we read her misinterpretation of love's meaning. The father -- because he is so central to her young life -- will determine her understanding of this concept. He will warp the term until it is meaningless. Writing in present tense slams us into the immediacy of the situation, as it is relived. Did I plea [plead, perhaps] and beg and scratch and gnaw for you to stop? These are the images of an animal caught in a trap and willing to tear off its own limb to escape. But this little girl cannot do such a thing. She is too young to comprehend wrongness. She is brainwashed into believing in "obedience". Yhere is no other option, in her mind, but this. Was my obedience dependable? Was it good for you? "Good for you" seems spoken from a more adult persepctive. The cynicism is obvious: from the child's trauma has arisen a woman who views the past through eyes filled with hatred and revulsion. She sees her father for what he has been. Yet she probably cannot undo anything; I get the feeling this crime has gone unpunished, perhaps even been kept hidden. If this is a personal story, as the power of your writing would imply, then it is miraculous that you can share it here and, possibly, find some measure of healing in that exposure. But I do hope the offender has been dealt justice, to the fullest power of the law. Now at twenty-three with eyes the age of time herself I am beginning to remember: you are double fudge chocolate cake and I am diabetic. It is interesting that you feminize "time"; perhaps the only safe connotations are those of the female gender. The "double fudge chocolate cake" is an unexpected metaphor; it sounds SO delectable, SO appealing. There is probably still a desire -- obviously impossible to fulfil -- to "honor they father" in terms of his paternal position, rather than his actual character. Almost everyone wants to have a worthy parent-figure in his or her life, someone strong and good and memorable. But not this twisted kind of parent!! He's poisonous. Like the diabetic exposed to that sugar-laden cake, the adult woman has been made permanently ill from her experiences with her own Dad. At the time, she probably worshipped the ground he walked on because she knew no better. Now, her idol has proven so warped and corrupt that she will spend eternity renouncing him (and even, perhaps, herself ... the victim can be made to feel such misplaced guilt). What a poem! It's extremely unsettling to read, and lingers in the reader's psyche. It's taken me three tries to write a response to it. Words seem so inadequate. Brenda2005-05-07 11:38:35
Promised SightPaul R LindenmeyerHi, Paul, Good reflection on the state of the soul. The format helps; it's like falling water or the descent of redemption. It leads us through the awakening process. Unmerited graces acknowledged Well, we do have to be thankful, even though we don't deserve what we're given. ground to spiritual dust There's no subject so one assumes it is the reader and the speaker ... all of us, actually. It's not easy to bear up under the world's abrasive burdens. "Spritual dust" is an interesting twist because usually, we think of the body as turning to dust while the spirit is imperishable. "Ground" offers some potential for double meaning, with the idea of being crushed, and also the "ground" as earth or clay, composed of a LOT of dust. hoping with visioned faith for spittle Hmmmm, "spittle" is a surprise. But then again, it will offer new sight for us. If Jesus can make the blind see, what can He do for us? The interesting aspect of this is that the man himself had to wash; he was not given his vision until he did so. If we leave half the miracle incomplete because we don't follow through, then we won't get very far. It's a two-way road. and redemptive mandate to "Go wash in the pool of Siloam." Jn 9,7. "Mandate" implies this responsibility, on our parts. We definitely have to acknowledge and use the gift of grace (and every gift, really; if we waste what we have, we'll lose a lot more). This is a clearly-stated poem about hope. Sometimes it is hard - in this turbulent time - to hold fast to any sort of promise, but those who can do so are rewarded, as the speaker is confident will be his own case. Brenda2005-05-07 10:34:42
Two Sir Isaacs for a Galileo?Thomas Edward WrightHmmm, Manny/Manna/many/Man. In this skull are many mansions and so on. Henry is branching out, or maybe imploding. Lines 3 and 6 definitely strike me as being crucial. When a person is unsure of his own existence, what's left? I love "Big Ben bongs and the Queen flies by" ... tangential thoughts, which continue with the mathematical tangent to follow. We are constantly self-aware and sometimes that can be our undoing; maybe Henry and Manny are better off, eh? Being immersed in the moment, and not off wandering in the ether, must be restful sometimes. Bach's box!!! Oh Lordy, that's priceless. And Darwin in his mouth ... but what can evolve from this? Further genius, or deeper madness? This series is habit-forming. I keep uncovering other layers here. Soon as I clicked to submit my last crit for you, the "Mark my words" hit me (too late, of course, but I still got to chuckle). Brenda2005-05-07 10:19:08
Lightmarilyn terwillegerDeLIGHTful haiku, Marilyn! The three phases of the day are evoked in compact and lovely language, as befits this form. I especially like the specific imagery of "noon sun lucent mountain tops", in which there's nice assonance of noon/lucent, and a double use of "lucent" [zeugma] to modify both sun and mountain tops. Slant rhyme of "soft/tops" is also apparent here. In L3, the internal rhyme of "twilight/sight" is pleasing to the ear. It also incorporates the word "light" within the larger "twilight". An image is implied but not identified so we can imagine any aspect of the evening. A pleasure to read. Brenda 2005-05-07 08:26:37
Reflections in an Unpolished StoneGene DixonGene, what a subtle and haunting poem. It's imbued with your usual lyricism, but written in free verse, which isn't something I normally read from you. The style is near-minimalist, too. There is no excess here! I always find such writing to be very refreshing. Such a poem is never in danger of collapsing under its own weight. The identity of "she" is ambiguously intriguing. Is she a remembered lover? A Gaia figure? A goddess or angelic being? A briefly-met companion on the way? There was no depth, only shadows, thin and gray. Ethereal, like a breath of morning mist. This is lovely, and its imagery suggests something akin to the surface of water. Everything shifts, changes, lacks permanence. One cannot be sure of his/her own vision. It's deceptive, like the mist you mention. You hardly knew she was there. This mysterious "she" fits into the unclear landscape like a figure moving through a dream. But "hardly knew" doesn't mean the same thing as "never knew". This presence IS acknowledged, albeit at a subliminal, soul level. Somewhere, in a vague memory, you might see traces of a face, the pale blue of a shaded eye, a splash of light on dark hair. Here, the persona acquires more substance. We see her coloring - brunette with blue eyes. But these are also colors of the natural world - the blue of sky and lake, the darkness of moss and shadows. "Splash of light" nicely continues the water imagery. This feminine influence becomes a sort of undine, dwelling in and around the rivers and seas of the world. If she is indeed a mortal woman, she flows through the mind like droplets in a fountain, without hope of being held. One would think you would recall, ever so clearly, a moment of such significance. Ah, but what event? Spiritual enlightenment? First love? Birth itself? The meeting of one's soul-mate? Or just a sudden realization of some vast truth? Perhaps even the initial encounter with one's personal Muse, who then enters everything, forever afterward? Most likely you'll remember fading images and unpolished stones. This is like the tatters of a dream. We know we've experienced something unique but can't remember exactly what or even why. "Unpolished" implies something not finished or formed completely. We begin so many things that we can't take with us to the end. Life's filled with what-ifs, and phantom faces wavering in and out of awareness. There are so many vivid strangers, who could have changed it all, had circumstances been otherwise. We're doomed to wonder, always - like the stones themselves - whether or not we should have done things differently. Fine work! It's so good to see you posting again. Brenda 2005-05-07 08:16:04
Of Stormy ClimesLennard J. McIntoshHi Len: Your poem contains several frightening images and even deeper implications. It suggests an end-of-days scenario, when even Nature seems to echo this uncertainty and chaos of the human sphere. But I believe the reference is, also, to an ongoing battle waged by tangible War Lords whose poitical ambitions have an international agenda. Iraq, Afghanistan, Bosnia, Somalia -- the list goes on and on. Like ravens croak pre-flight calls that over-reach the crests of height in waves of worried clatter – The raven is symbolic of death and darkness. The idea of over-reaching would certainly apply to certain leaders who appear to be overstepping their authority (and justifying it, of course). They could be religious figures as well as military leaders or government officials. Power does corrupt, unless one is exceptionally careful. these proud announcers howl their claims vomited out of the filth of time ... powerful line! to bid the War Lords arise. History is not an optimistic sort of record. The "vomited" total of our past experiences reveals war after war, massacre after massacre. The proud announcers agitate for renewed violence, regardless of context. Like ravens, they have something to gain from death. As spring rains beg their torrents to over-step summer flora with chills that yawn to shiver stone. ... another striking image here! The "summer flora" remind us that the world in its original state is beautiful, and that we should work to keep it that way. Even the rains are sensitive to the delicacy of flowers and ferns. Why don't we, too, try to refrain from beating down the vulnerable? Hurried lightening [lightning] explodes to festoon life in missed motion. ... interesting line; it shows how everything is frozen in a brief pose Wide-eyed and muted fright – a stun of speechless, ... speechlessness? stun of [the] speechless? Syntax isn't quite working here of drums thriving a [on] thunder to arraign mankind as wrapped. The idea of an arraignment implies that we will be judged for our misdeeds. The thunder itself is a prelude to this vast trial; it seems more than just a natural phenomenon, and so we quail beneath its roar. But even the clouds are warlike, militant. As storm clouds riot in angry columns - ... militaristic image, most appropriate here chosen to deny a count of nonviolent days – The count would probably be slim; I have read that in all of recorded history, there's a total of maybe 100 days when no war was waged anywhere on earth. The godlike anger is directed at our compulsion for blood and arms. to bequeath youth, to tribute elderly, ... unusual use of "tribute" as a verb, which it normally isn't to give to frail ones, quartered in the equinox ... "quartered" is definitely capable of two meanings of a world at war with peace. ... yes, the ultimate paradox We cannot offer to others what we fail to achieve for ourselves. As you say, the nonviolent days are few and we can't manage to give them to anyone, not even to our own civilization. What we pass on is an inherent desire to keep things stirred up, all the while protesting that we want an end to conflict. But how many of us actually can believe what we preach?? This is a deeply ironic piece. The reader shivers while absorbing its message; no one wants to admit shared culpability (yet war leaders need the support of the public or they can't act). Brenda 2005-05-07 07:58:20
Diamond LifeThomas Edward WrightDo not go gentle into that good green grass of home (plate). Thanks for the Hemingway (one m) allusions - the baseball, Spain, booze. You've omitted the great DiMaggio, but I forgive you that. If you read L2 very fast, several times, aloud ... well, you'd be amazed at what might come out! Love the images of faux coma, resurrected personality disorder, the mother star. Burning the cards is a kind of stellar incendiary thing, I think. A lot of things turn to ash when personalities dissociate from their owners. They rise from the cinders, totally changed. Henry may be a phoenix who can't fly very well, though. He can't really cut it in centefield. A large flock of blackbirds heckled him. I thought of how softly she walked away. "She" is intriguing. I'm thinking the mother star -- the original lode -- the font of all sanity. We lose touch and then people call us mad. Those heckling blackbirds sound like Santiago's sharks, always picking at what's left. Around here, Mary is often represented by a yellow star on a blue background, the Acadian star of the sea. And of course, she is the Mother to end all mothers. Probably irrelevant to the context but worth a mention. Such is the life of stars. Blinking and distantly twinkling. Mark my words. The stars may be mirrors of us, or we of them. There's an erratic beauty in such things, and even in us, crazy though we may be. One star is "like a diamond in the sky" -- a heavenly baseball field. Maybe you've gotta be dead, or at least removed from the real world, to play that game well. "Mark my words" could be directly addressed to the reader, or even a message from the speaker to himself. I'm not sure you actually need that line, though. Ending on the star images might be stronger. Your call! Another great read. This Henry guy is fast becoming addictive. Brenda2005-05-05 10:43:53
