This Poem was Submitted By: Mell W. Morris On Date: 2004-07-10 18:27:47 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Portrait of Loss As Three Styles of Music

DIRGE She feels she is fraying at the edges, fading, almost invisible. Like an ocean barely touching bottom, she's stretched  to her farthest parameters. A rubber band. He'd licked, nibbled, and feasted on her until she'd been near-consumed and his jaw-wide need satiated. Then with a swipe of lips, he'd cast her away. COUNTRY WESTERN She misses him, intensely on weekends, when couples stroll to the square where children roister and oldsters take the sun. Mid afternoon, the wind snorts awake, starts to scatter newspapers, then twirls and sprinkles sand from the play area. People gather belongings as tenebrous clouds herald a rainstorm, the type arriving with a roar then mizzling all day. HESITATION BLUES She walks slowly home, drenched yet refreshed like a rite of renewal but if this rate is restorative, she needs a maelstrom for complete recovery. Time heals all wounds, she remembers, that saw stored in her brain with other disjointed bits and pieces. A red wheelbarrow glazed with rain, a slumber-sealed spirit, curious knot God made in Eden. Time heals all wounds. Or so they say. Yes, so they say.

Copyright © July 2004 Mell W. Morris

Additional Notes:
Suggestions appreciated.

This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2004-08-07 13:54:25
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.31429
Does time heal all wounds? Completely? Or is there always that scar to contend with? Will we always carry those mementos of life's ups and downs? Of our past? And how can we keep that past from affecting our present, our future? I'm sorry but I don't know what dirge is, does it perhaps have another name? The other two types of music aptly fit what you are describing. All in all, a nice read.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Jana Buck Hanks On Date: 2004-07-31 21:09:54
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.45455
OK Mell, Here goes! I read this piece when you first posted, as a matter of fact I have read it several times and even though I love each seperate poems...I cannot get the music titles formulated in my mind...as going with the ones you have listed. It seems to me that you should switch the titles around....put Hesitation Blues where Country western is...then add a beer joint, lost my love, or as you have it "time heals all wounds" I love the way you have used the enjambment and endstops, it makes it flow and easy to read and comprehend. It is not the poetry that is the problem, it is just finding the right kind of music as a metaphorical title start. IMHO Bright Blessings Jana
This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2004-07-29 21:16:55
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
DIRGE She [ ] is fraying at the edges, fading, almost invisible. Like an ocean barely touching bottom, she's stretched: [a rubber band with a bad organ.] He'd licked, nibbled, and feasted on her until she'd been near-consumed and his jaw-wide need [satisfied.] Then with a swipe of lips, he cast her away. COUNTRY WESTERN She misses him, intensely on weekends, when couples stroll to the square where children roister and oldsters take the sun. Mid afternoon, the wind snorts awake, starts to scatter newspapers, [] twirls and sprinkles sand from the play[ground]. People gather [ ] as tenebrous clouds herald a []storm, the type [that] arrive[s] with a roar then mizzl[es] all day. HESITATION BLUES She walks slowly home, drenched yet refreshed [in] a rite of renewal but if this rate is restorative, she needs a maelstrom for complete recovery. Time heals all wounds, she remembers, that saw stored in her brain with other disjointed bits and pieces[: that] red wheelbarrow glazed with rain, [the] slumber-sealed spirit, curious knot God made in Eden. Time heals all wounds. Or so they say. Yes, so they say. [She walks so slowly home.] Best damn music I've read in a while. I'd give a 9.0 on the Richter Scale. The air must be fuliginously rank. t.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rick Barnes On Date: 2004-07-19 18:26:59
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Mell, I just watched a movie entitled, "Personal Velocity". It was comprised of three vignettes with the common theme of women losing love and rediscovering themselves. As well done as this movie was, and it was very well done, your poem says more in three poetic movememnts taking place in the life of one woman, and says it more succintly and memorably than the movie experience. For me this work is so beautifully and intelligently constructed. One music variation melding into the next and left, like life itself, open ended. In "DIRGE" the fraying at her edges are the result of his licking, nibbling, and feasting. She has been "NEAR-consumed" for the mere purpose of satiating him. But it is, after all, her offer. She finds some reward in the being consumed. Now that she is (a) "cast-away" and stretched to her farthest parameters one can't help but believe she has discovered a curve in her