Rick Barnes's E-Mail Address: btlore@hotmail.com


Rick Barnes's Profile:
Well...I guess it's time to put a profile on here. I'm always so clumbsy at this. I don't think it is because I am withdrawn or too guarded about revealing things. Quite the contrary, I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve and tell my entire life story to a complete stranger while seated next to him/her on a plane. Perhaps it is that I find details served up without any real context to read like so many ingredients without any recipe. There is another fear I harbour. I don't mind someone getting to know me via the poetry, but I do object to someone trying to know the poetry through me. People more concerned with motive than meaning should stick to law. I think poetry transends the writer. If not, what's a poem for? If you're still with me so far, (I really am trying), I started writing poetry at the age of nine. My Grandmother, Alyce Marie Sparks, was a published poet and I grew up listening to her recite. My fifth grade teacher was very fond of poetry and felt it important that we learn to recite. While going through the text book of poetry I found a poem by my Grandmother. I was so excited. It was an identity moment. My teacher assigned each of us the task of writing a poem about our mother. I took the task very seriously and felt that I had to live up to my new identity as Alyce Marie Sparks' grandchild. I wrote, re-wrote, revised, tore up and wrote again until I wore that little poem out. Then something very odd happened. One day I took the pencil into my hand and wrote as fast as I could, a poem that was being dictated to me inside my little noggin. It was writing itself. When I finished I realized I had written something that couldn't be said any other way, and yet I had the strangest feeling that I hadn't really written it. The poem received praise and was placed in a display case in the hallway. All of that was rewarding and a little embarrassing. What I really wanted was to experience that feeling of a poem writing itself again. I told my Grandmother this and she said, "Ricky, you've been given a gift so you'd better get busy. Now that poetry has found you don't concern yourself with being a poet. Work at being worthy of the poetry. Everything else is vanity." I never stopped writing poetry. To date I have written four books of poetry and a fifth is in the works. I have a book of poetry titled "Imposters" resently released by 1st Books. It is available at Amazon.com and various other dot coms. I really enjoy posting poetry here and have found it to be a rewarding experience. Ohhhh yeah, I nearly forgot. I have long chestnut brown hair.

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Displaying Critiques 51 to 85 out of 85 Total Critiques.
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Poem TitlePoet NameCritique Given by Rick BarnesCritique Date
Then I'll Dance With DragonfliesJoanne M UppendahlJoAnne, DAMN! This one sings, doesn't it?! It spreads out from a curled position and lay across the poetic scape like nothing I have ever read here before. You are so at one with all of this. Your rhythms actualize themselves, born of the texture of the verse. More and more your work has the quality of an appearance rather than something brought consciously forth. And while I know that praise must only pass through the poet if the poet is to ever dare dance with the dragonfly, I hope that you will let my praise at least sweeten your tea as we both reflect upon the beauty held here within. When caribou cross the mountains, when great bears disappear and salmon go to sea, I'll look for smaller lives and pause to listen by the wetland. I don't want to pedantically dissect this amazing unfolding but I simply HAVE to say something here that holds true throughout this piece. I don't know if anyone here realizes or understands your mastery of vowel sounds, but someone, (I guess me), simply has to bring it up. In the first two lines alone we have OU as OO and OW. We are then treated to EA as AA,EH,AI,and EE. As I said, I don't want to talk about the Mona Lisa's wry smile, but these things sometimes hit me as hard as the internal and eternal beauty of the whole. Enough! This first verse is so damned powerful. If you will indulge me...When UPPERCASE NATURE takes it's leave the poet knows that "nature" has in no way departed. The Caribou, the Great Bear, and the Salmon, like Youth, Strength and Fertility are elements of a season of grace, but they are not grace in and of themselves. We once passed through this season, you and I, but we were more than the season. Searching the tall grass tundra and treetop, I'll poke within a willow, dip my thoughts beneath the snow. My God you write so beautifully...Searching the macrocosm and the wonders within, it is "within" where all searchers return. There is a soul in there somewhere Goddamn It and it is NOT enough to simply know of it's existence. It is NOT enough to celebrate it as a gift, we have to keep Going back to my old haunts I'll stalk the swallowtail, encounter voles, stop to study mosquitoes, set my seasons by the exodus of warblers, and follow the tracks of wild hare. We have to find ourselves everywhere, or we are lost and only here. And once we have learned that ballet, "The Seasons Of Grace", Then I'll dance with dragonflies, if I dare. ...and you will dare, Dear Joanne...you will dare. Awed, Rick2004-02-16 16:36:07
untitledRachel F. SpinozaR.F.S., You paint such powerful pictures. The latent beauty of the bloom is so eloquently captured and perfectly framed. Again Dear Roni, I am in awe. Thanks again for revealing beauty as only you can. Rick 2004-02-07 17:24:10