She speaksAudrey R DoneganWhew!!! What a potent and dramatic poem!! It seems to be a companion piece to the bus stop one. In S1, the juxtaposition of perversion and Applejacks is totally unexpected and, therefore, immediately draws us into the situation. Ordinary people - much like the woman at that bus stop - can still fall prey to extraordinary personal passions and demands. Perversion, personified, has such a magnetic voice. Again, there are questions. Why does the speaker view sexual activities as perversion? There's much unspoken here. One assumes that the relationship is illicit in some way, although it has begun in innocence, perhaps as a frenetic restatement of youth ("shame not yet defined then" - not sure you need both "yet" and "then"). The backyard becomes an Eden in which the lovers engage in games and - ultimately - the acquisition of too much knowledge for their own good. She speaks of the salt, stick and sapor of his skin ........ what a fantastic line!! Sonic bliss. from the distinct perspiration from our backyard chess competitions ...... but I think it may not be only chess, no? on any random day in June. The salt imagery suggests a falling into irresistible temptation -- Lot's wife, the original salt-mistress.One must never look back. Trying to recapture an earlier (possibly abandoned?) lust can't lead to a good conclusion. ... my recollection of adolescent past-times, yellowed now in their antiquity- of hearts pounding, lips on thighs, teeth teasing skin Very, very sensual! The mature woman is definitely shedding her older persona in favor of the younger, randier one, and then feeling guilty for it. In youth, there's only the sheer joy of experience. and shouting out to passing cars with all the might our bones could muster “Let(')s fuck the blues away!”. In a more pragmatic time, this would seem almost unthinkable, yet that urge to "self-abandon" cancels caution. Vivid language -- even more vivid awareness of both the rightness and wrongness. Self-abandon can also include self-judgment. But ultimately, the speaker answers that seductive call and says she does so without "care/exposed". Yet if she is carefree, why the focus on this whole issue? The poem seems an ironic contradiction of this stance. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. For sense is futile as death is relentless. The sibilant hissing of these lines is subtle as the serpent. It is, indeed, redolent of temptation accepted. But the last word, "relentless", explains much and excuses even more. Sex is an affirmation. It denies mortality and in our sensory immersion, we are temporarily purged of the shadow. You write with such skill: power and conviction, the cornerstones of impact. What an asset to the site!!! Brenda 2005-05-05 08:52:00
Bus Stop MemoriesAudrey R DoneganAudrey, this has fabulous imagery. The implied Biblical metaphor that extends throughout the piece is very nicely developed. I love how the speaker starts as an ordinary commuter and ends up as an imagined but very ironic Christ-figure. My mind races questions clutter thoughts muddle around and collide. Pleasant assonance with clutter/muddle, which will be picked up by "interrupted" in the next line. The nature of these questions isn't given. However, the speaker's segue into decidedly frightening imagery, with sinful connotations, makes for interesting speculations! She calls these "exquisite hallucinations/biblical even", which implies her attitude toward whatever temptations she may be facing. ... seductive serpents the scarlet temptress and a fatal serum spreading ever widening. Sounds as if she may be giving in to this allure! Does she perceive herself as a Jezebel? There's a certain Cleopatra association with the serum and serpents. The speaker seems well aware that she's succumbing to it. The stares of drunken perverse men scheming with mal-intent pierce me bodily Hmmm, "perverse" men. Again, a revealing detail about the speaker's attitude/situation. Whatever has happened to her -- or whatever she has done (possibly while inebriated, herself) -- she feels crucified by it. "Pierce me bodily" is such a striking image! as I sit here, ill and sweating desperation at the bus stop. Here, the desperation further arouses our curiosity. Is this, perhaps, a bout of morning sickness? It would explain the preceding imagery quite nicely. Do we have a woman who's afraid she is pregnant but hasn't come to terms with it? Or is there some other explanation? The bus stop opens up other possibilities. Her destination could be anywhere from within the city to far, far away. She could be running toward, or running from. It's the tantalizing uncertainty that makes this poem work so effectively! I have no suggestions for change. This piece is as polished as they come. Brenda 2005-05-05 06:50:52
8 p.m.: The Saturday Evening PostThomas Edward WrightOKAY! Now I get it: this is a companion piece to the other poem I just read. The title implies two things: it's a weekend evening, and these two characters are imprisoned here, as if there are guards posted to keep them in (which may well be the case). Presumably, too, they read the Times in the morning (the other poem) and the Post at night. These are literate, intelligent people, regardless of mental condition. A psychiatric hospital shouldn't equate with stupidity. Henry's with his fellow patient, after the supposedly "normal" folks have left. It's a locked ward. "You need a swelling or a vision to get in." Beautiful!! It can be tough to get certified. They seem almost proud of it. The nurses brief themselves in cursive verse. [IP, even here in this clinical place; sets us up nicely for Virgil] I talk Henry into Virgil. All those ur/er/ir sounds! And what a contrast between the nurses' notes and Virgil's poetic narrative!! When he gets to the bees in Book IV, He gets woozy. Something about a dead cow. He may be woozy but then again, the details described in that passage are hardly pretty. Bougonia, the Egyptians called it. The rise of life from death, insects from flesh. Apis is both bull and bee; these two men are well cognizant of such nuances, methinks. This is how we spend the evening, Locked up in a concrete building without any windows, Reading Virgil, wishing we were there with you, Reading something exciting, a Papal Bull or something. The identity of "you" is effectively unclear -- could be a parent, a friend on the "outside", maybe even Jesus or the Pope. The "Papal Bull" line connects back to that "dead cow" comment (in which the bees make their honeycomb inside the cow's carcass as if spontaneously generated there, as I recall, and so - obviously - does Henry). "It's like he never got trained." In the first poem, you mention training Henry. So with his repetitive actions (one gathers he does this cabinet-opening bit quite often) we can deduce he doesn't have a good short-term memory. Thank goodness no one can see us. They’d put us in a nuthouse. Ah, the poignant irony here! “Pass the vino.” Our Latin improves by the glass. Yes, here is the wine again. And are they reading Virgil in the original language, too? De vino veritas, right? I think this poem presents a great deal of truth, through careful selection of images and small incidents. It definitely humanizes the protagnoists and makes us truly care about them. You never fail to draw us in and then give us more than we've bargained for. Brenda 2005-05-01 21:01:09
One a DayThomas Edward WrightWhat a compelling character portrayal! This long-ago relationship is resurrected with your usual vividness and poignancy but there's also the surprising final line, which implies that the speaker and his friend are blood relatives. Are they brothers, perhaps? They obviously inhabit a different set of realities, yet are bound somewhere in the middle by shared interests, in wine and Chesterfields and the other small pleasantries that help us to connect with each other. I gather that Henry's a schizophrenic who hears people and sees things that may not possess tangible existence beyond hius own mind? His "mentor" must be one of these. The Halflings would be others. Yet he has his links to the physical universe - and he's learning to use good manners. I support him in every way I can. Just as if he too were a man. From this, it appears the speaker is an older relative and Henry is younger. He may be an adult in body but not mentally. Two ideas in one pill. Viagra on a stick for the State Fair. We're on a roll. He's thinking about reducing his doses. Here's the source for the title, but it also confuses me a bit because of the date. In 1967, there was no such thing as Viagra. So the speaker is using a contemporary referent to describe something from the past. Or maybe I've missed something crucial (probably I have). Maybe Henry is an aspect of the speaker's own psyche ... hmmmm. A case might be made for that. The New York Times heading is also significant so there's another detail I haven't figured out. I'm not on a roll, am I? Still, I enjoyed reading this very much. You create memorable people and bring them to life before our very eyes. That's magic and it never fails you. Brenda 2005-05-01 19:19:35
A Fester of Cherry BlossomsRachel F. SpinozaOh, Rachel, this is rich and rare ... NOT your typically awed DC street scene among the tourists, though!! It was involuntary, officer, ..... in media res has seldom been so well used A gut reaction to the mendacity of a particular moment, that, and a monument’s gaze. Nicely oblique way if identifying the Lincoln Memorial. I well remember being awed by its size and significance. How ironic that, beneath this icon of justice and equality, a political weasel - nay, a dozen such people - should brazenly move and breathe! The imagery that follows is delightfully detailed and very satisfying. Lincoln himself would have done it Rising – expanding to his full height: - nineteen feet of Georgia Marble, ... awe-inspiring and a bit scary (to the senator) his stone arm grabbing the passing senator shaking and shaking him until all the deceptions in his pocket ...... oh yeah!! Great metaphor here. clattered against the colonnades and scattered .... clattered/scattered: nice! into the reflecting pool making impotent wish after wish It was involuntary, officer, the spitting and the thrust finger. You see, there he was strolling along The opposing sides are clearly delineated here -- one pointing and spitting in fury, the other obliviously sauntering, wrapped in his apathy. redistricting my freedoms, ... "redistricting" is inspired!! bankrupting my future .... yes, while he waxes fat on the public's reluctant largesse de'laying all hopes for a better world ... de'laying, hmmmm. Injustice wears Tom's face ... Surely Lincoln would have done the same thing ...... indeed! He had no patience with hypocrites. This is a marvelous response to an inflammatory situation, made doubly so because of DeLay's associations with the Schiavo case as well as by accusations of familial pocket-lining. I've been less aware of these issues, since I'm not within deLay's sphere of governance, but a mockery of ethics is still a mockery, in any time and place. Your poem delivers a clear message. It's ironic, also, that an "officer" should take exception to the speaker's behavior, since he represents another aspect of the justice system. You sure know how to hit the target!! What a vivid, yet unsettling, read (unsettling, that is, if you're on the side of the sinners). Brenda 2005-04-28 20:23:14
For Heroes Who Now Lie AsleepSean DonaghySean, this is beautifully written, I'm a formalist by inclination and love to read something so skilfully crafted, with content that well suits its stylistic strength. Tetrameter works very nicely and is consitently employed. The headless iamb (L1) opens with force, as the speaker urges Appolonia to guard against emotional excess. She is asked to remember her departed lover as having moved into a happier realm than the futile battlefield. Though he has died for a cause no man can win, he will find the truest love of all in the heavenly sphere which now opens to admit him. The poem speaks to the irony of war, and the unfairness of it, especially as it applies to the troops who are sent to fight and perish, by powerful leaders who sput rhetoric about achievement of peace, yet won't lay down their own lives for it. These ordinary heroes are, indeed, given no suitable honors on earth. Appolonia, your sad sigh bespeaks this maddest contradiction: The king will send the prince to die for peace, in war - a foul affliction. I appalud your use of feminine rhyme, which I always enjoy reading. Ending L2/4 on an amphibrach is a pleasant variation. It also calls attention to this strophe -- which delivers the "political" aspect of your theme. It could be an allusion to Bush, or any other powerful leader who sends men (and women) to their deaths on pretext of some noble cause. The idea of a prince who dies for peace is also rather Christ-like, a sacrifice made for the greater good, although few understand its significance at the time. The father orchestrates the death of the son. This has happened historically in various European wars. Indeed, Apollonia (spelling is different) was also an ancient Greek city-state through which Saint Paul travelled on his way to Thessalonika, again subtly underscoring the Christ-figure aspect of the dead hero. Finally, Saint Apollonia was asked to renounce Christ and tortured when she refused; I do not think you've chosen your subject's name at random! In the end, recognition of the unsung warrior's courage is given at the highest level - the carved tablets are carried by "God's own seraphs" (wonderful rhyme there, BTW) - and the heroic epitaphs are evidence that bravery is rewarded by those who are in charge of our souls. But poor Appolonia mourns the flesh-and-bone lover, the man who is gone and, presumably, buried in an unknown plot. Such is the lot of ten million war widows throughout the course of human affairs. The final line is a poignant reminder of how little we offer our war dead and their families. Veterans' pensions are often paltry (my father who was fully employed as an officer in the naval reserve for 20 years and fought in WWI, got nothing at all). The wounded in soul and body often come home to indifferent treatment or, worse, actual condemnation and abuse. Others are crippled by the legacy of chemicals such as Agent Orange, poison gas or other horrific mixtures. So Appolonia could also be a symbolic figure, standing for the nation itself, the motherland mourning her dead. Superb work in every way. Off I go to add it to my voting list! brenda 2005-04-02 19:49:38
