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turn to me a jazz of atoms adrift smoking in a state-change on a new horizon this restaurant, humid with the sweat of my desire i see you through it you feel something you do not yet know turn to me. yeah there you stand and i think i could touch you as my hand sometimes thinks it could touch the sun. i had fever, you said to a friend, an infection your friend cares as she would if she would care to give small change to a tedious beggar turn to me. sun plucked from space you leave a black vacuum gone, you extract my excited atoms’ energy your light your face is hidden my mass gone critical, you leave me sleepless splitting with my desire's prayer turn to me. after is much like before except that now it’s darker inside and out. what atoms remain turn in upon themselves, upon me my bubble-chambered heart witness to that nanosecond trajectory you turned to me. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2005-06-01 09:16:08
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mark:
Me, again. :) I can’t pass by the banquet of poems which you have
presented this month, without tasting each dish. Some bitter, some
sweet, some savory. I think this one has all three qualities, at least
for me. The saying occurs to me, while rereading this – “anticipation
exceeds realization” or similar words. Don’t know who said it. They
ought to have their toe stomped on for being right. :) But the poem
itself is exquisitely enjoyable. I especially enjoy your restraint,
the contained passion, your cadence and imagery. Our Muse delivers,
it seems, when our sensorium is acutely alert for whatever reasons.
turn to me (soft imperative, spoken with eyes)
a jazz of atoms adrift (the suggestion of soft jazz music, nice ‘z’, ‘f’ sounds)
smoking in a state-change
on a new horizon
this restaurant, humid with the sweat of my desire
i see you through it
you feel something (elicits the whole range of perceived signals to-from others)
you do not yet know
The above stanza is truly electric with sensual tension. It holds everything in
reserve, intensifying the subtle and not-so-subtle emotions of the speaker. This
is palpable for readers, undoubtedly.
turn to me. (evokes for me Stanley Kunitz's “Touch Me”)
yeah
there you stand
and i think i could touch you
as my hand sometimes thinks it could touch the sun. (well-placed irony)
i had fever, you said to a friend, an infection
your friend cares as she would
if she would care to give small change
to a tedious beggar (smile -- the speaker is an insightful observer of nuances)
turn to me.
sun plucked from space
you leave a black vacuum
gone, you extract my excited atoms’ energy
your light your face is hidden (exquisite)
my mass gone critical,
you leave me sleepless
splitting with my desire's prayer
This stanza above, my favorite, because of its intensity. Lightning struck, the
speaker longs with unbearable longing. Who among us, as adult sexual beings,
has not felt this, though we do not often speak of such intimacies, even to
close friends. We would reveal our vulnerabilities too much, even to ourselves.
I find this to be some of your most remarkable writing, once again. I also
find more than a hint throughout the piece of scientific acumen. I love the
way L7 refers back to L3 above. Like an atom splitting, the speaker is.
turn to me.
after is much like before
except that now it’s darker
inside and out.
what atoms remain turn in
upon themselves, upon me
my bubble-chambered heart
witness to that nanosecond trajectory
The hard part, the after. Not stuffed immediately back down into unawareness,
but lingering in consciousness. The speaker allows the experience of the
darkness “inside and out” to penetrate. I could feel the “bubble-chambered
heart” and its stumbling pulse. Leaden.
you turned to me.
I feel as if I am in an existentialist dilemma. There is less than nothing left.
How can nothingness decrease? Incredibly evocative work, Mark. You continue to
amaze me.
My best always,
Joanne