A Life SentenceMell W. MorrisMell, The opening four lines of this work sort of swirl like the opening of Beetoven's Ninth Symphony...and then: "My mother's face at the window like a full moon." What a statement! What a powerful image that carries throughout the poem. What a motif!!! You elucidate this with a mastery all your own: "Standing outside, I gaze at the framing of her eerie visage, then at the whole repository of prolix pain, my childhood domicile." This is so signatory Mell Morris. What a voice you have developed. I smile a smile of recognition. Not only at the uniqueness of your poetic throat, but at my own childhood memories. Those years with eddies of meaning gleaned "from Mother's dismissive gestures: her lack of care semaphored in an arms-length stance, a constant sardonic commentary, by her oft- repeated put-downs, by a chronicity of frowns." Substitute the pronoun "Father" and I would be suspect of your reading my mail. I have long marveled at your mastery of the verbage, but Mell, your textured rhythms and use of rhymes as emphasis has reached a whole new plateau. "Life Sentence", is such a fitting title. My Father use to say, "having children was a life sentence". You have given me the voice and words to retort, "That goes both ways Dad!". I am pleased to have another "Morris" added to my collection of favorite poems. Rick 2004-01-12 13:29:48
Minipo’ms (inspired by Bienvenido N. Santos)April Rose Ochinang Claessensapril rose, I was not familiar with Bienvenido when I first read your lovely tribute. I have since read some of his work and marvel at the picturesque directness of his writing. I think you have captured it well in this work. The imagery is so immediate and powerful. You have served your inspiration well. Please continue, Rick2004-01-12 13:00:39
Her Looking Glassmarilyn terwillegerMariln, What an eloquent and heart-draining metaphor - Her lover's eyes as her looking glass. How empty is the space where eyes once looked back at us and confirmed our existence in such a loving way. there is such humanity in your verse. This is not just tragic sorrowful baying, this is reflective human pain put into universal context. Thank you for sharing this slice of what it means to live and love. Rick 2004-01-12 12:50:21
Sweet IronyRobin Ann CrandellRobin, As I read this I started to wonder if this weren't someone using a pen name and communicating directly to me. Such is the power of your prose that I would suppose there are quite a few of us who wonder if you are talking directly to us. In the opening two stanza's, Silence only makes me wonder, What life could have given to us. What could have been between you and I? We would have been happy. We would have loved each other so much. Eternity would have flown by, And we wouldn't have turned back. you have captured that sense of eternal loss that fills us with it's emptiness. I don't know much about destiny, but I know that we all make decisions that after the fact feel like destiny. Your poem so beatifully details what it feels like to be on the other side of that decision. Having been on both sides, I'm not really sure which cross is the harder to bear. Wonderful work which inspires much contemplation on this readers side of the page. Rick 2004-01-12 12:22:31
Love Me This WayDeniMari Z.DeniMari, Im not sure that I agree with your assessment of this poem as needing "a lot of work". I think it flows extremely well as has a sincerity rarely found in this type of poetry. The rhymes are not forced and flow well complimenting the textual meaning in a manner that lends a certin pleasant lilt to the sentiment. The meter is a little random but the rhythm is constant. If your going to rework this please be very careful that you don't lose the spontenienty while trying to capture the craft. Best, Rick 2004-01-12 12:05:49
Visions of YesterdayClaire H. CurrierClaire, This is so precious. It touches those parts of the heart that only poetry can access. I sometimes forget how real and human poetry can be. Thank you for reminding me. Rick 2003-12-30 19:58:36
Christmas in TexasMell W. MorrisMell, This was pure fun, and that's the Texas way, Y'All! Rick2003-12-26 16:30:03
Be SilentDebbie SpicerDebbie, You have managed to capture a sentiment I have long held dear but could never quite put into words. It has become an ever increasingly noisy world, and your poem reminds us of the fountain of silence forever springing forth inside ourselves. I once had a friend who, when the voices in my head were raging war, would remind me that there was a silent place inside me. That simple piece of wisdom has served me well for many years. I feel quite certain this work will do the same for anyone who is willing to be silent long enough to listen. Your tour through the turmoil has served as a guiding light for anyone who might feel lost in the maze. Thank you for being so incredibly couragious and sharing your journey. Rick 2003-11-18 12:28:03
Soul UnattendedAnnette L CowlingAnnette, Your imagery is so fresh and complex. It has been a long time since I have read anything so intriguing. I am a great believer in the mist and have always believed existence in comprised of such stuff. This poem dances with the mystic. It holds hands with illusion. I can feel it pulling on my existential sleeve even as it reminds me that after all it may just be the wind. You capture the mystery so completely without giving anything away. This is rare and seductively alluring. I wait for more. Rick2003-11-17 13:08:13
