This Poem was Submitted By: James C. Horak On Date: 2013-11-15 05:10:03 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Buried

The burnt edges, pages of books         piled disregardingly Token of the times, convenience     carried too irreverently  That we cannot read without          scrolling screen That we cannot see without      dismal light, red then green Regimented, directed in a row      waiting to be burned 

Copyright © November 2013 James C. Horak


This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2013-11-22 09:01:40
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
JCH, I find this unique, in being a lament for . . . I don't know what exactly. If I read this right - well, is their a "right" reading in this somewhat subjective realm of poetic experience? Experience being what it is, and experience being subject driven, no matter the reality of social, political and religious needs prey to the corporate manipulators - it almost like the passing from the body into pure spirit, with the fond memory of the world, the tactile not letting go . . . But it is more. What is past is not merely past, but "waiting to be burned." Ominous, a metaphor (for me) of the final harvest, which I believe will be driven by another, more worthy power. The "burning" here is something other, with - again - more ominous and sinister overtones of burners who arrogate an authority that is not theirs. Perhaps I am overreading in my cocoon. :) MSS


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