Joanne M Uppendahl's E-Mail Address: grizwiz@aol.com
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Displaying Critiques 441 to 490 out of 540 Total Critiques.| Poem Title | Poet Name | Critique Given by Joanne M Uppendahl | Critique Date |
| I Have Memories | Sandra J Kelley | Sandra: Somehow, can you make the anthology available for purchase on a website? I'd be interested in purchasing one - and I think others who read here may be, as well. Your poem is lovely and sensual. It's not in my nature to be 'brutal' but I'll give feedback. It's the least I can do for you considering how many of my poems you've read and responded to - with very helpful ideas. I love it when we can 'workshop' poems here; if a writer requests feedback, I am happy to give it. I have memories of being alive This line suggests to me (and possibly to me alone) a disembodied spirit! of sunlight touching my skin at the point when it is burning The fire element - I recall this theme in some of your earlier poems as well. Somehow I want to bring more clarity to "at the point when it is" - something like - on fire - ablaze - flaming. Perhaps 'flame point'? The element of the sun's light along with a burning sensation in the skim make this poem immediately sensual. I don't think anyone has not had this sensation. We are most aware of our living within our skins when this amazing organ of our bodies communicates warmth or coolness. And you expertly contrast the heat with the "cool water lapping" to add an element of auditory imagery. memories of cool water lapping at my ankles as we stroll on the beach the liquid l's add to the liquid, soothing feel arguing about latex This line really surprised me. I can think of a number of contexts for this argument between two people - and it almost seems like eavesdropping to read this. This word lends texture to the piece (no pun intended) as well as intrigue. memories of my heart beating deep breathing and sweat excellent near-rhyme and rhythm in 'beating/breathing' - great metonymy other than that I remember nothing not the sound of your name or the stretch of my throat as I spoke it I do not remember the brush of your hand in my hair the ----'sensational' spacing between several words here and below warm flannel covering your chest the gentle suck -- excellent! of your teeth as your breath filled my ear the (rhythm) we created movement bodies entangled I do not remember The gentle irony as the speaker not only "remembers" everything vividly, but nudges readers to remember similar sensations. Nice, earthy 'th' sounds Working my way through this thoughtfully, I couldn't find anything to suggest changing, aside from tightening "at the point when it is burning." This is good - "include this one" is my suggestion! Best wishes for this worthy project of your writing group! Let us know where to look for the anthology, if you can get it online. :) Joanne | 2004-02-29 19:37:01 |
| I Have Memories | Sandra J Kelley | Sandra: Somehow, can you make the anthology available for purchase on a website? I'd be interested in purchasing one - and I think others who read here may be, as well. Your poem is lovely and sensual. It's not in my nature to be 'brutal' but I'll give feedback. It's the least I can do for you considering how many of my poems you've read and responded to - with very helpful ideas. I love it when we can 'workshop' poems here; if a writer requests feedback, I am happy to give it. I have memories of being alive This line suggests to me (and possibly to me alone) a disembodied spirit! of sunlight touching my skin at the point when it is burning The fire element - I recall this theme in some of your earlier poems as well. Somehow I want to bring more clarity to "at the point when it is" - something like - on fire - ablaze - flaming. Perhaps 'flame point'? The element of the sun's light along with a burning sensation in the skim make this poem immediately sensual. I don't think anyone has not had this sensation. We are most aware of our living within our skins when this amazing organ of our bodies communicates warmth or coolness. And you expertly contrast the heat with the "cool water lapping" to add an element of auditory imagery. memories of cool water lapping at my ankles as we stroll on the beach the liquid l's add to the liquid, soothing feel arguing about latex This line really surprised me. I can think of a number of contexts for this argument between two people - and it almost seems like eavesdropping to read this. This word lends texture to the piece (no pun intended) as well as intrigue. memories of my heart beating deep breathing and sweat excellent near-rhyme and rhythm in 'beating/breathing' - great metonymy other than that I remember nothing not the sound of your name or the stretch of my throat as I spoke it I do not remember the brush of your hand in my hair the ----'sensational' spacing between several words here and below warm flannel covering your chest the gentle suck -- excellent! of your teeth as your breath filled my ear the (rhythm) we created movement bodies entangled I do not remember The gentle irony as the speaker not only "remembers" everything vividly, but nudges readers to remember similar sensations. Nice, earthy 'th' sounds Working my way through this thoughtfully, I couldn't find anything to suggest changing, aside from tightening "at the point when it is burning." This is good - "include this one" is my suggestion! Best wishes for this worthy project of your writing group! Let us know where to look for the anthology, if you can get it online. :) Joanne | 2004-02-29 19:37:01 |
| I Have Memories | Sandra J Kelley | Sandra: Somehow, can you make the anthology available for purchase on a website? I'd be interested in purchasing one - and I think others who read here may be, as well. Your poem is lovely and sensual. It's not in my nature to be 'brutal' but I'll give feedback. It's the least I can do for you considering how many of my poems you've read and responded to - with very helpful ideas. I love it when we can 'workshop' poems here; if a writer requests feedback, I am happy to give it. I have memories of being alive This line suggests to me (and possibly to me alone) a disembodied spirit! of sunlight touching my skin at the point when it is burning The fire element - I recall this theme in some of your earlier poems as well. Somehow I want to bring more clarity to "at the point when it is" - something like - on fire - ablaze - flaming. Perhaps 'flame point'? The element of the sun's light along with a burning sensation in the skim make this poem immediately sensual. I don't think anyone has not had this sensation. We are most aware of our living within our skins when this amazing organ of our bodies communicates warmth or coolness. And you expertly contrast the heat with the "cool water lapping" to add an element of auditory imagery. memories of cool water lapping at my ankles as we stroll on the beach the liquid l's add to the liquid, soothing feel arguing about latex This line really surprised me. I can think of a number of contexts for this argument between two people - and it almost seems like eavesdropping to read this. This word lends texture to the piece (no pun intended) as well as intrigue. memories of my heart beating deep breathing and sweat excellent near-rhyme and rhythm in 'beating/breathing' - great metonymy other than that I remember nothing not the sound of your name or the stretch of my throat as I spoke it I do not remember the brush of your hand in my hair the ----'sensational' spacing between several words here and below warm flannel covering your chest the gentle suck -- excellent! of your teeth as your breath filled my ear the (rhythm) we created movement bodies entangled I do not remember The gentle irony as the speaker not only "remembers" everything vividly, but nudges readers to remember similar sensations. Nice, earthy 'th' sounds Working my way through this thoughtfully, I couldn't find anything to suggest changing, aside from tightening "at the point when it is burning." This is good - "include this one" is my suggestion! Best wishes for this worthy project of your writing group! Let us know where to look for the anthology, if you can get it online. :) Joanne | 2004-02-29 19:36:59 |