That TimeRegis L ChapmanRegis, I can't properly critique this so I won't. I'll just say that it's an intriguing journey through the porocess of enhanced self-awareness and greater understanding. This is an interior monologue and as such, the speaker's mind is laid bare. Minds are none too tidy at the best of times, so we see this one in action, moving from idea to association, to another idea. Some of the thoughts trail off unfinished and others crowd at their heels. Lines vary in length from a single word to an entire statement. They suggest moments and hours or even days. The passage of the months brings with iut a chain of exepriences that may not happen smoothly, but in stages, by fits and starts, some expected and others not. Remember? "The Five Colors Blind The Eye The Five Tones Deafen The Ear The Five Tastes Dull The Tongue" Too much sensory stimulation does interfere with the tranquility of the individual being. If one is to look inward, none of the outer trappings is important. And if we lack a mind to interpret the vividness of color, the resonance of sound, the celebration of taste ... then we would not have such senses at all. The mind-spirit is the seat of all we know and can imagine. Mind is spirit's access point to the flesh, I think. I set aside my skin, my tongue, my ears, my eyes the reflections aren't in charge any longer serve the servant a tin plate of justice youmewe, just it- so be the lines are growing in size as I type and the needs I have shrink This is a poem in itself. It so clearly depicts the seeker's progress as he frees himself from materlal concerns. That "tin plate" is humble and unadorned, as true justice must also be. Meanwhile, the expanding lines signify an enlarged vision, while the bodily demands grow less. So we age and acquire wisdom, concurrently. As I read this, the news is focused on the passing of Pope John Paul, whom I admired. I suspect he would have appreciated the sentiments expressed in this poem because he was a man who valued truth and simplicity, I believe (I'm not even Catholic, but his commitment to service and his support of freedom and justice have always appealed to me). He must have spent many hours in reflection. He knew how to let go when the time was right to do so ... So now you, poet and speaker, face your "other self" in the mirror and remind it of things to come. We all possess dual natures but often tend to keep one side of our personality in abeyance. We are blends of light and shadow, hope and desapir, goodness and cruelty, altruism and greed. Somehow, we must reconcile the half in the mirror to the half in front of that glass. I'm not exactly sure where you are, in terms of the temple mentioned in your notes, but it sounds like a place for discovery and peace. I imagine there is also a challenge, because acceptance can be tough. Letting go (of our habits, possessions and mortal concerns) is also difficult. There is a lifetime, suddenly being shifted onto another path. I think I envy you that opportunity. Thanks for revealing this ongoing process in such a poem. I'll no doubt read it again (this is my third visit to it). I'd also enjpy knowing more about the program you're following if you are ever of a mind to explain it ... maybe even post a forum thread with some details. This sounds too intensely personal to be fully shared but there may be a few lessons the rest of us could benefit from reading. My Best, Brenda 2005-04-02 18:53:27
Rainmarilyn terwillegerMarilyn, this is a soft and lovely haiku. The "l" consonance in L1 has a bubbly, liquid sound. In L2 you shift to that sibilant, whispery "s" as befits the idea of "unseen" sources. It's a misty kind of feeling. There's a touch of wonder that such a blessing (for rain is indeed a blessing, if it's needed and not causing a flood!) should suddenly appear, sometimes almost out of nowhere. One minute it's sunny and the next, the ground's wet - at least that happens up here. We have extremely changeable, and unpredictable, weather. In L3 you remind us of the goodness that rain brings. It feeds the earth and all upon it. It is "life", as water has been life for millennia and as one of the first things God created on the face of the earth. "The deep" and "the waters" are mentioned immediately in Genesis I:2. Most scientists believe that water first generated living creatures, which eventually developed lungs and moved onto land. But our bodies are still largely water and we float in it before we're born. Someone might call you on that sixth syllable in L1 but haiku allows for variations, especially among contemporary writers. In its condensed nature image and closing summation, this piece is decidedly haiku. I love the economy of form and wish I could write more of these little poems, myself, but I never seem to sit down and try! Anyway, nicely done. I hope all's well with you and yours this early spring. Brenda 2005-03-31 22:34:26
Judging By the CoverMell W. MorrisWell, Mell, this poem is #50 on my list!! I'd wait eternity for it to rise so I'll just skip down and respond now. Whenever you inject that touch of wry humor, your work takes on a quirky and entertaining personality that's quite unique ... nothing like it on TPL or elsewhere! I always read with a big grin but under the levity, you deliver important messages. In this case, instead of discussing books you are tackling writers of books, and their "covers", or lack thereof. The gist is that outer trappings don't signify either quality of work, or absence of such quality. This could be true of many aspects in life, but one may not often associate the idea with your particular choice of topic - very fresh approach. Enjoying scandals or sandals, Norman ... neat internal rhyme here! Kind of a Nero-esque image comes to mind Mailer refused to shed his old, common- ... great place to break this line man threads. For a formal, important .... more internal rhyme with shed/threads event, perhaps as recipient of some .... and again with event/recipient grand award, he wore tee shirt and baseball cap. .... endearingly modest! You're definitely the internal rhyme queen of TPL. I love looking to see what you'll come up with. It never sounds forced, either. The diction in this poem is very accessible, not complex and fancy. It aptly suits its subjects. You're not discussing gowned academics, but flesh-and-bone people with the usual complement of limbs and skin. Perhaps this is why their work resonates with us normal readers. A few might find this topic unsuitable for William Blake since he was often seen in the nude in his garden, pen and notebook at hand. Oh my, that's hilarious! (I must confess, I was looking for "naked" since "Blake" would go with that term, but "nude" is elegant and sounds less strident). I take it his garden didn't have much of a privacy fence. Then again, Blake was unencumbered by social constraints, I suspect. Both his writing and his art are in a class of their own. In a fit of originality, he called his green retreat "Eden". Writing unclad ... what lovely long-e assonance here! could mean a free spirit, in touch ... another great line break with "touch" in the spotlight with his inner child, "Piping Down the Valleys Wild". ...... child/piping/wild ..... nice!! Love the sardonic "fit of originality", especially since the man really was an "original", but sometimes the most creative people will name their own possessions something quite prosaic. "Eden" seems a bit of a given if one is roaming around the flowers and trees with nothing on but a pen and notebook. Your assessment of the possible significance of being sky-clad is probably right on the money. He's a wild child indeed, a true Adam. Nobody copies Blake successfully. Plath wore an apron after she wed Ted and life was exciting but Kitchen mitts on her hands precluded further writing. Okay, here's a somber note. The confinement of Plath's intellect and energy to a domestic role was a minor tragedy, and her marriage to Hughes a restriction that - in my opinion - nearly decapitated her imagination and certainly shortened her productive career as a poet. Those "kitchen mitts" (nicely suggestive of an oven, in fact) stifle sensitivity; unlike Blake, she can't be openly "in touch" at all. Of course, we know she actually WAS well aware of her own life's ironies, and she could skewer her subject with a single well-aimed phrase. But then again, nobody who ends her days with her head stuck in a gas oven is going to be remembered for her happy disposition! The int. rhyme of exciting/writing is also ironic, because when the writing fades, the excitement also loses its allure. Good writers may appear any time, not by creed nor couture bound. .... I like the creed/couture thing. It suggests so much. Clothes make the man some say but for me it's all about the sound they bring. Poe with bells and tinnitus, Hopkins with his shook foil and the spoils of Heaney's poetry... The allusions to their work are cleverly done and appropriate to the context here. "The Bells" is arguably Poe's poetic masterwork, and "tinnitus" suggests both a physical infirmity and a ringing, ringing, ringing. Hopkins' "shook foil" is representative of his magnificent - and unusual - imagery. You're now describing words, not garments. These are people robed in language, sharing it like a warm blanket around their readers. "Spoils" goes nicely with "foil" and leads to the conclusion, since spoils are both reward and remainder. "Digging/rigging" add a final rhyme and a burst of energy. The writer's task is to delve into the roots of psyche and human condition, regardless of personal appearances and choices. (Right now, I'm sitting here in my pale green barn-stained sweat pants and mismatched socks; it's a good thing I live too far for people to casually drop in and catch me by surprise!) going down, down digging, digging, no matter their rigging. But oh, how they sing! ........Yes, indeed they can, and do. Can one separate singer from song, poet from poetry, novelist from novel? I think the works stand on their own merits, but knowing the person behind them is always a bonus. Sometimes, though, the mental picture differs from the reality. You've definitely stripped away (no pun!) a few of my own illusions today. Even though I'm a Blake buff, I had no idea he himself was "buff", so to speak. Eeeek! Much enjoyed, in every way. You sure know how to catch the reader's attention and hold it. Brenda 2005-03-30 15:42:58
Especially in springJoanne M UppendahlI've responded to this one elsewhere, as you know, but it's irresistible. The softness of your diction, the engaging imagery of interconnectedness, the final celebratory line - yes!! We are loved, indeed, but not necessarily by something with tangible form or even understandable emotions. This is the same affection that is given to spiders, chickadees, fir brances and plumes of morning mist. The "flung silk thread" anchors the spider. It's also like the soul's own exploratory tentacle, the silver cord which joins spirit to body and can sometimes be loosed to help us in our voyages. It appears fragile but can withstand any assault. We're inextricably joined to our higher selves and to God. The birds trill and whistle because they're grateful for life, and want to convey this appreciation. They may not know whether or not the "right ears" will hear their song but it's the act that matters, not the receipt. They would sing for no audience at all, reveling in their own gifts (rather like writing a poem and then choosing to keep it private rather than immediately posting it). They never question the quality of their offering; the world becomes their personal shower (no curtain needed!). The squirrel's leap parallels the spider's own confident thread-toss. Neither has any doubt that it will find a secure hold across the empty divide. The implications for us are fairly obvious (and uplifting). I believe the spring has been created especially to enhance our spiritual awareness, and make us new. Winter is the mortal reminder but spring shows us that we are, in truth, deathless under the light. cool-soft wafts of air bee brushing past my hair with slightest touch Here's a sonic wonderland. All those f/s/sh consonants!! Lips and tongue hiss and blow gently, quieter than the breeze. The bee's hair-touch suggests an invisible hand - the ghost of the Creator, perhaps, or a communication from a departed one - and perhaps there's truth in the concept that we are all a part of everything, drawn from it and returning to it. You and I are sun-fire and carbon, rainwater and the old bones of the earth. When we're touched by that larger arrangement, we can, in turn, touch it. The bee itself is an ancient symbol of personal character that serves others, and seeks to become aware of its own inner divinity. It is selfless, the ultimate example of altruism. It is creative, a tiny Muse in stripes, bearing its gift of pollen and wisdom. I've found the most wonderful webpage about "bee symbolism"!! (I love bees). I really think you'd enjoy it: http://www.polarissite.net/page26.html So if you are loved - as evidenced by all the wonders around you - then you are also love, given freely to that which loves you. It's a mutual process. Giver is also receiver and vice versa, on and on. If I can return after I am dead, I would be happy just to lightly brush the hair of my cherished friends and family. And they would ask, "Was that only the wind?" but feel rather foolish for having wondered. When I was young, my grandmother used to rub my scalp and hair; my mother later took on that same task. It comforted me and relaxed me (I was quite high-strung). Until only a few years ago, Mom still gave me head-massages when I felt in need! (I tried to return the favor but wasn't as good at it, nor as enduring). I would need no surer sign of their presence than to sense a quiet hand stroking my hair. Such a caress, for me, is the embodiment of unselfish adoration. Anyway, I'm rambling so I'd best stop and submit this. What a wonderful poem ... what a treat to be able to read and respond to it twice!!! May the wind be at your back. Brenda 2005-03-30 09:22:14