nature that will help her negotiate the topography that lay before her. Then again...maybe not. She so misses him, (how appropo is the "Country and Western" motif), and everywhere is the evidence of her aloneness. She can take no pleasure in the happiness of others when it serves up heart storms that linger as mizzling rain. The 4/4, here is my story lore of C&W gives way to the 12 bar footstep patterns of her own feet carrying her home. Like approaching the Rockies from Kansas she knows she must be getting closer yet nothing in her immediate vision gives confirmation. She holds on only to the rhythms of the repeating refrain, "Time Heals All Wounds" and recalls Williams bridge "So much depends upon...", Wordworth's, "A Slumber did My Spirit Seal" and Taylor's musing upon "true love's knot". But as for the step she is in, it all feels like mere heresay. Brilliant Mell, but then, I repeat myself. Rick DIRGE She feels she is fraying at the edges, fading, almost invisible. Like an ocean barely touching bottom, she's stretched to her farthest parameters. A rubber band. He'd licked, nibbled, and feasted on her until she'd been near-consumed and his jaw-wide need satiated. Then with a swipe of lips, he'd cast her away.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Turner Lee Williams On Date: 2004-07-15 17:32:39
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mell--Only you would post such a bold metaphoric inventive piece. This narrative infers the age old story of a woman who has been done wrong by her man. Your protagonist has given a cad the best years of her life with his profane demands taking their toll: "Dirge." After all her antagonist has put her through the pathetic figure still craves his indifferent company and dubious attention. Moreover, the weather seem to enhance her hapless sentiments by adding insult to injury: "Country Western." Some measure of redemption gained by this accidental purge (a partial catharsis). However, nothing short of a small miracle will pull her out of these doldrums. The over used adages and sad refrains are about as encouraging or hopeful as the lonesome sounding whistle of that "...midnight train to Georgia:" Hesitation Blues. Another creative ditty from your repository of imagination. I only hope that my intrepetation is somewhere in the same state with your intentions. Thanks for sharing this efforts. TLW
This Poem was Critiqued By: G. Donald Cribbs On Date: 2004-07-12 13:53:02
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mell, This is definitely a showstopper of a piece! My favorite is the first one, Dirge. I found it a breathtaking description of two people at the end of themselves. Nicely constructed and choice of words. I loved "rubber band." "roister" and "mizzling" are also excellently used. A nice reference to the Red Wheelbarrow poem. Can't think of the poet, although I know I know him...don't you hate that when it slips your mind? Anyway, thanks for the great read. Warm regards, Don
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2004-07-12 00:21:47
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mell: Oh, my. The title drew me in and would have even had I not seen your name. Oh, what a title! If I may say so, this is a 'painterly' poem. A skilled artist can eloquently portray appearance, mood, emotion, space, play of light on surfaces and more. Your brush strokes here create a uniquely compelling work, a triptych. The metaphors abound - as the three types of music suggest three rhythms, three color palettes or 'styles' which are so rich in tone as to defy description. But a single thread unites the tripartite work. The persona of the woman who mourns her loss is brilliantly portrayed. You let us listen to the music her thoughts make --- DIRGE [-She feels] she is fraying at the edges, fading, almost invisible. Like an ocean barely touching bottom, she's stretched to her farthest parameters. A rubber band. --the r's themselves seem to reach! I think perhaps "She is" makes a stronger statement. He'd licked, nibbled, and feasted --here's your word magic at its fine-tuned best, IMO! on her until she'd been near-consumed and his jaw-wide need satiated. Then with a swipe of lips, he'd cast her away. Ah, the incredible 'edible' speaker! You give us the sound/image of "lick/nibbled/feasted" and "jaw-wide/swipe of lips" and "cast her away" like so many chicken bones after a feast! COUNTRY WESTERN She misses him [-,] intensely on weekends, when couples stroll to the square where children roister and oldsters take the sun. Mid afternoon, "the wind snorts awake", starts --Oh, I love this!! If Marcia isn't reading, someone needs to forward this to her. She will love it, too. "stroll/oldsters/snorts" -- word heaven. If this weren't somebody's sadness, I'd be having a rollicking good time enjoying the resulting poem-feast. (Oh, I admit it, I am enjoying myself, but with some restraint. I don't want to add to the writer's/speaker's hurts.) to scatter newspapers, then twirls and sprinkles --see, nobody plays words like you do sand from the play area. People gather belongings as tenebrous clouds herald a rainstorm, the