WatermarksMell W. MorrisMell, I don't know who challenged you but I'm glad they did. The description of Chicago stands on it's own as a poetic statement. Your use of internal rhyme is superb. I notice you doing it more and more. It flows so effortless. It gives the read such natural accent and rhythm. "Family inheritance from those long urned." Your phrasing is signature. One reads it and says, "That's a Mell Morris." Then, into the poem. I suppose our lives are like a watermark in so much as we leave our mark and though it is written over the history is there for anyone who cares to look a little closer. I'll tell you Mell, when I finish reading one of your poems, I am different person. Rick2003-11-14 15:42:17
a curious merrimentRachel F. SpinozaR,. I have such a visceral reaction to this. It difficult to describe really. Not that a narrative of my feeling(s) is nescessary in order for me to enjoy the work, and it certainly isn't a critical part of any critique of the work, but you know how I am. When there is this stirring, the gray regions turn stormy and well, I simply have to weather it. It doesn't do to talk about the excellence of craft or the artistic signature of your work. To do so would be like commenting on how perfectly well tuned Itzhak Perlman's violin was in a performance. I mean, what is the point? So I often go elsewhere when commenting on your work, or rather I am taken elsewhere. I sometimes picture your eyes rolling brow-ward when reading my critiques. It's O.K. really. I simply pretend you are looking for something quite unexplainable up there. Enough of this... There is a marvelous movie titled, "King Of Hearts" (Le Roi de coeur). I am sure you have seen it so I needn't go into detail. I mention it because beyond the ponderings and obvious analogies conjured up by the film, it moved me in much the same way as your poem, "a curious merriment". It is critical, I think, to take leave once in a while, (and sometimes the more often the better), while the meadow is, after all, alive in its own juices and it is still summer enough to swim. What a regal vision you have. Thank you Roni for turning my eyes elsewhere. Rick 2003-11-05 22:49:17
Talking To The TreesMell W. MorrisMell, When I was younger, much less selective and infinitely more accepting, I use to talk to trees incessantly. I remember wanting to know them. For their part, they were remarkably tolerant of my explorations and would whisper to me in a language I have long forgotten, although I remember well the subtle nuance and comforting tones. This work, "Talking To The Trees", calls out to me in those voices, in this, my favorite season. "Falling leaves give eulogies to autumn seasons and for love- long reasons and with crisp songs, please myriad beings." The opening line is as grand a Prelude into the songs of Autumn as I have ever read. Only one who holds the season in her soul could compose such a fanfare. I needn't dwell on your command of language or your mastery of the craft. It is as obvious as the fine weave of cambric. I must say this however, once in a great while there arrives a poet whose dedication to the discipline and attention to the craft results in the transformation and transcendence of expression into the elusive realm of art. In one stanza you poetically express the subtle nuance and comforting tones my younger ears understood at a time when that wisdom was essence. Those tales, told in crushed hushes, of carefree breezes that comprise the very history of being. Leaves as pages of poetry born of those breezes, filling empty spaces, rhyming one season into another and fulfilling verse as the very soil that gives birth to succeeding volumes. Oh the glory of their stories indeed. Brought to the fore by one who listens to the silence with the ears of a poet and the wisdom of a child's first hearing. Rick 2003-10-23 11:58:13
DewdropDonna L. DeanDonna, The universe in a dew drop. You take a sliver of an observation from an everyday occurance in a seemingly unknowable universe and tell us essentailly all there is to know about identity and it's importance in the scheme of things. WHEW! Masterfully done, Donna. Rick 2003-10-21 10:51:06
Hymn to AutumnRachel F. SpinozaR., Not to anyone in particular - ay? So I gather it is to everyone in general? For some reason I found your note at the end very relevant. Just recently I received an advance review of...oh that doesn't matter...anyway, I was told there were too many dedications throughout. Hmmm... I wonder... On with the show... My box of accolades for Roni is forever overflowing. You never cease to amaze. Your use of vocabulary, your jazz ryhthms, your impeccable placement of accent. Adorned in such comfort autumn is whisked away... Nestled in eiderdown, Flannelled and balmed, Autumn left quickly Sans rancor or blame and yet rife with symbolic callings. This season, the season of leaving, always parts swiftly, unapologetically, knowing it's time. Wrapped in a comfortable casket, the comfort, eiderdown and flannel, are for us, the ones left behind. Softly, the pavement Has dressed up in linen Embroidered in remnant Of twice-frozen rain Roni, it simply doesn't flow any more meaningfully or beautifully than this. Go now, go swiftly, To the veranda, Tune up the piano, Drink cider and bloom What a soft and gentle nudge appears with the word "bloom". This will be private: The dying, my darling This will be private, The dying alone You have such a passionate compassion and a daring sense of reality. The last line gives at least a duel purpose to the privacy. We do die alone. It is the ultimate privacy. Paradoxically, if this line is read as, "only the the dying itself is private, everything else, before and after, is shared, then we return to the seasons don't we...or do we? Your writing moves me so... Rick "Softly, the pavement Has dressed up in linen Embroidered in remnant Of twice-frozen rain" Now Roni, it simply doesn't flow any more meaningfully or beautifully than this. 2003-10-20 12:15:34