Beneath the LilacsLynda G SmithHi Lynda, There's such a lovely cadence running all through this. The diction and floral imagery lend it a rather Victorian atmosphere, as of a lady languishing in her garden while she observes the frailty of life and ponders the ultimate destination of all beings. Possibly she sees in the small insect some intimation of her own passage. The metaphor of the "boat" - the mortal barque on which the creature will travel toward its destiny - is interestingly incongruous when one considers that the garden air, itself, is the river upon which this little one will drift and fall. This Styx is not under the earth, but above it. Beneath the bend of lilac bows [bowers? boughs? or is this an archery image (bows), to suggest threat?] In shaded solitude of hours A jewel lies in onyx skin Dulled by ebb of life within The dying insect is beautifully described here. "Onyx skin" is especially lovely; it makes me think of a striped beetle of some kind. Above the monarch’s fragile wing Fans the air of underling [I'm not sure if the monarch is fanning the air for a lesser insect, or whether the "air of underling" fans above the wing ... if the former, I think a comma following "above" would clarify] To ease its way in floral boat A garden Styx on which to float I'm now envisioning a butterfly ushering the soul of a lesser insect, as an Egyptian attendant might wave a palm-leaf fan to cool a pharaoh's final fever. This would go with the scarab-like beetle. Toward the promised earthen tryst The breeze on stems full ore assist ... terrific rhyme here! While I on shore with tears steep banked ... very nice imagery That glimpse of memory sacrosanct ... ditto! will keep me here above the soil to measure the distance of the toil. I'm not sure about "stems full ore" ... should it be stems' (possessive) and maybe "oar"? Would the verb then be "assists" since the subject is "breeze"? I think this line might need a bit of tweaking. The speaker's glimpse of some remembered passing, perhaps of a loved one, allows her to persevere and perform her life's duties, ever mindful that "the distance of the toil" wil have only one conclusion. Her own tears (another river image) imply sorrow that is vicariously renewed by the death of the tiny garden dweller. For now I prune the bowers close Allow the sun to bleach morose Those kittled thoughts ... love the sound of "kittled" ("puzzled/born/aroused") tranquility In death to find serenity. Shortening the final four lines is a good technique because it distils the speaker's musings into a sudden and singular longing for the peace of death. The insect will find this; she, too, considers it a not unpleasant prospect. She is aware that the timing is not of her own choosing and that she still must perform the routine of her earthly tasks. But in the small garden drama she sees a condensation of her own experience, I believe. The language in this piece is exquisite. Brenda2005-03-06 23:09:24
Somewhere in the back of my mind I hear a melodyLeo WilderHi Leo, This is a clever and intriguing poem ... I love the way you link each idea to a song, and each song to an actual situation, so there's an essentially seamless connection between one and the next. Thus "Night" segues to "Three Dog Night" and the band's "Joy to the World" moves into a Christmas carol, which in turn links to Bethlehem Steel and the modern blight of pollution. Is nothing sacred? No, probably not. The crap-shooting Elders suggest those in the ancient Temple, before its cleansing, and the miraculous healing of lepers and the lame is moved into the arena of folk music and the familiar "dogwood tree", where so much happens behind its branches and even the Easter Bunny likes to hang out. Cynicism seems as old as humanity. Are miracles, too, part of a larger mythos? Are they any more substantial than the Bunny with his symbolic and very pagan eggs? Or am I way off-base here? This appears to be a riddle-style poem, but it has another side, I think. Perhaps we do need to question our assumptions lest, in another context, they become totally inaccurate. My Best, Brenda 2005-03-06 14:05:44
Understanding DaliGene DixonGene, the humor that underscores this is rather amiliar because I, too, have viewed Dali in similar frame. That mustache is its own statement. "By their fruits (or visible embellishments) ye shall know them," right? It does seem as if traits of dress and manner - one might almost say "affectations" - are also signals to an unusual inner perspective. I somehow thought that watches, melting over table edges, were fraudulent, more like limp cheese than artistic concept. The assonance that links "watches" with "fraudulent" is subtle. The time-as-limp-cheese has been, I think, a victim of overkill. Dali's melting clocks are cliches now. We've grown too used to them (and maybe to a lot of other weirdnesses, which seems a pity, because the element of surprise has largely been superseded by jaded expectation). I wonder what kind of a ring a lobster-phone would emanate? "Startling sound" might be an understatement. I imagine a sort of bubble-click. Live lobsters exude froths of little bubbles before they're eventually boiled. "Housefly eyes" is an awesome image! Not only are they huge in proportion to the head, but they're multifaceted and perceive dimensions we probnably can't comprehend. To see as Dali must have done would be an exercise in astonishment, I think. Your poem quite rightly tags his vision as the source of his unusual world-view. But then again, a housefly is also common as common. Like I said earlier, Dali is becoming almost a parody of his own style. I still enjoy it, though I think in some ways, I tend to prefer Hieronymus Bosch if one is looking to the surreal. (I'm not sure what he looks like, unfortunately). Your work is always enjoyable, regardless of style or subject. Brenda 2005-03-05 15:59:15
Following the Tributary HomeMolly JohnsonMolly, how refreshing to find such an original and beautifully-sustained metaphor. The opening strophe, focused on the salmon, is almost amgical in itself. "Pin pricks ... shift ... ripple": lovely assonant combination! "Ripple and raindrop" rolls its r's like lapping water. Your ear understands itself well and shares its acuteness with us. In the second strophe, speaker and fish mingle and the stellar navigation is brought to earth and into the homey comfrot of a bedroom. Human and salmon are related aspects of the same cosmos. If we seek earnestly, it's clear that such parallels run through the known universe. In the third strophe, the sensuality of the imagery is gentle and yet intense. The speaker becomes not only salmon but also water, the complementary element to earth and her partner's firm presence. "Press the slick side", whew! Terrific sibilance, slippery sounds that suggest much without being blatant. Have to tell you: I absolutely love this poem! It is wonderfully written. Brenda2005-03-05 15:46:55
-- -- --what they are doing." Lk.23:34Paul R LindenmeyerHi Paul, Luke's wisdom has always resonated with me. Have you ever read "Dear and Glorious Physician" by Taylor Caldwell? Wonderful book! But I digress. And the legacy of forgiveness visits creation again. Hmmm, "again" is significant. Forgiveness isn't a one-time event, offered only at the time of Christ's sacrifice. Sometimes, people feel distanced from it, I think. Their faith becomes less of a living entity than a historical curiosity. But a "legacy" implies continuation. It spans generations. Yet we spurn it, casting lots among ourselves for what we perceive to be "truth". The trappings of the faith, in other words ... buildings, ceremonies, regalia. We're no better than the soldiers at the foot of the cross with their dice and cynicism. Christianity faces such troubled times! I'm not so sure that any religion has the power, today, to move and touch the depths of many human souls. We're too jaded to notice or care. Your poem reminds us that even if we forget, the eternal grace remains to be rediscovered. Cascading, Crescendos of Compassion's unmeasured mercy. The poem's shape resembles the outpouring of love from the top of the cross itself. The words support this interpretation, and the hard-c alliteration works nicely to link them. "Unmeasured" means "without qualification" - mercy that has no stipulations attached. Even the gamblers fighting over the robe will get mercy if they ask for it. {White hot soul searing Divine logic} Yet we have to be prepared for an inner burst of fire. It isn't comfortable to realize our deficiencies because then will come regret, guilt and absolute sorrow at what we've done. Still, we keep doing it. Your title says as much. We're sorry and we want to be forgiven but then we mess up all over again. The parentheses seem a bit unnecessary, to me. However, they may be used to suggest the framing of the words themselves - the shape of lips, open and generous. The voice of Jesus is also a channel for the Father's own blessing. Given freely from Crucified lips. "Freely" is the most unbelieveable part of it ... that we who continually fall will be repeatedly salvaged and raised to our feet. We keep repeating the scenario. This is a worthy poem, appropriately relevant as we move toward Easter and need to be reminded of its message. Thanks for posting it. Brenda PS Here is a link to the book I mentioned, and others of her Biblical and historical novels as well. http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0385052154/102-1329152-96785472005-03-02 15:06:32
Open Your EyesLatorial D. FaisonHi Latorial, This is a thought-provoking piece with a simmering anger underlying each line. The message is clear: true freedom isn't dressed in the hippest clothing or the most expensive trinkets. Your repetition of "open your eyes" is intended to shock the audience into greater self-awareness. Your poem delivers a powerful condemnation of contemporary attitudes: we have to re-examine our own concepts of what makes a person "emancipated". If we tie ourselves to the latest gimmicks, we're hardly liberated. We're just conforming to the expectations of media and popular culture. "They are not there/all of those people" ... I believe this means the ancestors of the current generation; they would not care about the surface trimmings that seem so important to today's young people. Although one could apply the theme to a universal situation, I'm taking this poem to be in more specific reference to African-American history, as this has been one of your concerns in other poems. Now, of course, legalized slavery has vanished ... yet hatred and divisiveness continue. But the opportunity that turns to "quick fix" is hardly going to enrich the spirit. It's just a tangible display of surface success, right? The true slavery then becomes a condition of the mind and soul, not of the body. It's a lot harder to escape those kinds of inner chains. To survive, to stay alive, Marking territory we've been denied, Don't look surprised We've learned to thrive on lies What excellent use of "i" assonance all through this passage! The ironic "we've learned to thrive on lies" has a dual implication - these are people who've managed to endure centuries of abusive treatment; however, many young people, regardless of ethnicity or race, can fool themselves into believing that they're only as good as the gold they wear or the car they drive. The worst lies of all are the ones we tell ourselves. We're so busy waiting For those acres and the mules That we can't find the time To stand up or grab the right tools The tools that will advance any group aren't necessarily material possessions ... we wield more influence through our creativity, our words and our attitudes than we can do through our physical labor. Perhaps we should focus more on "being" than on "owning". This is true for anyone. "Revelation and knowledge" are so critical. Ignorance is not bliss. If we focus on the short term, we'll miss out on the broader horizons. In the end, everyone must take ownership of his or her own destiny. The "land" we must possess is a country of the imagination as well as a literal plot of ground. We do need to know what's worth pursuing and what's merely a temporary pleasure. Very well done! Brenda 2005-02-25 12:55:38
Why We Sing......Paul R LindenmeyerHi Paul, You're playing with resonant language; the poem's style reminds me, in many ways, of Bach's music. It's rather ornate - Baroque even - and contains many rich sounds. I especially note the repeated "r" consonance, rolling tunderously; then in S2 you mute to fricatives like "v", as the organ's music softens. The "l" in S3 lends lyricism - not only the articulate syllables of the Choirmaster's speech, but perhaps the treble keys of the organ. "Whispering wisdoms" is very understated. This is a man who undoubtedly has been well respected and has not needed to shout or hector his choir members to gain their full co-operation. His motivational words make a fitting close to the tribute. I, too, believe that music may well be our closest approach to God - music and, perhaps, higher mathematics, which I see as related. The divine order is conveyed through notes and numbers ... This reminds me of a dear organist and choirmaster whom I knew years ago. His name was Friedel Gmeiner and he served as church organist in Wolfville, then taught and played at Acadia University. He died far too young. I have such vivid memories of him, playing Bach on the magnificent Casavant in the chapel at Acadia. He even won a North American organists' competition over a hundred competitors. My eyes are feeling prickly now. This has been a lovely read. Thanks so much. Brenda 2005-02-14 09:59:07