type arriving with a roar then mizzling all day. Now, for example, "tenebrous" -- who else would incorporate the music of this word and make it sing - with its dark Latinate roots ("tenebrae") showing, a glammed-up grown-out blonde, ready to storm. Magnificently limned metaphor for crying. HESITATION BLUES She walks slowly home, drenched yet refreshed like --note: word-beauty like this makes me drunk a rite of renewal but if this rate is restorative, she needs a maelstrom for complete recovery. --dazzling double-entendre of "maelstrom/malestorm" Time heals all wounds, she remembers, that saw The lady singing these blues has her dignity about her, lots of class, her wits intact, and is ready to spit out this "disjointed bit" of pabulum. stored in her brain with other disjointed bits and pieces. A red wheelbarrow glazed with rain, --ah, the WCW reference delights here. Of course I am back to the idea in S2 of part one, of how he "licked, nibbled, and feasted" and swiped his lips. The red wheelbarrow of course was "beside the white chickens" and brings all of these images to this reader at once. a slumber-sealed spirit, curious knot God made (INCREDIBLE) Just when I've been KO'd, it happens again in Eden. Time heals all wounds. Or so they say. [-Yes, so they say.] My suggestion only - you've said it once and effectively. I'd stop. But then, I'm not writing this poem. Now you've gone and stirred Ole Blue Eyes, singing "THEY SAY IT'S WONDERFUL" in my head, with the words "so they say" echoing. It's a romantic song, and Frank's singing this phrase three times echoes in your poem. I don't know now if I'd recommend taking it out, after this side trip on my part. I dunno, I'm seeing WCW's red wheelbarrow, the white chickens, hearing Frank sing "so they say" and feeling a lot of deep annoyance at the guy who treated our narrator like something to toss aside, like picnic chicken. I think I'm just seeing red now instead of the wheelbarrow. Oh, there's "A rubber band" which elicits both the snapping kind, and one that plays. . .oh, I'll have to email you the rest of this comment. Suffice it to say that I think I'm getting punchy. Well -- truthfully, I love the poem! And I didn't stay on track, because I'm in a weird mood. I think I'm angry at the bone-tosser. Apologies, and more poetry, please. All my best, L.L.
This Poem was Critiqued By: marilyn terwilleger On Date: 2004-07-11 16:52:05
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Hi Mell, My heart aches for the woman in this poem (self portrait?) if so my heart aches even more. Using music to paint this woman's picture and give the reader a sense of her loss is nothing short of genius! Using words colored with pathos....fraying at the edges...I have felt this...fading..then my favorite...like an ocean barely touching bottom ( I love that phrase better than anything I have read in a long time) ...a rubber band...I know this feeling as well...in my case it was taking care of my husband, my mother and a full time job away from home... he'd licked, nibbled, and feasted on her until she had been near consumed...nothing can be more depressing than being consumed by another human being, feeling that nothing is ever good enough for him, or taste good enough, or smell good enough, or be thin enough, or pretty enough...devastating emotions for any woman. And then he casts her away. So goes the dirge. But then in a Country Western fashion she laments as she still misses him (there is such a thin line between love and hate both of which are extremely strong emotions....love the word combination of 'wind snorts' wonderful imagery.. ..she looks around at all the other couples seemingly happy and she feels even more alone. So in the lilting of the hesitation blues she walks home...she is drenched but feels refreshed but only somewhat..she needs more time, more care, and some tenderness to really be healed...time heals all wounds...but does it? This piece is quite different from what usually erupts from your pen. I feel it came from deep inside, where you really live the tender, vunerable, soleful part of your being. I would not suggest you change a word of this soulful poem. Blessings...and I hope you are feeling better....Marilyn
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne Duval Morgan On Date: 2004-07-11 15:11:04
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Yes so they say. Spoken in measures as you speak here, more then true, if one allows the body spirit to move with the intention. The lyrics speak wisely her, in lynch with the sensation. Music to me captures mood, where one is allowed to share a rhythm, and understand the lyrics that accompany. So for me the poem speaks to it all and captures mood and sensation, and thus I don't have any suggestions. I always accept the poet has spoken from their personal sensation, for if they havn't then the effort is just words. Music has as always made the world go round, as you state from the first dirge to what we currentlys listen to, although we all have certain preferences.....you capture it nicely (as always).....Love Jo
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