A Thousand Vacant BodiesEddie S. IrisEddie, You already have my review, but I thought I would post this so that I can access the review of others. R. 2003-10-19 16:27:14
After the StormJoanne M UppendahlJ-Anne, These two versions are a glimp into the working of your mind. And what a mind it is. Whew! Where to start? Well, how 'bout the beginning? Two titles. "Role Model" and "After The Storm" Now at first reading each title has its strengths. I battled back and forth, over and under, until it finally sunk in...they are the SAME TITLE!!! All the storms you have endured, looking for solace, struggling for meaning, leaning into what comes next. After that seemingly meaningless tumultuous storms you find that you are your own role model. The rain calls to you and this time you listen. This time it shows you your aftermath. All that has held and sustained you is out of strength. You have to let go of certain visions to make room for the new guiding ones. You have to lean into the world. You have to become your own source of strength. I love the phrase, "gleaming garden spider" and power of the your vision in the weaving of the web. You absolutely astound me. I much prefer the version in the present tense. It is immediate, it is now, it is sustaining, it leans into the future. This work not only confirms your inner strength, it serves as a role model for those who wonder aloud to themselves if they can survive it all. It shows us that our storms are the measure of the thing. We must more than just survive, we must endure. What a soul forging work. Rick 2003-10-13 22:50:57
In Search Of The God ParticleDrenda D. CooperDrenda, I love this poem. It is well crafted and has such a mathamatical precision to it. I recently read "The God Particle" as well as various other "popular" books on physics, including The Dancing Wu li Masters" and Fritjof Capra's "The Tao of Physics". Each is a fascinating journey into the "new" physics. I, like you, recommend, buy and send these books to assorted friends but I always offer one caveat: The world of sub atomic particle physics and Quantam Dynamics is a world only truly understood, if at all, in the language of mathematics. Your poem reaches deeply into a world where words that can only go so far. You express the beauty of the infinite exquisitely and leave us with that all important note at the edge of the map, "To the brilliant few who remain on course The 'Higgs' will become defined, confined; No longer devine, just the smallest thus far To take its place in proper perspective, Reflective in the continuum of space-time. For physicists, once more, will push the envelope; Bend thought into understanding; destined to grope For the core of that which has no beginning, no end." Congratulations on a work of magnificent scope and understanding. 2003-10-10 13:52:22
Between the Wind and the Song of Calling GeeseJoanne M UppendahlJoanne, Man O Man!!!!!...and I just told you where I'm from, only to, moments later, read where you long to be and truth revealed already reside. This is so-o-o incredibly powerful. Not in as an external brute force, but as an internal levitating energy of grace. You show us the eternal by unwrapping it from the presence, (presents), surrounding us. This is the essence of spirituality. This is the mystery made obvious. What vision you possess. "Between the wind and the song of calling geese is where I want to live. They touch my cheeks and ears with your presence." Joanne, in order to write this you have had to experience it. And if you have experienced it then you you are not so much speaking in the future tense as you are the eternally present tense. This is not a poetically spiritual longing. This is born of the breeze and the calling geese within you. You are between them. You are of them. On chilly nights, when spotted owls are quieter-- still looking for remainder frogs, I lift my face to feel the moon you made. You should "texture" lessons. "On chilly nights, when spotted owls are quieter"...there is no bringing it any closer than that. I want to sit on the wooden bench by the tree which drops its leaves on my spent summer blooms-- a wine-red and gold altar cloth of your grace. I love the way you separated, "of your grace". It is so symbolic of the ever present, yet stand alone quality of spiritual grace. And your vision of golden fallen leaves and "spent summer blooms", (what a beatifully fluid flow by the way), as an alter cloth. For these, and more, all I have to offer is my thankfulness. Something tells me that that is all that is needed.(Sure are a lot of "thats" in that sentence. Why do I always do that?) As you know Joanne, I'm not much of a believer in the "Grand Organizer Of Things", I've always felt that was our job, but I have to say this. Your spiritual truths and the way you reveal them are beyond reproach. You have reverence, born out of a desire for understanding and a genuine thankfulness that never wanes, and you lay it before us in such gentle, unassuming prose. Thank you. I'm beginning to understand where it is you are from... Rick 2003-09-23 12:33:13