Red Feathermarilyn terwillegerHi Marilyn, This is a vividly descriptive prose passage. I say prose because it has the format characteristics of the prose genre, although the diction includes striking images more often seen in poetics. The inserts of more structured verse stand out very nicely. I'm not sure of the inspiration behind this but I gather it's a poem by Mell (?). Anyhow, you've set the scene with great clarity and then taken us into the young brave's psyche. All is hushed - both outside and within - and there's an expectant tension set up with words like "alert" and "excited"> Yet the bead of blood from the cut serves as foreshadowing. The mountains that seem to protect him are, perhaps, also closing in and watching his final hours. You have a feel for clear, richly-textured langauge. I would like to read a bit about his experience of dying in battle. There's a quick leap from his sight of his fellow warriors, and the realization that he's not coming back. I know it will make for a longer work but I think you do need that point of crisis, because it's really the pivot around which the narrative rises and falls. If referring to his "legend", we need to know what that is, why it's legendary. This implies some amazing feat of courage But maybe Mell's piece includes that. I'm operating at a disadvantage for not being familiar with it ... I've enjoyed the read. Brenda 2005-02-14 09:33:10
LessonsRachel F. SpinozaHi Rachel ... My mother taught me how to mourn Wow, what an opening! It speaks of a legacy that entails loss and pain, as if this family has known much of both. {not how to greet the morning wild with gladness, drunk with dreams and stumbling toward a bliss of consciousness} Here is a mother who must have been conscious of duty, of the obligations that we must assume toward our ancestors, of the awareness we must always maintain to honor their trials and sufferings. For her, there are no dreams or visions ahead, but only the haunting footfalls of pursuing ghosts, alive with screaming. "Morning" picks up on the homophonic "mourn". "Wild with gladness" is wonderful! "Drunk with dreams" uses alliteration to great effect and then "stumbling" is linked to "drunk" through assonance and also through its logical action, since drunks tend to lose their balance. There's kind of an Emily Dickinson image here, like the little tippler against the sun. The sibilance of "bliss ... consciousness" is unexpectedly soft after those two "d" sounds. The speaker's desire for a higher state of awareness is not what her mother had in mind, methinks. My father taught me how [to] strive toward a worker’s world of peace Ah, here is the paternal legacy - the socialist ideal, pure and untainted by greed or personal ambition. It is the workers who should determine their own fates. There is dignity in their labor, not to mention necessity. [not how to make a picket fence behave or satisfy demands of massing dandelions] ... I like the use of two types of parentheses, the fancy ones for the post-mother- reference, the sturdier for the post-father-passage; emotion vs pragmatism? He's a political idealist. The mother, perhaps, is his opposite, although you don't really tell us that. Clearly, the father has his own sense of vision. Yet he is helpless against those "massing dandelions", who overpower the lesser plants because they're stronger, and might makes right. He seems not to be a forcible person in this context. Yet, although his wife mourns for what has been lost, this man looks forward to what can be achieved, even when it's impossible to do so. and you – you slapped me wide awake and taught me to attend the light and listen for the sounds of life that bubble up in kneaded clay .... the "l" consonance augments that bubbling effect What beautiful cadence these last six lines have! The iambics are subtle but certainly enhance the way this passage is read. The "you" is some other person, or perhaps even G-d, who has brought the speaker to fuller life and enlarged her perception. The birth image - "you slapped me wide awake" - implies a revelation of sorts. Attending "the light" - paying attention to the positive and attainable things - sounds close to "enlightenment". The newly-awakened individual is now her own person, not an amalgam of her parents. She must observe for herself the way of the world. The "kneaded clay" is humanity, the shaping of potential into realization. Those "sounds of life", like the baby's first cry, arise from our mouths - from Adam's throat - from all the displaced and despairing people of the earth, who suddenly give voice to their own strength and courage. They have received a gift of Spirit - an expanded consciousness - to dwell within their flesh and give them hope. They are now more than clay. Anyway, this is a poem that allows itself to radiate outward, from the parental center to something vaster and much more complex. With every generation, we restate the entire act of creation. We relive a certain element of Genesis and in our turn, we carry it forth to the next in line. As always, it's a treat to read your work. Later! Brenda 2005-02-10 18:22:49
Prelude To A Kissstephen g skipperHi Stephen, I always enjoy reading a good love poem! (I don't write them at all well, so I seldom try). There's something mystical about this one, as if for a moment the speaker has managed to will himself into the past. He's undoing a wrong - a missed opportunity now being made right. It's not absolutely clear whether the woman he loves is actually present with him in the flesh, or merely in his imaginings. Is he dreaming this kiss? Or is it a second chance, come 'round again? Bring me a boat with sides of silver blue, let[']s sail away, to the new dawn, glorious in all its majesty. This is an unexpected image in the middle of the speaker's fantasy. It suggests he's not totally happy with where he's ended up, and is desperately wishing he can begin all over. The silver/blue colors and the image of the dawn imply a visionary experience. Then we move into a description of the speaker's passion and, again, wonder whether it's an actual encounter or a dream state. In many ways, it doesn't make any difference. He's recreating the original intensity of his desire. She - either the real-time lover or imaginary mate - is fully reciprocating. The last line speaks of a place and situation where there is no time at all. They're suspended, immersed in each other. I'm hoping this is an actual meeting of the lips and not a remembered, longed-for encounter locked in the past. I vote for the real thing! Anyway, the poem is evocative and intense. It certainly fulfils the title's promise. Brenda2005-02-10 14:54:56
ReunionJoanne M UppendahlJoanne, I read the earlier version of this and my eyes prickled throughout. They're still prickling so you've retained the initial intensity of emotion. I, too, keep imagining "what if ...?" my grandmother were to suddenly appear for a warm cuppa, or my mother drop in for a chat now that she can move around freely. Grandma talks all afternoon after she takes me through the back door into her kitchen. Once we are in there, stories start to roll out, roll out like biscuit dough. I like the immediacy of the present tense and the repetition of "roll out" both sounds nice - lovely "o" assonance - and suggests a continuity, as if the stories are neverending and you - her inheritor - will add your own to them. It's significant that you go by way of the "back door", reserved no doubt for close friends and family, as this will be a warm and informal visitation. As she moves around the kitchen, she remembers what happens at the stove, what happens over by the sink-- what she sees out the window. Again, there's repetition to imply that all is ongoing, and all that has been of signifiance to her. The remembering also suggests - to me - a woman who may have once forgotten what stoves and sinks are for. Possibly, she suffered a stroke or Alzheimers that impaired her menntal abilities later on in her life. (?) The big snow -- and all of us squeeze around the dining table -- our cocoa steams up the windows. And then that time Grandpa cursed and put out the chimney fire with Red Devil. These are vignettes of winters past, the welcome heat of cocoa and company, the mixed blessing of a chimney that can provide both fire and conflagration! (I wonder how many readers will recognize that Red Devil?? Boy, this does take a person back!). I open the door where she lives, that place inside me where she always lives and she begins reading her memories ......... "reading her memories" - lovely! out of it; she begins to show me the spare bed with the blue quilt. Okay, here's where the eyes start getting wet. "The door where she lives" is two-way, because she can come to you, as well as you to her, if both of you believe it can happen. The wall between the worlds is thin and we get to pass through when our minds are receptive, especially in sleep or hypnogogic relaxation. "She begins to show me" ..... hmm. This reminds me of the way our mutual friend, Margaret, is able to reveal the identities of those she contacts: they "show" her items important to them, while living, and we recognize the meaning behind them. Perhaps only you and your grandmother would truly remember that blue quilt; when you were a child, I bet you slept there often! I smell the lavender she keeps in the clean sheets, and the flax seed she uses to make hair-setting lotion. This introduction of olfactory imagery is very pleasant and also conveys a three-dimensional aspect of the woman herself. She not only assumes visible form, she communicates special scents (I've read that we can often detect a spiritual presence in a house because of a certain smell associated with that person). The tiny detail of the homemade setting lotion tells us that here is a resourceful lady and, perhaps, one not accustomed to "store-bought" luxuries denoting wealth. After that, Grandma and I just hold each other and have a good cry. The cry is so cathartic! It speaks of regret for things left unsaid forever, and for an absence too long endured. It is the release of such deep love that it almost overwhelms the two parties involved, yet they are sustained and stabilized by the hugs. This is an act of communication beyond mere words. However, there's the unstated idea that a parting must come and the tears are but a prequel to that separation. The grandmother must return to her own spiritual realm and the speaker, to her physical self. There's no permanence, yet, to this reunion. The tears link them through the salt and water which are so integral to our human makeup. But it is a "good" cry - strong and comforting. There's an air of acceptance here. The speaker is moved but not maudlin at any point, which allows us to share her experiences without drawing back. Beautifully done. I'm so glad to see this one again! ((Big Hug)) Brenda 2005-02-10 14:13:33
Stripping FallJames Edward SchanneHi James, This starts with the surprising imagery of the voyeur, studying the trees' nakedness. "Branching research" implies that this observer is being more clinical than prurient, however. It makes for an arresting metaphor. The title relates directly to this process of close examination. In the second quatrain, there's a shift to the earth with its minerals by which - although not specifically stated - humans, trees and all other living things are enabled to survive. "Copper rain" conveys both a color and a metallic taste; the mined veins imply hidden gifts which the cold may temporarily conceal. In "accumulated changes spinning drain", I'm not sure of the syntax. I think it might call for an apostrophe [changes' spinning drain]? The idea of washing away the seasonal upheavals prepares us for rejuvenation to come. Then comes the hoped-for warmth, an animating of the sullen flesh, impelled by the past with its experiences and growth. We cannot resolve our own present if we fail to understand where we've already been. (Is it memories [and] questions; or memory's questions)? I believe you need another apostrophe with season[']s, possessive, since the view of the autumn has not quite given way to full winter, or - further along - the hint of spring. a destination is not just a place but a state of being we come to face I love this couplet. Each of us, it seems to be saying, has his or her own reality. We interpret where we are on the outside but what we believe on the inside, and our perspectives differ. That "state of being" varies according to the individual, but we do recognize when we've arrived there. I know that there are some philosophies that do not accept a universal reality, preferring instead to make it contingent on personal perception. So we, ourselves, create both the journey and its conclusion. I admire you for writing sonnets in which difficult issues are tackled and explored. This one is no exception. Although I read far more than I critique, I like to choose those that have particular appeal to my own situation. The turning of the year is fraught with challenges for me at the moment, and fall has brought major changes that will affect my life from now on. I need to view it somewhat dispassionately and try to manage the emotional dimension before I can move away from the events themselves. Losing family members to death is a clarion call for re-examination of one's own place in the universe. Thanks for submitting a poem that compels the reader to reflect on his or her personal circumstances in order to determine an appropriate "destination" within. I've enjoyed doing so. Happy 2005!!! Brenda2004-12-31 14:16:51