| I Have Memories | Sandra J Kelley | Sandra: Somehow, can you make the anthology available for purchase on a website? I'd be interested in purchasing one - and I think others who read here may be, as well. Your poem is lovely and sensual. It's not in my nature to be 'brutal' but I'll give feedback. It's the least I can do for you considering how many of my poems you've read and responded to - with very helpful ideas. I love it when we can 'workshop' poems here; if a writer requests feedback, I am happy to give it. I have memories of being alive This line suggests to me (and possibly to me alone) a disembodied spirit! of sunlight touching my skin at the point when it is burning The fire element - I recall this theme in some of your earlier poems as well. Somehow I want to bring more clarity to "at the point when it is" - something like - on fire - ablaze - flaming. Perhaps 'flame point'? The element of the sun's light along with a burning sensation in the skim make this poem immediately sensual. I don't think anyone has not had this sensation. We are most aware of our living within our skins when this amazing organ of our bodies communicates warmth or coolness. And you expertly contrast the heat with the "cool water lapping" to add an element of auditory imagery. memories of cool water lapping at my ankles as we stroll on the beach the liquid l's add to the liquid, soothing feel arguing about latex This line really surprised me. I can think of a number of contexts for this argument between two people - and it almost seems like eavesdropping to read this. This word lends texture to the piece (no pun intended) as well as intrigue. memories of my heart beating deep breathing and sweat excellent near-rhyme and rhythm in 'beating/breathing' - great metonymy other than that I remember nothing not the sound of your name or the stretch of my throat as I spoke it I do not remember the brush of your hand in my hair the ----'sensational' spacing between several words here and below warm flannel covering your chest the gentle suck -- excellent! of your teeth as your breath filled my ear the (rhythm) we created movement bodies entangled I do not remember The gentle irony as the speaker not only "remembers" everything vividly, but nudges readers to remember similar sensations. Nice, earthy 'th' sounds Working my way through this thoughtfully, I couldn't find anything to suggest changing, aside from tightening "at the point when it is burning." This is good - "include this one" is my suggestion! Best wishes for this worthy project of your writing group! Let us know where to look for the anthology, if you can get it online. :) Joanne | 2004-02-29 19:36:27 |
| About Love and Death | stephen g skipper | Dear Stephen: Oh, how I wish that the wisdom and passion (in the sense of the original meaning) in this poem did not come from your firsthand experience! Having suffered the loss of a dearly loved one myself, though not so recently, I recall how difficult it was to put anything into words in those first months. I especially admire your willingness to share your words and emotions here. You have done so unforgettably. "Is it really wiser to have loved, and lost it all or, Or not to have loved, never, to feel the raw pain of (separation)," The lines above recall another poem, one that has special meaning for me. Of course it is Alfred Lord Tennyson's "In Memoriam." "I hold it true,what'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all." I think you have given the ultimate answer to this question of "what'er befall" with your own profound insights. You answer, in the last few lines, with such hard won clarity that I defy any to read these words without weeping: (It is) in your honour, A touch of your resonance, Perhaps left in me, of your light, That will guide me, And brighten the dark way, I still love you I still need you, All apparent to those that can see. That resonance comes through the piece with utmost effect. The poem is a magnificent testament to the love you shared with Paula, and I feel honored to have commented upon it. I cannot say more here just now, but will send you a separate email. Bravo! All my best, Joanne | 2004-02-25 16:15:09 |
| The Band Leader’s Grandson Is Comatose | Thomas Edward Wright | Tom: This is what I meant when I wrote to you that some of your poems "hit me hard, in the gut." I think that my writing mentor would want me to read this, because in it, you do what he urged me to do - i.e., writing "closer to the bone." Even while doing so, the Wright stuff, a kind of acrid humor, holds me spellbound - and it is not so much irreverent as much as, more than likely, sanity-keeping. What my colleagues termed 'debriefing' after some horrific 'case' of unbelievably cruel child abuse with which we grappled. Often, a certain gallows humor made it possible to avoid nightmares, but not always. Your metaphor of the Monopoly game seems entirely apt, as life often appears to be 'chance' - ahh, here's the rub - isn't it? You don't attempt to answer this, but allow us to view the scene from the point of view of the speaker's observations of the comatose "band leader's grandson." He rolled the dice. And lost. "God does not play dice with the universe." -- Einstein "God not only plays dice, but sometimes throws them where they cannot be seen." -- Hawking He took his chances, and lost. Was it foreordained? Is there an infinite being who cares? In the face of the uncertainty of 'why' things happen, we have our human responses. He had just bought Baltic, Was looking ahead to Park Place and then – Maybe a railroad? Baltic, and its lackluster companion, Mediterranean. One can hope for Park Place and Broadway - always. As long as there is a brain which can form the thoughts of hope, that is. I mean it was dark. Who’d ‘ve thought To look for a train, especially there, On a dark night, in a storm from heaven, Especially then, you never know when, Do you? Recently, near here, an Amtrak train hit two people on the track, who died. It is on the same run I always take to my granddaughter's in Portland. I wondered about the two people - if they had an inkling - or not. What destiny or foolishness placed the hero of this poem and the two who were killed on the train tracks? What his brain was doing that night Was swell – The pun is funny and horrifying, an ironic admixture - tincture of wit. You remember how that goes – A gong sounds – Later, your days are daze and filmy – Upon entering the cranium (It isn’t rocket science, you’re aware of that) --again He sentenced that paragraph to death. So we parsed the mysterium out of it, Teased a crossword iotum, Scooped out the crimson squash, ---a gruesome, heartfelt effort Grappled with the vascular demons, Left the bone flap in the freezer – Give it plenty of room to grow, Bring him back later, close the door. Everyone rolls ‘em now and then. What is left will not be right. ---so very Wright Too many pieces of the puzzle sit there on the pretty blue paper under lights under-whelmed waiting for the party to start, the tuba’s oom-pah-pah the money, the Chance Card – Ah - the element of chance. This concept - randomness vs meaning haunts us. While we may construct ideologies to do away with chance, we do not ever really know, do we? And if it is simply a random occurrence which has shredded this young man's brain in "pieces" -- can we mourn more easily or less? If it is not chance, but destiny, how can God be a just God? We clearly do not have the answers to these question for we cannot solve "the puzzle" you show us here, no matter how clever we may be. Another day, perhaps, my son. Perhaps another day. Here the physician allows his tenderness to be visible. An accordion bellows him another breath. A metronome beeps like a heart. In the silent night at his bedside the family gathers, Prays the rosary, sings a hymn to Mary. One-and a two - "in the silent night" of course elicits memories of a candlelight singing of "Silent Night" Without the table of contents, he can’t find the hymn. Without the dice, the little metal car, the shoe – He moves onto the Jail square and waits for doubles. The symbols above evoke the scene of the train wreck - the "little metal car" and especially "the shoe." Thank you for another intelligent, compassionate look at what doctors experience, and at our own vulnerability. None of us are exempt from the laws of the physical universe, none immune from the fragility of our brains and nervous systems. But we may always hope, as does the young man who "waits for doubles." Kudos! All my best, Joanne | 2004-02-25 13:42:57 |