Splendor in the Pages of a BookJoanne M UppendahlJoanne, I hate to appear such a dumb-ass, but after first reading I thought this was about the Bible. Of course, I always read your works several times, so, on second or maybe third, fourth, or fifth read I managed to trip over, "dictionary". "I'm such an idiot", I laughed. But then I realized something. This is about a Bible. A Bible of no mean importance. A Bible I thumb through every day, some times never getting where I was going because some other passage, stumbled upon along the way, took precedence over my original destination. This work is such a magnificent and fitting tribute to a book without a plot. A book we all, at times, take for granted. When I stop and consider the formidable task of actually putting a dictionary together I am amazed that anyone had the fortitude to complete such an effort. It is easily as awe-inspiring an accomplishment as the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Well...here I am going on and on again, when your poem says it all so much more thoroughly and beautifully. "furnish keys for gates unknown." Words are the textual mathematics of the universe. You so eloquently state how they prepare us for, and help us to understand, the mysteries before us.. "Its pages took me further than all domains I’d known before; they offered up far-reaching spans, and diverse meanings to explore. Origins of words we speak, hallowed tools with which we toil, varied Hebrew, Latin, Greek; each one born in different soil." This should be printed on the first page of every dictionary. "Complexity of resonance, words connect from soul to soul. Written thoughts have permanence; terms can break or make one whole. With the simple gift he bought, he gave me much more than a book-- love of language can be caught, and this inoculation took!" What a gift indeed. My father gave me Plato's "Apology" for my tenth birthday. Everyone thought it such an odd gift. I suppose I did as well at first, but that simple gift has never stopped giving itself to me, much like your grandfather's gift to you, and now, your gift to us. Thanks Joanne! Rick 2003-09-22 12:59:56
The WallMell W. MorrisMell, Where to begin? There may be many reasons that this poem has such an immedite effect on me, but none more to the fore than the pure eloquence of the composition. Her friends know how to mend her heart in ruins, know how to save it. Advice flows in unwrapped lumps, clumps of pap like bad gravy. You have accurately priced the value of advice. The opening line, concerning her friends, can be read as sarcasm or can serve as a differentiation between friends, who know better than to offer advise and everyone else who only know to offer advise. She's not a languish-in- anguish type but the scent of him made her pure verb. Squared the circle. Your naturally occurring rhymes are the best of just about any poet I have ever read. The line, "made her, pure verb. Squared the circle", is as "textured as texture gets. Music her surcease, her sole release. Lines define her ramparts falling, the wall kept in place friable, fracting in shards and traces. I realize, dear Mell, that you it must get tedious for you when folks mention your unbelievable grasp of vocabulary and your exacting use of words and terms, but it is impossible do write an accurate critique without mentioning it. Every word has a precise definition fitting its position in the work. Extraordinary!!! Go on, she will. The daze of healing. Her scar will turn to proud flesh, a reminder of love spurned and her well-earned badge of courage. "Her scar will turn to proud flesh." This is quotable, meaning of course, I will. I take her, "well earned badge of courage" to mean at least two things. 1. She will bear the anguish of carrying on with dignity. Love the "daze of healing" by the way. 2. She will have the courage to risk it all again, and again, and again, if need be. A little wiser but no less sensitive to the joy and the sorrow of existence. I hate this contest business Mell, but if justice exists, (a laughable notion at best), this work has the other poems submitted thus far, casting shadows. You amaze, Rick2003-09-22 12:28:20
Poetic LinkageTerrye GodownT., This deserves MUCH more attention that it is receiving. Not only do you deliver within the contraints of arostic style, but you really "nailed" tthe various personality types and passions that frequent here. Another example of your synoptic talents. I would imagine that the hardest part of writing in this style is the flow. You've mastered that. Congratualations om a wonderful tribute to the Link. Rick 2003-09-20 14:51:52
Sweet, Sweet MusicMell W. MorrisMell, The whole damn universe is vibrating isn't it? Some of those vibrations we see, some we feel, some we hear, well you get the idea...obviously...you wrote the poem celebrating the fact. And what a poemit is. I wasn't aware of ant songs and such, but I never thought for a moment they didn't exist. I noticed that this is part one. HOT DAMN!, as they say 'round these parts. Your rhyme dispersion is delectable and when combined with your rhythms you create quite a song about music. Here are some things about our music that amaze me. We have a musical scale because we hear non-linearly. As a matter of fact we hear logarithmically. We hear the same note repeating itself only higher in pitch and double the vibrations per second. We call this an octave. Duh! But here is where it gets interesting. The notes between octaves are not separted linearly. They are separated logarithmically. But why are these "notes universal? Twelve in the chromatic scle, sixteen in some cultures. (As a matter of fact, note bending, ((slurring)), can be traced in Western music to slaves playing music on western instrument which didn't have the "missing" 4 notes in their scale. At least that is one theory.) But why these notes? Well, because if your play an "A" on a taut string at say 110 vibrations per second that same string is also vibrating at 220 vibrations or "A" one octave higher. It is also vibrating at 440 etc. etc. BUT... it is also vibrating 330 times a secnd, or the note "E"..."A"'s perfect fifth. It is also vibrating 550 times per second, or the note C sharp...the third note in the "Scale" of "A". This stacking of the "fundamental frequency, 110,220,330,440,550,660,770,etc, results in the notes;A-B-C#-D-E-F#-G#-A, or the "A" MAjor SCALE!!!. WE DIDN'T INVENT MUSIC, WE DISCOVERED IT. I realize you probably already know all of this, but it stalls me in my tracks and I get all carried away which culminates in this sort of diatribe. Pardon my digression... I eagerly await part two Mell-o-dious. Rick-O 2003-09-16 21:50:41