The Cabinmarilyn terwillegerMarilyn, what an "immersive" poem (is that a word?)! I feel surrounded by the cabin in all its rich detail and tangible atmosphere. The lead-in to the cabin's discovery is that antlered deer which, to my mind, might represent something far older and more mystical than a mere animal. To me, he may well be the spirit of Herne, the Forest Lord, keeping an interested eye on his kingdom and guarding it against intrusion by those who might not mean well. The speaker is permitted to experience the past, and communicates to the reader all the homey touches - the bread, the coffee, the churn, the shadow woman who undoubtedly kept her household in order. Her invitation is a gift from one soul to another, spanning the decades or even centuries. This is a poem imbued with a sense of history. Many of us, I'm sure, were products of ancestors who tended such simple cabins and gradually moved on to other places and other lifestyles. But there's a longing, still, for the honest basics of pioneer experiences, living off the land, working hard for the reward of having done one's best. "Dulcet days of yore" do seem somehow more golden, more kind and humane. Of course, we know this might be illusion because people were so much more vulnerable to hardship and illnesses, but the human-to-human bonds seem to have been firmer and more loving. I think we've traded off this gift of compassion for greater convenience, more material goods and sharper focus on self. I love "tick of time", implying both the clock and the brevity of the ghostly visit. "Technicolor world" nicely suits the vividness of our modern environment, but that can become TOO vivid with the brightness of spilled blood and the harsh gleam of steel and plate glass. A few typos in S1 - stretched, disappeared, persistent - but easily fixed. This is a terrific descriptive piece and one which I really enjoyed because it speaks to my own set of values. I, too, treasure the woods, the rustic pleasures and freedom from hassle. I'd love to find an intriguing glimpse of an older world, more attuned to nature. You've given me a chance to share in that kind of place for the duration of the poem. Thank you so much! All the Best, Brenda 2004-12-07 18:26:09
The Texture of BlueMell W. MorrisMell, this isn't a critique. I just want to tell youI've read this, enjoyed it immensely, and it gets my vote over the "bird" piece (much as I loved that one, too). Your focus on the blueness embraces so many levels it's hrad to know where to begin. It's everything from sky to spirit to VanGogh's irises - which I'm not surprised to find here! In fact, it is both an exploration of the speaker's own world-view and a tribute to Vincent himself, who was certain he had failed in his efforts, whereas we know he was possessed of a vision far beyond others of his time (and many of our own). "Repair to prayer" - yes. God helps those who help themselves. If we ask and ask, without trying to improve our own situations, then we're not taking responsibility for whatever we've been allotted in this life. Healing can come from within as well as from outside sources. The blue color is associated with the throat area and its healing effects are very cooling and calming. Since poets use "voice" in their art, this would be an appropriate chakra for strengthening. It is also associated with self-knowledge (physician, heal thyself). "The revelry of geese skywriting the ways of the world" is magnificent! It comes from the same well as Vincent's own gift. Each shade of blue may suggest a separate individual. We're all in the mosaic (I'm teal, myself). S2 is in some ways my favoroite because of the olfactory elements. The alliteration adds further harmony to the lovely, sensory passage. The "briny, blue-eyed sea" is a familiar friend to me, also. The thing about lilacs is their brevity. Maybe we're most impelled to memorialize the transitory and fallible aspects of our universe. We capture them in our own ways because if we do not, they're lost forever. And though we may believe we, ourselves, will be lost, we don't know who might be remembering us. More people sent cards and showed up at my Mom's funeral than I would ever have expected. They hadn't kept in touch, necessarily, but she obviously had left an imprint on their lives. In our own cases, we can't possibily know how many, or whose, lives these are. The poem's closing wish is offered for Vincent's own benefit but we, too, can share in it. We must all learn to set aside regret and personal dissatisfaction, in favor of the broader outlook. The divine gift of persepctive should allow us to see ourselves as meaningful contributors to the order of all creation. It may be the "view from above", like the panorama shown to a newly-rising soul. We can't see it in our mortal bodies but we can anticipate it. All will be revealed in good time, right? Anyhow, this is a terrific poem. I'm glad to see that it's right up there! To an extent, final standings reflect the "weight" of individual supporters rather than the numbers of votes. Kind of like a presidential election ... popular vote may not win over electoral votes. But when you make it this far, I'm not so sure the numbers matter all that much. Know that we are enjoying this one and that it's being remembered as it touches its readers. That kind of suits its theme, I think. Brenda 2004-12-06 09:46:10
#5 Comedy of TerrorJana Buck HanksHi, Jana. The title of this senryu is a great lead-in, and also conjures up an image of a death-mask face, struggling to retain its composure when confronted by some kind of terrible knowledge. "Porcelain" and "brittle" go well together as an extended metaphor. There's a fragility about this person, a vulnerable edge. Despite the effort to remain in control, those "tears stand brilliant" - vividly so - and the lips "brittle smile". It would be so easy to shatter this individual's bravado and reduce him or her to a faceless ghost. Lovely use of sonics, especially consonance - l, t. p in particular. Most of the vowels are some variation of a or i. This gives the diction a focused effect which I quite like. In such a short poem, it's hard to compress more than one layer of meaning, but I think you've suggested both the visual image and also the idea of maintaining an upbeat facade despite inner devastation. We laugh so we will not cry (or at least, not cry too obviously). The stereotypically sad clown is probably not really a cliche after all. Our own masks are penetrable if studied with perception. They also make it bearable for us to live among others - for who could tolerate an open display of every emotion, every weakness, every terror? I think we must hide a part of our true selves in order to survive. Thought-provoking and very well done. ((Hugs)) Brenda 2004-12-05 15:21:55
When Birdsong Colors The AirMell W. MorrisHeh, Mell, I never seem to get your poems on my list! This one is near the bottom but at least it's there for me to find and enjoy. The Toscanini reference means a lot to me. Ever since I was very small, I've been drawn to his style of conducting and to the recordings he made. My parents used to play classical music for me even in very early childhood, and I suspect there might still be a few old Toscanini 78s around somewhere. Your mockingbird pair seems attuned to you, perhaps even directed by your own will, like attendant spirits. But then again, why not? After Mom passed away, there appeared to be a lot of little coincidences that, taken together, offered messages connected with her. Finally, I ended up bidding on a psychic reading from ebay - believe it or not! To add to this, the reading was extremely specific to my father and great-unlce, both of whom conveyed details that would have been very hard to guess at. When I finished reading the email containing this information, I sat at the dining-room table for a quick snack before driving into town on an estate-related errand ... and a little finch flew right into the window glass! It was stunned, so I had to rescue it from the ground and carry it to the edge of my woods, away from threat of potential cats. It fluttered to a branch and literally stared at me one-on-one the whole time I was walking away. It stayed there for a long time, just sitting. It showed no fear when I picked it up and didn't try to bite my hand. But I digress ... The brilliance of a full-moon night leads To a serenade, always from the same perch In a nearby ash tree. Those evenings lush With moon-struck glory elate and elevate. ... You're at the top of your form with the internal rhyme and striking enjambment all through this piece. How amazing! Again, these sound like more than mere birds. Perhaps they are meant to be with you, and to give you joy during your battle with illness. "Elate and elevate", indeed - both body and soul. Even the ash tree, which is a tree long known for its sacred associations, seems a fitting concert stage for them. The bird's throat and breast throb as he sings ... Do the females ever sing too, or only the males? I've And after each series of notes, he hops. Sing, not noticed; there are no mockingbirds 'way out here! Hop, whistle, hop, croon to the moon, hip-hop. You've just given a whole new meaning to the "hip-hop" genre!! That makes me chuckle. There's a strong cadence in the last two lines here, kind of a bouncy beat, really apropos. The lines describe a fairly complex sequence of actions on the bird's part. "Perfect cadence of sound and motion, a show/Of delight." This suggests an awareness of their own roles. I believe that birds do take pleasure in what they do, and that mockers are especially intelligent on an avian scale - a "10" score. Their "mimetic play" seems to be drawn from the universe around them. Their aptly-named "arrays of melody" seem to be gifts that arne't random but rather, conferred by some larger design. You, being their human companion, thus are intended to share in these things with them. What a lyrical and uplifting poem. It creates within the reader the same elevation that the birds' performances create in the poet. Thus it establishes are sort of symbioticc relationship among the three. This is kind of a ramble but I wanted to let you know how very much I appreciate this piece. My Best Always, Brenda 2004-12-05 15:07:05
SolitudeThomas H. SmihulaHi Thomas! Long time, no read; it's great to see you here. This is a lovely, metaphysical piece with many levels of meaning. It's a joy to explore each of these. Here's my personal "take" on the message, although it isn't the only possible interpretation. We're all flying solo, in many senses, but your title shows the positive aspect of this and not the negative, which would be "isolation". You acknowledge that inner companion who remains our closest ally throughout life. This poem would be very useful to read immediately before a period of meditation. It's centered in the present and allows the reader to understand how one can release the crowding concerns of past actions and future anxieties. Yes, "a span of time is halted/within the mind" and to the Higher Self, time is nonexistent. Wind brushes the senses reaping its reward thoughts are only on the moment not of the past Cold shocks the nervous system briefly, for a moment the mind drifts into a frozen state, numbing a reflection I get an image of the speaker sitting beside an outdoor pool, when it's chilly and invigorating but not really uncomfortable. Thus, he has conscious awareness of physical conditions, but is also insulated from them. He's in a state of being rather than doing. The sensation of cold keeps him from forgetting that he is, still, a human in a mortal body, rather than a spirit without flesh. Yet the mind's "frozen state" offers rest and peace. The numbing of its reflection removes the usual self-inspection that we all tend to overdo. We must first accept and love what we are before we can extend this acceptance to others. Sun[']s warmth stimulates the soul radiating its effects on the body the face gleams feeling appeased "Appeased" sounds a lot like "a-peaced". The speaker can relax because he is warm within. Sun and rain suggest the balance of opposing principles, yin-yang, awakening and purifying, energizing and calming. The idea of "cleansing" refers as much to this inner harmony, as to the rain on the skin. This is metaphorical rather than literal weather, I think. These are the seconds that clear(s) the mind of anguished thoughts and trials The speaker seems to have adjusted his psychic harmony; it feels like a chakra adjustment, perhaps. Those anguished thoughts may exist mentally but are not spiritually imprinted, and can be released if one is open to letting go. They are experiences that teach us to endure and overcome, then they serve no further purpose and we must leave them behind. Cherished time, yet limited Rewards of thoughts, not seen Voice speaks, without sound Comforting the person within… The voiceless counselor or Wisest Self is unfailing. Through this element, we attune to the greater consciousness and can link to the universe of which we're a part. Those who are comfortless are also the ones who have become separated from this universal awareness - which many call God, by one of His many names. If we fail to recognize the existence of the inner divinity, we can never truly approach it or become one with it. I very much appreciate the philosophy that is at work here. Nobody can discount the immense value of quiet contemplation, and attunement with self. This is a poem to be read carefully and savored for its gentle reminders of who, and what, we really are - creatures of inner sight as well as outer covering. All the Best, Brenda 2004-12-03 08:42:51