| The Elms of St Peter | Thomas Edward Wright | Tom: From the POV of the tree, your poem gives me new, inquiring insights into the potential awareness of living things. Original, unsentimental, sentient. I believe "St Peter" must be 'St Paul' as in MSP. You may feel about as friendly toward that acronym as I do toward "Seattle-Tacoma." After I read this several times, I realized I couldn't comment line-by-line as I do sometimes. I think the poem must be read as a whole. That said, S2 was particularly plangent for this reader: His red lights at the corner said it; His climb into the city truck; The pain in his gait from there; Red-ringed bark, that shaking part; to his whispering in her ear. Circling her trunk twice. Squeaking brakes announced him. A white van “City of St. Peter” The wind in her brown leaves. The personification "works" - and some other allusions - "red lights" and "his whispering in her ear" - evoke a similar-seeming attitude towards females who work in "red light" districts and are regarded as less than human by some. In the poem, the trees are regarded as less than living. "The wind in her brown/leaves" is especially poignant. I saw through her eyes Through her tears of years Of private shading Of never bending Of never ending An ever-lasting-ness - Have you ever Heard a tree wail? Well - in a sense - as a personal aside - I have imagined that I have. It is the reason that a 200+ foot tall fir stands to the side of our home - this tree has been nicknamed, "The Tree of Death." We are having the tree looked at by tree specialists, though I dread learning that it may need to come down. It has an immense arm that stretches out horizontally - and would have been ideal in the Old West for hangings, if anyone could have built a scaffold high enough to have reached it. We live where we live because it is next to a protected wetland and county park with trees which cannot be chopped down. The tall, heavy trees emit a kind of brooding presence, and were heard to scream following an ice storm several years ago, when the branches were too heavy to sustain the weight of the ice. There would be screeching sounds, and then loud snaps and crashes. Thank you for this important poem! On my list it goes! Kudos! All my best, Joanne | 2004-02-21 15:12:53 |
| Winter Trees | marilyn terwilleger | Hi Marilyn: I can't help it - a 'word' popped into my head as I read this splendid haiku aloud: "orchestral" in place of "orchestra." See what you think. I love the fluidity of this imagery - the soft sounds of 'c' in "dancing/embrace" and the alliteration of 'w' in "wooing/wind"! What those b/d plosives do for the first line of this visual haiku! It is the romantic in me who revels in seeing the branches dancing, embracing as lovers in the wind. Sigh! I think that "orchestra[l] wind" finds its winter trees as lovely as any full-blossomed spring ones. Once again, your ability with imagery, sound sense, and your deep appreciation for the sublime beauty of nature inspires us! Kudos! My best to you, Joanne | 2004-02-19 13:05:25 |
| I am a lighthouse | marilyn terwilleger | Dear Marilyn: This poem is breath-taking! The title's "I am" echoes throughout. I believe it is "I AM" Who comes through this piece to deliver a message that is both consoling and uplifting. You've written many beautiful poems, and powerful ones as well - but this one - I feel it is one that is necessary, like food and water. Without remembering the hope that you show us in this remarkable work - life seems almost unbearably difficult. You show us hope and incredible beauty of language. I dare anyone to read this and not be inspired, not feel a stronger heartbeat and see a bit more by the "beacon" you give us here: I stand on stout pelagic rock my beacon glitters atop an indigo sea An avalanche of heady water Welters at my root Where to start? The "ou" sound in "stout/rock" is a mere beginning find - I can be distracted from the whole of a poem at times by the magnificence of its parts! The sturdy 'st' sounds in "stand/stout" make me sit taller, look about, become alert. Who is the speaker, I think, of such immense strength? The imagery of a beacon which "glitters atop an indigo sea" is language which brings chills. "water/welters" is exquisite, as is the end word slant rhyme in S1 and S2. When your way is astray in raven tide I'll be your haven. If billowing waves beset and batter your bow and hope sways I will be your moon Here I am absolutely flummoxed by the superb linguistics of this work. I can only allow myself to be swept away by the majesty here. With the last line above, I am aware of the magnitude of the subject - the hope that God extends, the peace He gives, no matter how battered we may be. If the sea spews her wrath or your north is lost and bewildered sea birds sob, I will Illume your path I can only reflect that you must have been inspired to write this - not that you aren't a highly capable writer. I felt that this poem came from the One Who is truly able to "Illumine" our paths. I will polish the sea like a myriad of stars in the deep of night But when the sun leaps and Flames the fire I almost feel that it is sacrilege to comment on specifics, so powerfully affecting is the work in its entirety. I felt when reading "like a myriad" that perhaps the word "like" weakens the line slightly. But in a poem of this luminosity - life-enhancing and hope-giving, I don't think changing the word is needed. When I read "flames the fire" and just below, "sapphire sand" I truly felt weak in the knees. The word I am searching for here is "AWE." O'er sapphire sand, moor your ship on earth's lulling land -- WONDERFUL! rest your weary prow On God's shore Thank you for this incredibly spiritually uplifting poem, and for the chance to offer comment. Sustained, standing ovation! This is definitely on the Winner's List. All my best, Joanne | 2004-02-17 22:41:58 |
| Neuter Allegiance | Mell W. Morris | Dear Mell: I've read this and read it and come back to it once more. It took me a bit of time to digest and respond - partly because I was away for a few strenuous days, but also because in your first line you so accurately state my own attitude towards politics as they are currently expressed. Another reaction to the poem is to jive along with its extremely strong rhythm - almost a danceable beat! I read it as rap - and that worked for part of it. But then I drew back and marveled once more at your facility with words. Perhaps 'brilliance' and 'innovative genius' might cause others reading this critique to think I've gone over the top (again) but be that as it may - you have those qualities in abundance as demonstrated in this work. Now - a few samples of why I say these things - I've no tolerance for political campaigns nor speeches written by pros on the payrolls of the speakers. I'm weary of unctuous words from righteous leaders and I'm not The slippery, oily sounds of 'unctuous' and 'righteous' are apt, able demonstrations of writing skill - and you're not on anyone's payroll! The p's which almost seem to pop and spit (political/politicians/payroll/petulant) seem an engaging satirical mime of the actions of the politicos. sentimental about matters governmental. === exactement - and rhythm is magical here! Petulant as a cactus when politicians speak, my response is a quick tweak of the control. --witty rhyme of "speak/tweak" Inequity is the norm: our class system as palpable as the caste. The disparity between --the 'aa' assonance elicits awe the