When Small Frogs Seem to DisappearJoanne M UppendahlJoanne, First the title. How can someone NOT read this? It is as much a question as a statememnt. Both are beautifully expressed by the way in your prose. We,(because I travel with you in your poems), start off, hmmm... a suggestion already... damn...oh well, here goes. The writing is so gestault, here and now, happening as I read it. So-o-o-o...I was wondering if the beginning would be as much fun if read: As I slash this morning's water Upon my sleep filled face no-o-o-o-o...oh well, you get the idea. I love the narrative as happening now. Wait a sec. Let me read it again... "After this morning's splash of water on my sleepy face, I spy a gold-green tree frog perched atop my folded towel." Never mind. "(Blink!)" I LOVE THIS! Was it you or Mell or Brenda that asked about the appropriatness of parenthesis in poetry? Here is an appropriate and charming example of it's power. "As I dare to grasp his damp, wriggling body in my bare hand, he stabs a small insistent snout between my clasped fingers." His peeking out into the world from inside your gently clasped fingers is so endearing. It is as if he didn't feel you were so much intruding as it was that he just wanted to look around from this womb like enclosure. "Once outside, I settle him safely in tender undergrowth; but thus freed he turns to me, poised as if to leap my way." How like a child going forth, or one season leaving to make room for another. You never leave your theme in your writing. You weave with such flexive thread. "Is this sticky gent a Prince I ought to kiss, perhaps still spellbound? How did this slight, grass-green guy find his way into my bath today?" Ahhh..the question surfaces. To find significance in the seemingly insignificant. To know that nature is a series of succeeding clues in a circular causation where one effect leads to the next cause. "Perhaps he's a silent scout, sent to announce" This line, standing out here on it's own is a stroke of brilliance! It has that "A-HA" feel that binds the previous and the following verse together so perfectly. "Autumn's approach, the somber season when small frogs seem to disappear at first signs of chill, and wait 'til time to wake in spring and sing." Our answer, or your answer, or an answer, or...a statement about a question not asked. An observation shared. You are amazing. "Though summer’s soon at its end, tree frogs will come to croon again." And so the frog came to say "see ya next spring". And we and the frog are off again on another venture gathering strength. I'd love to illustrate this. Thanks Joanne, you give the arrival of fall such a grand introduction. Rick 2003-09-15 15:33:34
Tempest FugueRachel F. SpinozaRachel, This is all about rhythms to me. They tie the piece together in sonata form. It begins Allegro or Appassionato" SOON: sets the mood,...anticipation of tension - release motif, tantalizing melodies "so vertiginous you will fall overboard." Ending with a Crescendo, SPLAT! THEN: a development in Adagio carrying the theme forward and recapitulating the motif via the wave like breath of the composer "until you undulate in sea rhythms" to her musical taste. AFTERWARD: In LEGATO the motif and the development are "married" and resigned to the comforting rhythms of the sea blue couch "hypnotizing my cat with yarn" What a marvelous concerto. Congratulation maestro! Rick 2003-09-11 10:32:44
Little Manmarilyn terwillegerMarilyn, What a great birthday, (literally), present. Caden can carry this with him always. Something tells me that your children and your grandchildren would tell me that you've been a GREAT GRANDMOTHER for some time now. Oh yeah...the poem...you so completely communicate your joy in these 12 lines. I love, "give dignity to serendipity". Joy is made of such. Congratulations. I think your heart is in good hands. Rick 2003-09-08 17:26:52
Lunar SpoofsJoanne M UppendahlJoanne, From the title forward I was smiling. "Lunar Spoofs" indeed! You know I have always suspected the moon was having us on in phases, but the perfect poetic proof from your deft hand has lifted all of this above mere suspicion. New moon wearing your veil to stir oyster beds, rouse your sea children from sleep. I love this image of a veiled moon playing covertly with the tides. Hiding like a child behind a tree not quite wide enough. How marvelously your verse, "gives the moon away". Crescent moon slice pieces of night, cut silver slivers for ghost trees to devour. I have this picture of a "left-handed moon" hanging in my writing room. Barely visible in the low contrast are these bare trees, hardly lit by this slice of a moon. (What with my being left-handed and all, I always viewed this "portrait" as the moon's evidentiary statement of left-handedness in the universe.) This verse so perfectly fits this picture, that I have printed it out and placed it under the frame, giving full credit you of course. I hope you approve. Half and half moon-- make up your mind-- are you in or out of the mood tonight? This one made me chuckle aloud. So many things came to mind. Is the moon half-full or half-empty? LOL! A half-moon has no mood