Great Blue Heron SightingJoanne M UppendahlJoanne, this bird is a revelation. He shows us that, even among the faceless and anonymous crowds through which we move as we go about our daily business, there's room for individuality. We may not notice that, but it's present within us all. Each being is special, possessed of its own aura, its own destiny. Every now and then, something will happen that allows us to recognize these attributes, like the outspreading wings of the heron. This is very much in-the-moment, a Zen experience in which the speaker's entire focus is on the bird, the movement that reaches out to her, the sudden sense of connection between them. Human and bird are parts of the same larger whole. Yet it is not the stationary birds or humans who mater most to the universe; it's the ones who are willing to expend energy, be attentive, move forward. "Do I dare/disturb the universe?" Prufrock muses, and then doesn't do it. The heron dares and the speaker - by acknowledging his effect on her - dares, too. Some might scoff at any sort of link between human and avian, but you do not, nor can anyone who reads with insight. Seen from the train blue herons on the pilings-- each limbless stub of water tree contains a stationary bird. The "limbless stubs" are adorned only by a single creature. They're quiet, frozen in the seconds it takes the train to pass. They have no dimension, no evidence of animation - they, too, are "limbless" and static. That's probably how we view most passersby. We don't enter their minds, share their lives, care who they are, nor do they wonder much about us. They decorate the world by being there, and we'd notice them only if they were suddenly absent. Except for one, who arches his stilt of neck, turns his brushstroke head as the scene passes by my view. "Stilt of neck" is a neat sort of oxymoron (since stilts are usually on the bottom end, and more usually would be the legs!); "brushstroke head" is wonderful and makes me think of a Japanese painting. This one bird is establishing a karmic connection. He may represent more than a heron; the speaker may be investing, in him, a quality of someone from her own species. Is there a message in this solitary bird? I'd like to think so. Birds have traditionally been viewed as emissaries from spiritual realms. That this particular one turns to single her out is significant, I think. Some Native American legends explain that the spirits of dead wise men return to earth in the bodies of herons. “But me! But me!” he seems to say, extending his painted wings as if he might embrace my fleeting face through the glass. The "painted wings" offer a sense of pattern and color although we aren't specifically told what these include. However, we do know that they would be blue, which in itself is the hue of the fifth chakra, that brings peace and rest. It may not be a coincidence that this chakra is associated with the throat, since a heron's most striking physical feature is his sinuous neck, when viewed in silhouette. The color blue is itself connected with the Flood legend and the idea of purification. So is the speaker given an opportunity for enlightenment? Does she, in fact, acquire insight or wisdom through her own powers of observation? Herons are also eaters of reptilian or amphibians prey, which often suggests something unclean or sinful in metaphorical terms. Again, there's a purification aspect here. "My fleeting face" reveals the transitory nature of human existence. This tells us that mortality is part of the package, and if we rush headlong toward the end of our allotment, we'll miss the embrace of anything beautiful or wondrous. The rhyme of embrace/face is not accidental; bird and woman are joined, the perceiver and the perceived. (But which is which in this case?). We see "through a glass, darkly" and lack full understanding. A flash, and the scene changes. It can't be revisited or replayed, because the two parties to it have moved apart already, along their own life paths. Anyway, there are depths below the surface, like contours under water. Both heron and poem operate as signals that we need to be intuitive and this will make us accepting of whatever we are offered by the forces around us. I personally find this a very uplifting, reassuring piece. Herons are among my favorite birds and I saw my last one of the season not many weeks ago. In spring, they will return to the river across from my house and I'll enjoy their grace (but not, perhaps, their unmelodious croaking!). They will probably also remind me of larger issues that I need to address. Excellent work, of course. This one is special! Brenda 2004-12-02 22:38:57
Whispers (haiku)marilyn terwillegerHow lovely, Marilyn! "Curtained" night implies hidden things, mysteries, not only darkness and clouds but perhaps barriers to our spiritual awareness. Just beyond our understanding are the answers to all riddles, but they are "whispers" from shadow, not meant for us to clearly hear them. We just have to know they're attainable, someday. In L2, you give hope for renewed vitality. Whispers become laughter; the night's uncertainties turn to delight. The l/d alliteration you've included here gives a lilt to the diction. S3 takes us into the metaphysical. The poem isn't about night and day; it's about the opposing forces of life itself. We all are made up of both night and dawn, bad and good, darkness and light. By focusing on the latter, the positive aspect, we can deflect much of the negative influence. Yet without one, we'd not recognize the other. This is an energizing haiku. I very much like and appreciate it, and its message! Take Care, Brenda2004-12-02 20:59:32
Earth, Moon and Sun (connected haiku)Joanne M UppendahlHi Joanne, This is way down on my list but I just had to stop by and see what you'd done with it. The "heavenly" haiku seem to be one of your leitmotifs lately. This one is extremely well done, in terms of the interconnected yet separate strophes. The sense of mutual attraction between earth and Sun confers upon them a human quality (possibly an innate spirituality) that allows them to remain in harmony. Earth orbits her powerful would-be lover; Sun woos her, but like many an admirer-from-afar, is also aware that she can come no closer unless she is willing to risk everything. Some love affairs are just too dangerous! Toward Earth’s round face Sun radiates each morning-- She accepts his warmth "Accepts" is, of course, inevitable; she has little choice. But there's a certain coquettish implication. It's the warmth she wants, not the light. Heat=passion. Hmmm, of course! The sun's rays give rise to all of earthly creation. By permitting them to penetrate her cloud shield, Earth is fertilized and conceives the primordial molecules that form DNA and, ultimately, all living beings. When viewed from the Moon, Around Earth’s rim it’s Sunrise-- Darkness at her back This is another perspective. There's always the darkness, hiding within every soul, every incarnation. Without the dark, how would we recognize light? Yet she has placed that darkness behind her, seeking instead the sun's continuing embrace. In Earth’s endless spin The Sun holds her securely-- Keeping her in space The sensuality of this relationship is further explored here. The two are like dance partners, waltzing through the ethereal realms. He must hold her, yet he cannot possess her - the ultimate paradox. If he releases her to fly off, he will lose her and she will die. Yet he cannot claim her because too close an encounter would also destroy his companion. "Endless spin" suggests both rotation and revolution, orbit and axis. It is truly a complex performance. Earth might lighten up Ablaze within her own heart-- Astonishing Sun Ah, now we come to the possible consummation. If it does end in this way, "lighten up" implies a radiation from the core, and "ablaze within her own heart" speaks of eruption. As the planet veers toward the star she circles, a molten hell will spill forth and the intense heat will incinerate her. This is, as we know, the fate of the solar system, although long after we have ceased to care about such things. "Astonishing Sun" is definitely the truth, for the inward spiral of an inflamed planet would be both spectacular and - except to the ancient scientists - unexpected. Thus, by possession, the Sun also loses forever his feminine counterpart and soulmate. I wonder if this happens to us all? Does yin neutralize yang when they combine? Is there any awareness of gender among souls after death? When we achieve Nirvana, or whatever term we care to use in its place, are we both exalted and annihilated as individuals? Your tone is playful and the haiku format appears to preclude profound exploration ... yet I believe there's much to be gleaned from this piece once one delves beneath the metaphors. It's a treat to read; it's also, on a deeper level, a means of approaching the whole idea of destiny, karma and balance - the "harmony of the spheres" that is more and more becoming understood, even as an element of quantum physics. Thanks so much for giving me this, to think about. It is a special offering, as always. Joy and Peace, Brenda 2004-12-02 20:52:03
This Guy Walked into the Dover Beach Starbuck'sThomas Edward WrightTom, what a grand tribute to a cynical but grittily-real parody! Its fortuitous combo of Starbuck's and Dover Beach is a killer. I like the way you've presented the discussion of Hecht's passing as a somewhat-fragmented conversation. The "latte religion" seems a poor substitute for Hecht's personal agonies in the camps and afterwards. Yet you bow to his humor - the Nuit d'Amour that becomes the poor girl's reminder of lost chances out by the Channel, while her poetic lover is going on about the gathering dark and being true to one another. You give the nod to his accessible diction, in which ordinary people speak in human tongues without gods hovering above their shoulders. Yet there's an austere quality to his work, which you've chosen not to duplicate, and I think that's wise. Hecht's formal tone would not suit your style at all - not for this piece, anyhow. As if someone stole the Mona Lisa from - “Put it back, put it back,” they screamed. In her absence they yammer on. The poets nail him to the cross. But he will not be held there by nails. Remarkable passage. Once someone is gone, we tend to want to compartmentalize him, capture his essence in a box, nail him up for inspection. But how do you manage this with Hecht? His voice is unstoppable even after death. "Dover Beach" is probably one of my favorite poems in the world, by the way. That Hecht chose to satirize it is like taking on an icon and changing the paint job. That you, in turn, deliver your own form of parody is brave and glorious - also funny, in a subtle way. This is cool, dude. VERY cool, in fact. I love it!! Brenda2004-12-02 10:40:01
CallusesLaura Jeanne DeanLaura, what a wonderful poem! It's imbued with peace and gentleness, from first line to last. The speaker is clearly content with her lot in life and grateful for the man who shares it and quiets her anxieties. Her overwhelming sense of tranquillity comes not from night itself, and the routine of going to bed, but from an innerscape of great joy. She may suffer from initial restlessness but through the support of her mate, it passes. Darkness does not lasso serenity .... lovely! to give me calm sleep. At the end of the day’s reality, I am submerged instead ... 'submerged' is a comforting verb into a warm bath of vivid colors. ... reassuring; reminiscent of the aura of a healthy person Tomorrow’s bane then slips from view ... 'tomorrow's bane', yes; sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof ................... In the midst of legs chasing fantasy, ... great use of metonymy as the legs 'run' the dreamer my stiffening body calls to me. ... vivid kinesthetic image I come to the surface unable to move. The purr of your snore subsides ... lovely 'r' consonance to suggest the soft sound as I whisper your name. Your beard nuzzles comfort in [into?] my neck. I know your hands so well. The calluses you have earned slide over my taut frame ... nice contrast between callused hands and quiet body in search of my extent of need. They know the path [too well]. ... not sure if you need 'too well' so close after 'so well'; your call. The magic is still in the bottle. .... good affirmation! Yes, the medication still works. The medication still works. ... I like the double meaning of the 'magic bottle' as well as desire as a 'drug' that stifles restlessness In the end, the speaker leaves her half-awake visions and is once more part of the reality of her husband's love. [He may not be her husband, but spiritually he's her soulmate]. There's a feeling of morning, the coming of light, in the final lines: My dear, drift back to sleep. We have made it through the night and now deserve rest. Lovely, soft consonants have been used throughout the poem, as here. You've included many s/r sounds, which are gentle on the tongue. This is a calming piece that has definitely 'made my morning'. I am recently bereaved - mother, father-in-law - and such a poem offers me much by way of grace and beauty. Thank You. Brenda 2004-12-02 08:10:49
ImpulseableJames Edward SchanneHi James, Your interestingly 'jittery' meter, with its frequent shifts from iambic to trochaic (raised on, idols) and strong spondees (heart temporal, note shaking, growled see-yas), really suits the theme of this sonnet. We're all victims of information overload and the stresses imposed on us by our modern lives. Workplace pace, emotional overload, impossible goals, all add to the pent-up steam inside our skulls. In S2 I especially applaud the sonic elements, such as internal rhyme (unroll soullets - pricelss!). Those "conflicted arias" reveal our push-pull routines; one impulse tells us to go ahead and the other urges caution. The "growled see-yas" (wonderful!) reveal a transitory quality to relationships. There are no anchors here. In S3, the imagery of light and puffs of energy is like seeing smoke and mirrors - illusory at best. We spend our energies dreaming and are devastated when they collapse and die. The final eruption implodes the brain. We may think big but we overwhelm ourselves and can't cope with the reality - that we're really not so important after all. That "genius" is far less productive than a good dollop of common sense and down-to-earth practicality. I do enjoy your sonnets with their contemporary style and intriguing subjects! These days I've been unable to comment much, owing to two deaths in the family, but I've read many of them with much appreciation. Take Care, Brenda2004-12-02 07:05:05