haves and nots is agape with the nots apparently in sleep state. Speech rights endure but everyone seems disengaged except *I thought I read "knots" in the quatrain above, as well - but see that I have hallucinated it. Your musical ability/appreciation shines throughout the work. I wanted to say something about "petulant as a cactus" and how dazzling that seems, especially coming from a Texan - but I wanted to say it with more panache than this. Your writing puts me in a good mood even if the subject is gloomy or oppressive. As an aside, sometimes I wonder if the "sleep state" and the seemingly ignored "speech rights" are a side effect of hearing so many confusing messages and the constant barrage by the media of fearful situations. the players who engorge on more mammon --the imagery of bloated breast-feeders comes to mind while all I have for change is one chadded vote card. In my youth, they assassinated three of my dream-seekers and yet for years Here I had to pause and recall the extreme grief of a nation, and the sound of my own hopes crashing, too. Your 'ch' sounds are biting, ironic. You've stated the situation with grace, with aplomb, but with sad, piercing truth. The word "assassinated" is a powerful one - which contains so much within it that it stopped me in my reading. The thought occurs to me that written art has greater impact because language is an 'essence' somehow. Sight and sound are sensual, but words are cerebral. I kept the belief that relief would appear. Now I am breathless at the death of my ---the cleverness of this poem does not overshadow the importance of its theme, and the words above are as piercingly sad as any I've read - so heartbroken we all were - and still are. idealism and I've no hope that a leader will emerge who would forfeit a portion of his power that we might be endowed with the return of our lives. I leave it to the heavens now and pray that the people of our nation will listen, think and see. Perhaps this poem will do some good - inspire some of us who feel defeated to get the lead out and go out and vote - perhaps be a delegate to a caucus if possible. Prayer seems the only appropriate response to a situation which may increase or continue the present violence and despair. My mood has definitely shifted from one of exhilaration brought about by your wordsmithing to realization that we live with broken hearts - and must act (listen, think and see) as well. And in the end with eyes of reality, do more than be. The philosophical ending here is amazingly energizing. We cannot afford to sit on our perceptions of reality and not act, you show us here. This timely work is hard-hitting and in at least this reader's estimation, an excellent use of the written word to affect change. I'd like to see this published where the general public could receive the wake-up jolt of awareness that I felt just now. Incredibly well done - one of your most powerful to date. Brava, once more. Now I feel motivated to get out and do something - somehow, some way. Kudos! All my best, Joanne | 2004-02-17 22:14:13 |
| For Mom | Mick Fraser | Mick: Ahem, poet - your tongue-in-check appreciative paean to Mother Nature is a huge treat. You don't address her from a distance as to be worshipped, but 'up close and personal' as if you are very well-acquainted. This poem seems tailor-made to completely delight me in every nature-loving synapse. Instead of a Latin, hymn of thanksgiving addressed to Apollo you address this poem to the reader, particularly in the final stanza. Perhaps, if you do decide to revise, you might steal a bit of brilliance from that last quatrain and make it part of your title. As it is, the title doesn't let me know that I came to the right place. But that was (is) part of the fun and celebration of this piece. Your familiarity with her - and us. Cracking greeted my footsteps the walnut boards of my deck voicing displeasure with my rude interruption The sounds in your first line are 'onomatopoeia' or imitation of a theme by a poem's sound (Kinzie). The hard 'c' and repeated g's and t's sound like crunching boards in winter, like a somewhat, pardon the expression, elderly, and perhaps irritated response by the 'voice' of She Who Must Be Obeyed. I am always ready to smile when reading a poem of yours, and I don't know why. When I got to the word "rude" I was anticipating a 'good time' here and was not wrong in my assumption. Drawn to breath the illusive winter aroma I ventured into heaven out back to renew the vows I had made to Mother It's harder to smell things in dry air - isn't it? What is the "illusive winter aroma" --you give us a millisecond to ponder that - and then take us with you into your "heaven out back." I almost could have stopped here - as I felt pleasure and kinship. But then again, you addressed "Mother" twice - the titular "Mom" and once again in L3 of S2. Perhaps you were writing of your biological human mother, after all. I could deal with that. The respite in her white-filled fury provided an entrance to her place of worship and allowed me to answer the call Hmmm. I thought to myself, "Mick's mother sounds like she has quite a temper!" Then, of course, recognized "her white-filled fury" as the snowstorms of late. I love the term "place of worship" as applied here. It makes this poem very personally appealing to me, because you've expressed my feelings about nature in a quintessential way in the entirety of this poem. My appreciation commenced at the hedge praising her almighty power as the capped cedars cringed Laughing! Irreverent-reverence always does that to me. "capped cedars cringed" is witty, and yet - one can see the cedars, scalps or fingertips, depending on how one views them, shivering under their caps of frozen water. You've used sounds again - wonderfully - in the plosive p's of "appreciation/praising/power/capped" for example. Stark shrubs both brown and gray dotted the virginal prayer patch and bore witness to my affirmation I can't go on like this, dwelling on each splendid turn of phrase or I won't finish this until past time to prepare dinner. Again, you've done it with the p's in "prayer patch." Little cheepers flitted about their camouflage cover savoring the continued christening given by the white whirling wisps Here's where you got me, (as if you hadn't captured me before!) with the "little cheepers" who "flitted about" and your continuing allits and wry imagery. Truly, I think your "cheepers" must meet my "flying grizzlys" (warblers). The guest of honor arrived after a long flight with his glaring red habit atop the pine surveying the scene, broadcasting his jazz Now I have goosebumps - and am laughing aloud. Your "guest of honor" must be a cardinal - though mentally I have subsituted my Red-headed Woodpecker for his bombastic attitude. Truly, you have herein pegged the bird pride and hubris that endears without sounding a tad overly sentimental. Mr. Macintosh stood there, looking thin but this time I wouldn't disturb him sleeping soundly as he was Macintosh apple tree, I presume. The apple that was discovered by John McIntosh in Dundas County, Ontario. A hardy tree producing sweet dessert apples. You probably "disturbed him" last in around October, when the last apples ripened. This stanza cleverly calls to mind both a British raincoat and a scrumptious Canadian apple. Synthetic supporters stuck up from the garden waiting to again be embraced by sprouts, flowers and fruit Nice assonance of "ou/ow/ui" open vowel sounds in the line above. Very feminine. My crunching steps on her blanket signaled another reminder of the purpose for the ceremony Terrific auditory imagery - these specific details make the poem especially enjoyable. The bright reflections stung my eyes, fueled my heart and warmed my face as my words came out as smiles Here the speaker reveals his very warm heart, "fueled" by the "bright reflections" - again, cleverly combining two elements: the bright reflective quality of snow, and the reflections of a nature lover. I especially loved this last line. This entire stanza is especially rhythmic, in keeping with the thematic heartbeat of the middle line. The inverted blue bowl that covers us provided comfort and a realization that will remind me to thank her each day Wonderful, once more, use of sounds in the sharp 'v' fricatives repeated in L1 and 2. The 'attitude of gratitude' is contagious, and the poem a revelation of finding beauty in the remembered bounty of the garden, in the anticipated gardenening and crisp, sweet taste of the McIntosh. But the crowning touch (sorry I can't help but pun a little now and then) is the "inverted blue bowl" which you saved for last. The sky seems to enfold protectively over the scene, this ceremony of thanks to Mother Nature in her wintery dress. Mmmmmm. Delicious from first word to last. Thank you for the pleasure! All my best, Joanne | 2004-02-12 15:41:54 |