other than what we contribute. And is it coming or going? You capture the vagueries of this astronomically noncommittal moment so aptly. Three-quarter moon busy with laundry, pinning up sheets rinsed in your next-to-last spin This one took some reflection. I had to close my eyes and picture a 3/4 moon. And then...I busted out laughing. OF COURSE! I could almost see the wind blowing the sheets. I love the reference to the "next to last spin". Full moon -- oh! Renounce your changeling sisters for fooling us with put-on phases. I hadn't seen "changeling" used for so long that I had to look it up. Very interesting and exacting choice Joanne. Beyond mere fickle it seems that it also means, "A child secretly exchanged for another." How brilliant. How beautifully poetic. This verse put it all together in a ball, as it were. You always do this. It is as if the poems you write reveal themselves in phases, much like the moon, always coming full view into our conscious awares. Come clean Joanne. You aren't really from here, are you? Rick2003-09-04 11:00:54
Departed SpiritsC ArrownutC. This is such a tender poetic album of wistful memorabilia. How deftly you place these memories about the rooms. It is touching the way you interlace your memories with the fragments in such a manner as to breathe the breath of your life into all that is left of one which has passed. And the tribute to the emptiness, "I canhear the shower no longer nursing him back to life after the night’s darkness;" that only those who realize what is missing could know. And you take the gift, so full of life "His spirit still here cleansing me as if he lives," so empty of form "but only in my head and heart because, unlike the earth, the soul and goblins don’t exist." This piece lives, breathes and endures. Well done C. Rick 2003-09-03 20:54:49
Doppler EffectJoan M WhitemanJoan, This poem is so beautifully poignant. You play with time so elequently. The coming and the going of it all with the breif interlude of actual presence. It is difficult at times to judge whther we are anticipating or remembering. This of course is the very essence of these types of relationships. This opening line, "She held her breath as the breeze sighed by, gently rouging her cheek." is about as descriptive as poetry gets. "It brought to mind his touch and the sweet taste of temptation. She remembered his arrival, the thrill of the approaching train." The transient "t" sounds, so brief, so powerful measured against, "How many rainstorms have since saddened her soul?" the soft sad whisp of the "s" alliterations is perfect. "It was all too brief, his presence, like a flower in early Spring fading to brown after one day in the sun." This is certainly an adequate phrase, but this poem cries out for something more. Something universally felt but uniquely expressed. "Running deep, like a silent river, darker than midnight, shining with the searing sweat of an unforgiven martyr." This line, 'shining like the searing sweat of an unforgiven martyr' this is uniquely stated shared experience I am alluding to. PERFECT! "The whistle blew and she felt his slight nearness. She barely touched his offered lips. A kiss goodbye should be a memory, not an experience." Again, what a marvelous congiguration of time. The juxtapostioning of a memory, as if the past can exist without a present. And yet that damned posing for our memories photographs, participating in the past as it happens...Man O Man...the zeitgeist doesn't get any more confusing than that. "The train left. She heard the wavering sound of distance fading like forgotten vows." Those lonesome, drawn out, ever lowering in pitch sounds that fade to a forever silence, those hollow vows. I love the title. It so encompasses the spirit of the work. I look forward to many more of your poems. Rick 2003-09-01 15:51:41
Soul MateMell W. MorrisMell, Need I even mention the harmonic blending of your rhyming or symphonic exacting of your timing? But then, I don't want to take them for granted either. If for no other reason than my selfish insistance that these are the very elements of poetry as I understand it. But it goes beyond all of that. Where else is the poets lonliness so well defined and passion for words with breath so eloquently put forth as this: "Loneliness emanates from the lack of one with whom to share things most important, matters most cared about, the whispers of my heart. So I read poetry to feel I am not alone, to hear the tone of a voice reaching out with luminosity, generosity, and joy." I read, hear and am in other ways witness to people crying out every day for relevency, meaning and something, other than themselves, to give a damn about. Most are not even aware of their screaming, but it's there. Garbled by the monotone of there own drone. By comparison the wren's jubilation, the rhapsody of a phoebe's call, and yes, even Pound's own pounding is music. How painfully poetic you state it: "I'd rather hear the wren's jubilation than partake of inane conversation. I prefer the rhapsody of a phoebe's call to the appalling apathy of almost all I meet. I excuse myself from endless events and become reclusive: rather Pound's elusive prosody than the company of today's citizenry." and then; "People bore while poems soar, scoring a direct hit to my spirit. Revelation, freedom from limitation, the omphalos of verse is to serve this celebration of existence. When a poet puts his heart in print, risks ridicule and more, I ever pore slowly through the glint of his words," I don't think they, (we), mean to. It is just that we have for so long forgotten how to listen to our own voices. We offer up conversation, any kind of conversation, to fend of the silences. It is the poets such as yourself, that know how to listen to the silences and out of that misunderstood void bring forth beauty in words. "soul-melded at the core." Indeed, Rick 2003-08-27 23:46:06