The Currency of CrueltyRobert WymaHi Robert, The road to hell is paved, not with good intentions, but with bad. "Hinted husks of human promise" may imply that there's hope, but most of us know it won't get us anywhere. "Hidden remains holy" - well said. Secrecy cloaks our misdeeds and we excuse them with self-righteousness. This piece could allude to the current war in Iraq, the corruption within the Church, or any other contemporary situation in which the betrayers are initially trusted as saviors. I think we're much more vulnerable to those kinds than to someone we've never trusted in the first place. This makes the outcome all the more horrible. "inwardly starved by an exterior evidenced in marble while wolf packs of apathy imagine white gloved better and monopolies pontificate high purpose" Even our institutions participate in this betrayal. The justice system, the UN, the military - they are allowed to assume control and do as they wish because WE have given them the power. The people get the governments they deserve. We may "imagine white gloved better" (great line!) that will act with dignity and compassion, but we won't get it. The oxymoronic "wolf packs of apathy" subdue all possibility for change. Meanwhile, big business reaps the windfall, and policies are set by those who seem beyond question. "Resolute suffering sets cruelty as currency rising in the wake of promised better beget [begotten?] in the brutality of interpretative conviction spurred by righteousness, lightlessly crafted" War victims suffer; so do patients who can't get into hospitals without health insurance. The "promised better" is just a fool's illusion. "Lightlessly crafted" is terrific; it speaks of the grim pragmatism that operates within social and commercial organizations. There's little by way of true compassion for the rest of the world. It's all self-interest, all personal profit. This may be an efficient process but, as you say, there is no light in it. The closing stanza shifts in cadence, which I like because it tightens the lines and condenses the message. "May the hourglass make our fate slowly grain by grain" Throughout the poem you're using some exceptionally fine sonic combinations, with plenty of alliteration and effective consonance. Here, the assonance of the long-a stands out. These are eloquent lines. "Stiff pain purposed and certain" will permit us no optimism. We'll just take our time arriving at our dark destinies. The "bright prixe of unity" may well be illusory. In order to win that, we'll have to ignore all the evils that serve as means to this end. For some, that's impossible to do. I believe poets are among the most vocal in crying out against the status quo and demanding a change. Sometimes, this works. Unfortunately, political clout doesn;t usually rest with us, does it? But we can dream, and scream, and maybe the right reader will absorb our messages and act on them. You've certainly made a vailiant and eloquent attempt to nudge a few consciences in that direction! I hope all is well. Brenda 2004-12-02 06:33:07
WeatheringRegis L ChapmanHi Regis, The parallels between women and natural forces are very nicely drawn. I sense a sort of Gaia-principle running through this description. The Earth in all her fulness and tumult stands as metaphor for the feminine principle that links all women. Volcanic passion and pregnant serenity are two sides of the physical aspect of womanhood. The speaker's view of this Woman-Force is tinged with puzzled wonder at the combination of inertia and chaotic energy. I breathe in and out, hot with flame I run deep and stout, into cracks without fame I am round beyond reckoning except by dust There's a certain sensuality implied in words like "deep and stout" or "cracks". Only the dust measures our ultimate importance (which really doesn't account for much, does it?). Even the most fecund, desirable female must fall victim to the passage of time. Even the most promising relationship seems doomed to failure. in my hands are rocks and trees in my sands I wear at your knees cupped with care you grow like weeds supped in screams that rattle like reeds .... wow, what terrific use of alliteration in these lines! Your use of rhyme really enhances this poem. It gives a chant-like effect. The internal rhyme, like round/reckong/found/beckoning, hands/sands, is also well done. The woman herself - and her relationships with the man in her life - incorporates the barrenness of rocks and sand and the rank growth of weeds and reeds. There seems to be neither control nor peace. The speaker's experiences end starkly. Wintry despair kills all the older emotions and leaves the lanscape scoured and empty. But then something new can appear, can't it? The poet has chosen a detached perspective but is not denying the influence that women have had on his existence. He's surveying the past from his clear vantage point and acknowledging that, at the moment, he's in an end phase. Since all is cyclic, the next beginning may not be far off. This is an imaginative, unusual exploration of the theme. I very much like what you've done here. Brenda 2004-12-01 22:45:41
If You Could Live Your Life BackwardMell W. MorrisMell: This is a bit of a departure for you, I think. There's still the internal rhyme, although less than in some of your other works; there's still the acute eye that observes, reflects and translates what it sees. Anyway, I love the poem; it reminds me of "The Road Not Taken" in reverse, leading from effect back through a series of contributing events instead of the other way around. These are not "possibilities"; they have happened, and now the speaker is using hindsight by way of commenting on them. The road doesn't stretch ahead; we sense the unhappy destination, then trace the route backwards as the title implies. You start in media res, right in the center of the dance request, and then unravel the threads leading back in time to the purple dress. These two stanzas are linked, beginning and ending, which unifies the poem. Would you have agreed to the Fourth of July parade where he Was pure patriot and you dripped Perspiration on the general? What a comical image this conjures up! She seems, well, klutzy and he seems much more collected and controlled. But the perspiration implies anxiety, and a growing excitement. So far, so good. Pledge your allegiance, one God, Invisible. Sunset at 9:00pm, You risible, sweat drying cool; Fireworks viewed, inside you, too. Here, the use of "invisible" is an ironic sidenote - a nose-thumbing at fate, I think - and the internal rhyme of "risible" again suggests a certain clumsiness. The fireworks consitute a crisis in the relationship, the moment at which something irrevocable is about to transpire. Then there's an abrupt shift to the "Then ..." in the next stanza, when the glow is gone and the eager young woman has turned into a weary spouse [of course, they need not be married but it is easier to assume so, for the purposes of critique], whose indifferent husband seems to consider her as expendable as the papers. The tossed-out "cross-words" are capable of a dual meaning. Then, irritating habits, scattering Papers, tossing out Sunday cross- Words, his careless ways with your Emotions. If you'd heard and caught ... interesting word to use as a line break! It implies being trapped, as well as the missed insight she could have used early on. On before, would you still have Gone to the store and bought The lavender dress? The ending on a question works well here, because we have to figure out the answer. Do we sometimes, stubbornly, insist on our mistakes? Do we ever admit that we might have chosen differently - and better? If the woman accepts what her marriage has become, perhaps she'd not really consider herself as having taken a misstep. The "lavender dress" brings back a portrait of freshness and innocence. It's a soft color, as the girl who wore it must have been soft and vulnerable. Perhaps, in a way, she still is. I'd personally like to know the speaker's own identity, to understand why this person is questioning the woman in the poem. Are they sisters, perhaps? Mother and duaghter? Or - possibly - two aspects of the same self? Then again, the touch of mystery doesn't hurt. I can imagine more possibilities by not being specifically directed to one answer. This is a fine piece and I hope it will receive its due recognition. Each month you reveal another facet, a new indicator of your scope and versatility. All the Best, Brenda PS - Thanks so much for your words of encouragement on the forum; they mean a great deal to me. 2004-11-06 21:26:33
FORBIDDEN AFFECTIONDebbie SpicerHi Debbie, This piece is extremely honest. The nakedness of the speaker's need is apparent, and quite directly stated. Her ambivalence is equally clear: she doesn't want to give in to this passion, yet she also cannot end it. She is aware it exists, yet believes she can content herself with respect and tenderness rather than taking it to another level. She feels drawn to the other person, but also unsuitable for his romantic attention (or the genders can be reversed; or whatever ... any combination would apply here). This reads almost like a woman in love with her minister/doctor/teacher/lawyer or anyone else in a position of trust. There is a distance between them, necessitated by the other party's relationship to the speaker. Yet the speaker longs to bridge it, realizing she probably never will: Having passion for you may only be an illusion, you are not within my reach; yet the desire will not pass. I am perplexed and intensely bewildered by you, knowing that boundaries are unyielding between us. The other possibility that suggests itself to me is that the speaker is discovering God and feels unworthy to come into His presence, even as she admits that she's already there. The language of the poem is not sexual - it is impassioned but not sensually passionate, if that makes sense. The closest it comes to a physical expression is when it refers to the tenderness of touch, and even that can also apply to Christ, or a parental figure, or a close companion. So the object of her adoration could easily be taken as a divine figure, with very few edits. If You were capitalized, it would certainly be interpreted as the confused self-argument of a soul newly aware of its own existence, and seeking oneness with God. It could readily become a religious poem, although not overtly because there are no specifics as to the individuals involved. It's just "you" and "I/me". I'm not sure about the rhyme in the last two lines. It stands out because you aren't using rhyme elsewhere. However, that is a personal reaction and others may not motice. The overall style is very accessible to the reader and certainly complements this theme. Sorry I can't critique in more depth - we've had one death in the family this week and another seems likely to occur in the near future. I'm finding comfort in reading poetry this morning. I hope you are well. Hard to believe another year is almost finished! ((hugs from NS)) Brenda 2004-11-06 11:03:05
One second flatMark Andrew HislopHi Mark, I love the wordplay of "arrest" and "gotcha" ... and you're also absolutely right. If a poem doesn't grab in the first three lines or so, the reader will move on. I've been unable to critique much, lately, owing to family illness; but I did want you to know that I've been enjoying your work. You have a definite facility with language and such delightful turns-of-image. Regards, Brenda2004-11-02 22:49:48
Shadow on the WindJana Buck HanksOh my, Jana, how exquisite this is. Your gift for visual imagery is apparent even back then. Your brother's physical passing is but temporary, as your reference to "unending future lives" makes clear. I have often heard that certain souls incarnate together, repeatedly, as they are bonded and linked through karmic obligations. Passages of Time that caught in a silver spider web Spun upon a looking glass. Who Are We? Brother and Sister Suspended in a crystal ball of fiery opal light This is just gorgeous! The opal is itself a spiritual gem, changeable in its colors just as is the human aura. The crystal ball allusion implies foreknowledge of one's own destiny and place in the universe. Therefore, if a brother has been taken from the earth at too young an age, his fate must be connected with some other realm. We leave once we have fulfilled our purposes here, I believe. However, there are purposes beyond the ones we see and know. I love the image of laughter "swirling, lifting, floating" - like the spiritual body itself. It gives a tangible shape to joy. The kaleidoscope also incorporates a concept of physical qualities, associated to psychic forms. Why should not memories possess hue and texture? They can be reanimated at will, and live in the mind until souls are eventually reunited. Did you write this quite soon after he left the earth, or is it a poem that came gradually, as grief faded? I'm sure you'd probably feel an urge to revise somewhat - I read your forum post - but it is the way you wanted it at that time and, therefore (much like an old photograph) it isn't the composition that matters, it's the content, and the reason for its having been written at all. It still has the power to move a reader, as it's just done for me. ((hugs)) Brenda 2004-10-12 15:53:51
Moon haiku #2Joanne M UppendahlAha, another ... when paired with the first one, "sickle" and "fickle" make a subtly rhymed duo. The lunar persona is once more being considered. This time, she is not reliable, for her half-smile changes with each night, and owns no integrity. "Stolen from the sun" introduces some scientific fact, since it is the reflected sunlight that illumines the moon's countenance. Yet she actively "steals" it in order to adorn herself, always the same half, never the dark Lilith face. Therefore, we tend to forget that there IS another aspect to this so-beautiful symbol of womanhood, change and mystery. On another level, one might consider whether the act of theft makes the resulting possession more attractive because we know it is not ours by permanent right. Do we, in fact, steal our moments of joy with full awareness that they can never be fully ours? That our smiles are, at best, halved, because they're doomed to be dimmed by age and sorrow? That the maiden will turn to crone and fade? Does the Promethean fire - such a boon when first wrested from the sky - also entail a lessening of long-term happiness? Or is the bargain worth the risk? Perhaps the moon is to be pitied; her fickleness is forced upon her by a consort who will never totally give himself to her - at least, not to all of her. Perhaps all women hide a shadow side, one that no amount of reflected glory can reach. It is our secret Lady, the one with whom only we can commune. The smile we wear for the rest of the world can never touch that hushed other self. No wonder it is tremulous, smaller than need be. We dare not be too open, too vulnerable. We dare not smile without reservation. I'm enjoying your haiku because there are depths behind the exquisite imagery and playful tone. Will there be more? Or perhaps a sun haiku, masculine and filled with assumptions? I'll stay tuned. Brenda 2004-10-10 19:45:06
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