| One Just Bell | Rick Barnes | Rick: I always look forward to finding a poem of yours. This one contains poetic truth enough to end conflicts between nations, families and individuals on the topic of religion, were it to be heeded. Instead of "Just One Bell" you have written the title as "One Just Bell" which says infinitely more with an economy of words - a trademark Rick Barnes attribute. I don’t (want) to hear the chimes Congratulating those who’ve tithed, Nor the welcoming peal We reserve for those who’ve just arrived. The structural correctness and proselytizing for converts that are so often seen in organized religion are not what the speaker yearns to hear. The inclusive "we" allows the reader to supply the faith or practice, whether it be Tibetan Buddhism, Presbyterian, Catholic, etcetera. Spare me the holy tower of song Reserved for those so blessed, And the clarion gong That washes clean all saved souls confessed. I can't help but draw an analogy from the "holy tower of song" to the Tower of Babel of note in scripture, which marked the confusion of languages. "Holy tower" also suggests "Holy terror" - an allusion which calls to mind pictures of persecution of those considered to be on the 'wrong' side of the religious tracks, so to speak. The phrase "all saved souls confessed" implies that the familiar rituals (ringing of bells, confession) are not what cleanses. Let me hear a dull dank knell Until we have truly begun To work toward and forge that one just bell That rings for everyone. These "dull dank knell" sounds are mournfully heavy. The bells that ring for some, but not all, do not ring truthfully, this poem tells me. The implication is that we have not "truly begun" to live in grace, have not worked toward nor forged "that just one bell" that rings for every human being. That every human soul is sacred is what is implied here, at least for this reader. Until that fact is recognized, there will be no true cause for celebration. For humanity to work together to "forge that one just bell" would imply social justice as well as reverence for each life. Would that such inspiration as garnered from this poem could lead to 'Homo ahimsa' --compassionate mankind. I don't believe I have done justice to your poem, and it saddens me to realize how far we are at present from this state of grace. As always, reading your poetry opens new areas of awareness for me. Bravo! My best always, Joanne | 2004-02-12 13:52:50 |
| A Late Afternoon Service | Thomas Edward Wright | Tom: I am reacting to your trenchant wit and a certain telling vulnerability expressed in this poem. The extremely mundane ("Blue Light Specials" and "Coffee Mate") mixed with prayers, mitres and black cats chattering for imagined communions. I have to google about "tossed orts" as I have forgotten what those are, but I suspect they are upchucked morsels. As for wrinkled noses and pursed lips, I've seen them around. If you are pocketing your tongue, I hope that your sportsjacket has been dry cleaned recently or you'll come up with a mouthful of lint and possibly orts. You've made me laugh. Wonder. Wonderbread. OK siriusly now, I think the poem intends to show how ridiculous are our posturings given that we know slightly less than nothing. One can hear them crying, Yes. Mostly crying. What those snowflakes do best. And then we, in unison, Amen the sun away and pray: Orisons to our gods are sent And sent are we into the nigh – Into the knowing snow – The unknowing morrow. As if our mutterings have any effect on the sun's appearance or disappearance, we wee creatures send out Orisons. "And sent are we into the nigh -" Clues, perhaps, that we are clueless, as even the snow knows more. I love the unfinishedness of "nigh -" Nicely done, and once more, I wish I were capable of an intelligent response. Les prentiours, Joanne | 2004-02-11 21:05:18 |
| Every Poem An Autograph | Mell W. Morris | Mell: Congratulations on your prize-winning poem! For January, and without a doubt, again in February. This is one of my favorite themes - a writer's poem, a poem for poets -- 'ars poetica' - Horace wrote many of them in Latin and poets have followed ever since. I live in unsayable lights and any occurrence might recall: "Sursum Corda." Lift up your hearts, from the Latin of my childhood. Someone said that one good line is worth a lifetime's work. Maybe in some instances, a phrase - like "unsayable lights" qualifies as a faceted diamond of thought. The first five words in the first line, "I live in unsayable lights" took me out of myself and into my soul's realm. You deftly "lift up" a reader's heart with your first quatrain. Impossible to read this poem without entering into a heightened state of reflection. The titular reference to every poem as a "autograph" is so true it rings in my bones. So here I am, surrounded with ineffable light, with Latinate words resonating like bells, with a sense of kinship with the speaker and all writers. The title confirms a deep belief of my own, and a continuing discovery - one which cannot be tapped out or completed. It is the state of yearning which makes writers write that you address here. It is the me that no one knows, including myself. Your signature poem, this "autograph" expands into multitudinous lines of calligraphic revelation. Patterns of our youthful experiences, the 'then' episodes, are imprinted on our souls and 'now' events summon the paradigms of prior times. "I have listened hard and let this poem inhabit me" Edward Hirsch once wrote. I am going to read and reread this poem as it has much to teach me. It is not an easy, sentimental nor imagistic poem, but one which finds me exploring within the framework of 'then' and 'now'. We never ripen fully nor age to a degree that relieves our reliving the ago. When we take pen to compose, an old haunting will taunt until "reliving the ago" is parallel with "I live in unsayable lights." And you continue, and I try to analyse. I feel a bit like I am approaching a vast musical improvisation by capturing the notes on paper and lining up the sixteenth, eighth and quarter notes and dot-dot-dot counting them, when what I most need do is lean back and let them float over me. restored in metaphors, residing in our lines. Our poetry arises from our past even when we think it ignored. Every strophe I read is a trophy of someone's Your symphonius "restored/metaphors/poetry/ignored/strophe/trophy" leans into a "treble of sursum-corda sighs." "even when we think it ignored" penetrates my swoon into etymological rhapsody. It challenges me to listen to what is stirred by your poem -- which seems one half of a dialogue meant for every reader. Once more, you illuminate that which may be "restored in metaphors" and for this, once more, my soul-deep gratitude and kudos. Another offering from one of TPL's most passionate, gifted writers. "Every Poem an Autograph" has given me a lasting euphoria, with no side effects but inspiration, as welcome as the first caressing breeze of spring. Brava! All my best, Joanne | 2004-02-09 13:36:54 |