Each Morning I Begin AgainJoanne M UppendahlJoanne, Man O Man am I glad you wrote this response to Sandra's challenge. It is so-o-o-o fitting. I don't well with requests. Your spirit rises to the occasion. And while I would be the first to espouse that most poetry would be improved by a "less is more" policy on behalf of the poet yours does not. This NOT due to your editing abilities. It speaks instead to the expertise of your wiritng skills. Quite simply there are some things that do not benefit from reduction. To wit: Sensations of awakening from satisfying sleep to sip creamed coffee, steamed with hint of bitter, to listen for morning’s gist, searching day’s delicious mysteries for time in which to dream imagination’s misted realms. OR Awakening from sleep I sip steamed coffee’s hint of bitter, listening for morning’s gist, search dreams’ meaning from night’s realm. NO COMPARISON IN MY humble OPINION!!! The original is so...well...poetic. The revision reads like the cliff notes. The challenge Sandra has offered has at least one bebefit, it shows what a master you are in your ability to write poetry that sings. To paraphrase Amadeus, "...not one note too many, nor one note too few." Rick2003-08-27 17:55:37
Bridge of TearsMichael BirdMichael, I was captured by this work. The feelings portrayed here are essentially what it means to be removed by distance from someone we love. I want you to know how much I like this work before I begin my critique. I'm not sure what it is about certain poets and their lack of punctuation, but it rarely works for me. There are of course exceptions. Most notably e.e.cummings, but even he used line breaks as comas. There are moments in this poem where the lack of a coma or a period enables different reads and there are times when there absence only serves to confuse the reader. Comas can lend rhythm to a piece, unless of course you wish the entire piece to be read in one breath. Sometimes late at night(,)on a warm summers eve(,) I would go for a walk And come to the bridge over the highway(.) I could (would) stand there staring for hours on end Watching the cars and trucks below on the highway Going north and south(,) Their headlights resembling so many fireflies scurrying about The use of "could" doesn't lend itself to the passion of the moment. Could implys that you might have, theoretically you could have, or perhpas you wish you had, and maybe this is the case, but I don't think so. Nice alliteration on "stand there staring for hours". Nice pulling rhymes on "end" and "re(semb)ling", "about" and "south". The ones heading south were of the most interest to me(.) For a brief moment,or so it seemed(,) (It was)As if I were superhuman and could leap On top of a semitrailer and be whisked away For the thousand miles (separating)that separated us(,) Falling right into your arms(.) Dawn arrives much too soon And the fireflies,they all disapear(.) Desparation (Desperation)(,omit)and the reality of it all sets in And I realize that you are gone from my highway of life(.) ("highway of life" sounds a bit trite. Give this a little reflection and your own unique metaphor will come to you. I`ts (It's) been awhile since I`ve been (on) that bridge(,) Even though I drive past it everyday(.) I should go back there one last time(,) Pick up the pieces that I left behind(,) Go the opposite way with no looking back And search for a new path to walk(.) I love this sentiment. It works as it is, but here is what I wished for. I should go back there one last time, picking up the pieces I left behind, and take a superhuman leap onto a truck going north and forge a new path, without looking back. I hope these suggestions do not offend you in any way. This critiquing is an awkard business at best. I know that sometimes after a critique I say to myself, "What the hell is this person talking about?", and sometimes that is the appropriate response. But there are times when, after reflection, I can't help but feel that the person offered up some useful advice. I hope this is one of those. If not, it's O.K., because I rarely know what the hell I'm talking about. I hope it is obvious to you that I enjoyed this poem. Rick 2003-08-20 13:33:21
Waiting in the CradleRachel F. SpinozaRachel, This is so eloquent in its simplicity and and beautiful in its charm. I absolutely love the title. It speaks of truths far beyond the reach of own lives, yet somehow evident to those who look as closely as you. Imagine, the universe pivoting on a dippled knee. Hmmm...it does indeed. Another wonderful reflection from a shining source. Rick 2003-08-19 18:27:19
Petunia's First FlightMell W. MorrisMell, This is so much fun to read. It demands to be read aloud. The rhythm is perfect. The rhymes are sublime in their natural occurance and placement. The alliteration is spell binding and hypnotically poetic. Ohhhh....you know all of this. I'm not talking to a Junior in college here. This poembrings back such memories. I had a kite. All God's chillins had a kite. How is it I forgot about that kite. It was blue with white cresent moon. At a certain time of evening the blue blended with the sky and in appeared as if I were flying the moon. Man O Man! What a memory that is. Your poem so perfectly captures the experience. Your childhood is indeed alive and well and evidence that we don't so much grow up, as grow in. I have to go get a kite...be back soon. Rick 2003-08-13 10:46:14
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