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Epitaph upon a grave a flower laid by hands as soft as ivy that dust was almost raised by it which never had been lively for when it lived it fancied life a thing to be forsaken once distanced in a metaphor too late to be partaken you now who wait for life in death false prescience or persuasion hear this from him who took for naught the only consolation. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2012-09-02 12:26:28
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
MSS, -the only consolation-. What a splendid epitaph, if you will, to a magnificent metaphor.
In looking at the piece as a whole, I first notice that from the beginning and end there is no reference to health or lack of health (maybe –fancied life- speaks of health, but it most probably speaks of delusion). The one is a given to the other, regardless of health. An astute view of living and death as has been written and you did it without mentioning it.
Of the –too late to be partaken- that of you never know what you’ve got till its gone, can be circumvented but often is not. Certainly the epitaph will come, nevertheless, but the wending story might delay the inevitable.
Your last stanza is prophetic and realism all in a single vision. However I often read those past items and thoughts and find consolation is a more embittered view. Now, on AOL, I grew up with the original Avant-garde poetry room –scattered poets- (way back when intimacy was a surprise) and to this day I live in a level of consolation.
A great piece, even if a bit pithy in style for your normal production. BTW, should it all come to –rosebud- at least some mysteries have been revealed.