| These delicious aromas like foreign countries | hj elliot | hj: Welcome to The Poetic Link! It's exciting and refreshing to encounter a new voice here, and I'm very glad you've signed on. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this poem. Your original voice and the way your words evoke memories and emotions make this work a particularly attractive one, at least for this hungry reader. A few comments: Come back to bed skin smelling of coffee grounds and cigarette (singular noun is unexpected here - it 'pops' nicely!) arms like orange rinds wrap themselves around me -- grand simile - striking & humorous and I give in to these delicious aromas like foreign countries no concept of the currency accepted Though this poem is 'free' in structure, poetic crafting is delightful - in sounds like the 'c' - at first hard, then loosening to 'ss' in "concept/currency/accepted" above. I open to you as a window opens out onto rooftops arms spread wide ready to take in the rush should I fall narrow cobblestone to catch me while the streets are still with empty morning Again the 'catchy' hard 'c' sound in 'cobblestone/catch' and 'beckons' as well as the definitely plosive b's in 'bed/cobblestone/beckons' - lovely textures The bed beckons, sheets lay devastated across the wise mattress -- WONDERFUL! ripe with memories and I The repeated short 'i' is especially disarming Shut the shutters that have let the cool smell of wet stone in this night from thunder like an airraid over the city (lush sound again in 'airraid/rain') that brought in the rain and the war between us Wonderful sounds in "shut/shutters/thunder" - and I realize I am going on too much about sound. The atmospherics, the sense of longing, the sensuality of this piece are sheer delight. The final line's melancholy note lends a haunting quality to the work. Overall, an exquisite read. I will look forward to reading many more entries. Because of the timing of your submission and the contest period for January drawing to a close, you might not receive as many comments presently as would ordinarily be the case. Please don't be discouraged. Your poem won't appear on critiquing lists unless critiquers have worked their way through an entire month's entries. I found this quite by accident! Happily so. Again, welcome. My very best to you, Joanne | 2004-02-04 22:12:08 |
| The Reader | Debbie L Fischer | Hi Debbie: I needed this poem tonight! It is filled with what is difficult to obtain on this cold January night - warmth! Your descriptors are so luscious that I could not help but yearn for the warmer months, remembering the pleasures of reading outdoors. This is as sensuous as a hot bath, and the sounds in it are delightfully soft, too. I love this painting by Monet, with the serene face and soft peaches and pinks of the young woman contrasted to the mossy green background. Sitting under the moss-covered tree the shade shields her eyes from any glare as she peruses intently each line For example, the sibilant 's' and 'sh' sounds in "sitting/shade/shields" and also "moss/peruses" - wonderful imagery. absorbing the emotions felt at the turn of each page flickers of perception etched on her face pausing Aptly soft fricatives in "felt/flicker/face." Your poems are always beautifully crafted - and this one is no exception. she looks out into nothingness is it a poem by Keats or cummings or just another love story gone wrong Here you allow the reader to supply a favorite poem or genre - and end the work with a romantic, melancholy note. I wonder if you decide to revise at a future time if you might work the painting into the body of the poem itself? I imagined the young woman reading a book by Marie Corelli as I read your poem. Thank you for a nuturing reading experience and the chance to comment! Best wishes for the January contest! All my best, Joanne | 2004-01-31 22:26:00 |
| Falling in Love with Food (revised) | Mick Fraser | Mick: What more can I say, but that I'm glad you revised, because this is even more delightful than the first version. Want you to know this is on my voting list, which begins in 1 hour and 57 minutes, my time zone. One of the things I've recovered with this poem is my sense of humor. Now there aren't many things that can make me laugh and sing at the same time, but this poem does both. Thank you for the great read!! My best, Joanne | 2004-01-31 22:04:46 |
| martins | Thomas Edward Wright | Tom: I've always wondered what it would be like to dissect a cadaver. Now I have an impression that will always stay with me. The other ones were formed by residents performing an autopsy on The Learning Channel. But they are not poets. You are. And I get what you meant by "punch line" - on the south side of the frat across the street we had tulips that sprouted every spring. martin’s heart came up the next year. they were bright red, and tall and someone thought that on certain days, if the light was just right there was a to and fro to the glow that emanated – i just thought they were the most beautiful tulips i’d ever seen. i just called them martins. Humanity and tenderness shine through this poem. Are there Doctor Poet books out yet? You raise the hope that I think all of us cherish that our physicians will look at us with compassion. This is a poem that sustains a reader, rather than a diversion. The quality of my life has just inched up a notch, because of you. Amazingly difficult to read and correspondingly rewarding. I read it on an empty stomach, which wasn't a good idea. But the part I have cut and pasted above redeemed every moment of squirming. I think you're kinda wonderful and I *know* that that is not the point. Jo | 2004-01-30 14:54:29 |
| Daydream | Stormy D Morris | Dear Stormy: You've asked for us to be honest about your work. You've made that easy for me! Simply put: I love it! It is written simply, so that its impact is greater. I love the tenderness/delicacy of it. I am a romantic at heart, and am very moved by the way you've captured the exquisite afterglow of intimacy. It is as genuine, as moving as anything I've read. You invite us as readers to find ourselves and our own experiences within your own, I believe. The 'colors' as I call them, are elegantly rendered. wrapped up in stars a blanket of light my pillow is the moon the air around us warm with our scent [Here, may I suggest that "is" could be removed, to intensify the sense of being suspended?] naked, weightless we float in a tangle of flesh leg over arm over shoulder over toe [This line enough is reason for you to keep at the writing now that you've started once more, in my opinion!] mingling with stardust our bodies (they) glow...flow [Maybe "they" isn't needed in this refined, condensed work. It doesn't 'hurt' anything, but I think the great strength of this piece is it's gemlike perfection.] the sun comes around setting the dust on fire, spreading cooled only by your sweet breath on my ear whispering your name, I somersault into sleep The four lines above are my favorites. "setting the dust on fire" is evocative and mesmerizing imagery. The image of the speaker as she somersaults into sleep, in perfect peace and with the knowledge that she is loved is a meditation in itself, an astonishment, a giving thanks. Please, please send more like this. All my best, Joanne | 2004-01-30 14:31:35 |
| Tentacles | Regis L Chapman | Hi Reeg:
I am going to give this lengthy poem my best. I may be far afield, so I hope
you won't mind my ruminations about your work. I strongly believe that we grow as
we read one another's writing. Your poetry makes me examine life a bit more closely,
looked at through the lens of your poetic eye. This one is a gift, and as such
deserves acknowledgment!
manacles of the odist's mind
freed from wages
in passing- touch gently the cages --(our separate selves find a unitive experience in poetry)
What a caress to see...
believe me
My response to the word "odist" is twofold: one, because I believe you reference
the one who composes 'odes' and, two, the word 'od' is a Scrabble word defined as
"An alleged force or natural power, supposed, by Reichenbach
and others, to produce the phenomena of mesmerism, and to be
developed by various agencies, as by magnets, heat, light,
chemical or vital action, etc.; -- called also odyle or the
odylic force. [Archaic]"
That od force of German Reichenbach Which still, from
female finger tips, burnt blue. --Mrs.
Browning.
See, if I give a 'complete' response to any of your poems, we are going to be here
for some time! | 2004-01-30 14:14:29 |
| Falling in Love with Food | Mick Fraser | Mick: You've got me on an Elvis kick! Did I start it with my puzzle poem and Heartbreak Hotel? If so, you've carried to a greater heights with this clever parody. I found a website which plays this song (the one your poem is based on) over and over, sung by HimSelf. I love this parody - and it has me laughing aloud - which is an odd thing to do as my husband pours over income tax forms. Wide men say that we were once thin but I can't help falling in love with food Shall I bake Would it be a sin If I can't help falling in love with food So funny! And true enough. Too, too true. Elvis himself seemed to share that same love in later years. Now I'm all nostalgic! (And it's your fault!) The line that first tickled my funny bone is "Shall I bake." Like the syrup flows, over ice cream Darling so it goes I need new dungarees Take my hand, take my whole wheat too For I can't help falling in love with food Then "I need new dungarees" cracked me up, followed by a hoot with "take my whole wheat too." Clever, funny and irreverent. I noticed that the food choices are high carbs. That, too, is nostalgic in this day of the Atkins diet fever. Thanks for a great good time! Joanne PS I'm hungry | 2004-01-24 13:59:14 |
| Black and White | Regis L Chapman | Reeg: I enjoyed this poem immensely - and found the additional notes enlightening. I think that your observations could wisely serve as a caveat to all writers: keep the poetry you have written at varying stages in your life. It is a wise person who continues to learn, building on past perceptions, weaving insights into the present. I think you captured a mood in this piece. I have reread it numerous times, and found myself involved in examining my own disparate parts. I love that about a poem - (this one especially) in that it provides not only a reading adventure, but an experiential one. No experience is wasted, you show us keenly here - we learn something from everything - and everyone. dealing in the dull the soul a trench to dig masters of mud not unlike the pig The heavy 'uh' and 'd' sounds in "dull/mud/cud" weight the poem with the "slow, slow slow, humble" rhythm of "a master's chant and hum" in a way that deftly brings the reader into the mood of the piece. Ilove these lines especially: "blade of grass wind blown as glass" The 'bl/gl' sounds and the combined sense of "wind blown" and "blown as glass" give it a bit of an arcane feel, and also a lot of movement and imagery within a few words. There is a bout these lines a sense of 'rightness' if you will. Surrender to a thought process, or nonlinear thought. then, and even now the master, black and white that we forget to be not a farm, not a chicken, not a man not even a sow can Enigmatic and fascinatingly complex. I reveled in the sounds. Thank you for giving us this extremely interesting look at what it felt like to be a yoga student. The sense of detachment is compelling and well-portrayed. My best to you, Joanne | 2004-01-23 15:27:15 |
| Postcards to Eva | Jane A Day | Jane: The feel of intimacy, reading this piece is so strong that it felt as though I were flipping through mental album pages (feelings attached) of my own life. The cousin's blindness, yet her painting objects; the cryptic references which seem to allude to horrific abuse; the sensory impressions; a vivid overlay of deep loneliness and shared experience -- all draw me as a reader into the work so that I felt as though I had been teleported through time. My uncertainty about the speaker's own experience of what is detailed here as well as her cousin's present well-being are part of what makes this piece electric. You "paint in vivid color" throughout. My curiosity about the sensory experiences of the blind is intensified. If the cousin became blind at three months, then she wouldn't have an awareness of "green" or "brown" = yet the speaker seems to be giving her these perceptions by association with experience. The cousin would remember the smell of sunflowers, the feel of the stems, the "yellow rubbed into our mouths." It is as if I am the blind cousin, receiving these words. In a sense, we are blind to one another's experiences, as we cannot be in someone else's skin or nervous system. But the poem has a quality of synesthesia. 1. My mother once found us drowning in the huge heads of sunflowers-- the flowers’ thick stems and the silk from your mother’s corn choking us. Yellow rubbed into our mouths. Green marked our entire bodies. We were cousins. Weeds, blooms, and thistles tattooed the same strange patterns through our chests and along our arms. As always - I love the sounds you choose. For example, "huge heads" juxtaposed with "thick stems." and "weeds/blooms" with "thistles/tatooed" mark this as a poem and far far from prosaic. 2. You paint a baby’s rattle, faucets, swing sets, beards, and bread rising on a counter top. Objects and vivid color. How would she have painted these objects if blinded as a tiny infant, I wondered. The "beard" in the midst of swing sets and bread rising lends an eerie, surreal quality. I suspend 'disbelief' to absorb the tone and nuances. You never use the brailled rise of oil paint. The flat shine of watercolor shapes your paintings. If I went deaf, would my poetry go to sound? 3. On Saturday, I washed my daughter’s hair in the kitchen sink just as Grandma washed ours in the summers we stayed with her. Our bodies lifted and stretched along each side of the counter until our hair met and tangled in the drain of her double sink. You weren’t afraid of the sink even though your father had mistaken mop water for bath water when you were 3 months old. He cleaned you in Lysol until you were blind. This is horrifying. In the midst of it all. How does a child survive what seems like attempted murder? 4. Are you coming for Christmas this year? I know it is only May but my mother wants to know. 5. I saw Grandmother last week when we went shopping for melons. Even the honeydew are too much for her now. She had a bridge tournament that Sunday (after Church) and wanted, no needed, to make a melon ball boat. She and Ethel lost badly and everyone avoided the cantaloupe. This section contrasts jarringly with the baby dipped in Lysol. The ordinariness of "shopping for melons" and bridge tournaments seems almost obscene as these images settle next to the blinded baby. 7. Come for the summer. It smells better here than it looks. Lemonade, mowed lawns, and jelly-sticky children await your nose. These fragrant images are appealing. The invitation is warm, as are the sentiments. But I have an uneasy feeling that the one to whom the poem is addressed will not be able to make the journey. I miss you mainly in summer because you always got to the ice cream truck first and bought me red, white and blue dripping rockets. Do you remember color? 8. My dad is getting married again. Just the immediate family this time. My sisters are flying in from Houston. She seems nice although she likes dresses with flowers on them a bit too much. Remember, how much hair he had? It use to fall into our mouths when he would carry us piggy back. All gone. Now, we would only get a mouthful of skin. Salty and slick. 9. a Here’s a poem for you, Bzzzzzzz zzzzz zz the rub of a tapping foot against the floor bzzzzzz z zzzzzzzz z a stoppage of sound zzzz breath zz zzzzzzzzzz the shuffle of a newspaper zzzz leaves rustle or is it the beginning of stalking? bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzz zz zz zzzzzzz z the smoosh of a tiny body breaking. This is the part that haunted me throughout my rereadings of this poem. Everything else falls away. 10. When first you moved to New York from California, I use to count the states between us and imagine what they felt like against your skin as you passed through them. Kansas, a wildfire, Texas, sandpaper, Louisiana, a damp tissue at the throat. Then, I realized you were never coming home to tell me (Maybe this is where I picked up the feeling that she is "never coming home" at all.) Pennsylvania feels like grass and Maryland is sugar through the hands. I am still here so I’ll tell you California is the brown center of a sunflower drying after the briefest rain. Weirdly, the word "dying" is what I saw when I read "drying." The references to "stalking/smoosh of a tiny body breaking/he cleaned you in Lysol until you were blind" evoke shock, sorrow and outrage in this reader. The textures of "wildfire/sandpaper/a tissue at the throat", "grass" and "sugar through the hands" all elicit soothing, discomfiting and mournful sensations all at once. There is great tenderness implied - loneliness and perhaps, survivor guilt. This is a haunting poem which will not be easily released from my imagination. Thank you for this remarkable poem, once more. I always marvel at your ability to place the reader within the experience of another. My best to you, Joanne | 2004-01-22 13:23:39 |
| I Must Go Down To The Sea Again | Mell W. Morris | Dear Mell: You've given me a heady moment of discovery with your title; it thrillingly evokes John Masefield's masterful work, "Sea Fever." It was one of the very first poems I ever loved. To find your sublime poem tonight is a profound discovery for extensive reasons. Among them: A "Mell Morris" for my collection. But along with the beauty of this work, a penetrating sadness. Thalassa, the sea! Love, come be with me by the high tides and see an aggregate of clouds that shrouds then scurries to the south. The blessings of the sea beckon through its rustling reeds. The Greek name for the sea is grand onomatopoeia. The assonance in "clouds/shrouds" and the accompanying imageries bring a kind of blissful state for me, although I feel the sense of foreshadowing. The word "thalassa" suggests "thanatopsis" to me, though there is little similarity. The nearness of "shrouds" and the thoughts of "blessings of the sea" which "beckon" (a symphony of plosive 'b' sounds) seems like the call of a tragic Greek chorus. Liquid r's in "rustling reeds" will send euphonious, engulfing shivers to readers who are awake, though deeply lulled by the soft, almost hypnotic rhythms here. We wonder *who* is the "Love" to whom the speaker addresses these exquisite lines may be. A sense of resignation, perhaps surrender, is a susurration in this profound work. I am reminded of mortality more strongly with each line: Water sanctifies and stirs like the touch of a sword to a shoulder which (be-stirs). Your presence here is the clear essence I need. By the sea beside me, your reach and scope royally fulfill me. The expansiveness of the word "royally" seems like a gift to listeners, or to the one to whom these words are spoken. The soft sibilance of "sanctifies/sword/sea" and many other words again suggests the movement of water. But an unease overtakes me as I read, thinking of the image of "sword to a shoulder." The sword is also the means of 'slaying the ego' and cutting through the illusion of life. In folklore, the monster or dragon is often slain with the sword. I cannot help but think that someone is saying farewell in this work - perhaps to a loved one, perhaps to life itself. The melancholy work has cast a spell on me, and I'm unable to stop rereading. The hope in your face, the grace in every inflection infect me with passion and affection. Come, stay at my side and if you deeply care, share with me the neap of the tide. It is Love to stand by and share life's low points as well as high ones. Ones who stay beside us during these times are loving and beloved. The words "inflection/infect/affection" are insistently yet softly percussive. The slight suggestion of an illness is there, with "infect" - at least for this reader. My love, be for me like the sea. I sought some biographical information on Masefield as I pondered your work. He died five days before my daughter was born. He was an orphan who went to sea at thirteen. He wrote "Sea Fever" at the age my son was when he died. The last line of his poem portends much: "And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over." This poem seems to be of the ebb and flow of life, as well as the ebb and flow of emotions. There are times of abundance and times of withdrawal; this work seems to speak of that time of decreasing. To me the sea has always represented the vast 'ocean' of life. The work invites us as readers to delve deeply with the speaker into the intuitive realms, into the ancient primordial wisdom. Perhaps that is the ultimate identity of "Thalassa." As if the speaker were a dear friend, a beloved family member, I can't help but respond with ever fiber of my being. More words are difficult now. You have reached great heights and depths with this piece. It is beyond my skills to give you my complete reaction to this work. It becomes personal and I no longer have objectivity to help me sort out my own responses. This does what great poetry can do - it moves the reader to wordlessness, but quickened pulse and wondering. Brava! A basket woven by Mary Kiona, filled with the sea's most fragile, loveliest shells extended. All my best, always Joanne | 2004-01-21 22:43:40 |
| For Mikey and Naneen | Thomas Edward Wright | Tom: This one tore up my insides. I let it. It is the least I can do to let this poem to do its work. In a universe which does not feel 'just' - in which five year old boys like Mikey can die in this horrific way, we have two choices. To harden our hearts and go on as if none of this touches us - *our* children do not have this disease! Or allow the poem to hurt until we realize that we must make a difference with the life we have! The one Mikey no longer has. Give the love we feel for him - through your words - out to every child and former child who is living, still. We all, eventually, will meet death. In a 'timely' way, statistically. Mikey met his in an 'untimely' way that belies our ability to do *anything* about it. But you have done something with this piece. You have let us experience a part of the sorrow and enormous outrage that comes with the loss of such a child. Mikey's life - precious beyond measure - moments irretrievable. Sadness unfathomable. Naneen's and the speaker's love (yours> also unfathomable. And reason to stick around and stay connected to one another. “Don’t worry Naneen. Be Hoppy.” It rhymes with poppy. "Mama says, Be hoppy - " See, we have to do it. . .if he could say that, we can live it. You share an enormous gift of sensitivity and mourning, of dark humor and things are they are = of individuals who must not be forgotten. Undone, Joanne | 2004-01-21 16:05:54 |
| untitled | Rachel F. Spinoza | Rachel: These green oranges, vulnerable fruit whose lives are so fleeting, seem overwhelmed by the element of fog - like a shroud of protection and also of burial. They almost seem to need our encouragement as they grow in the non-warmth. Oranges evoke the idea of sunlight, but these green ones are in fog, "bubble-wrapped" as if for consumption, enduring hardship. There is no sentimentality implied in the poem, but an acute awareness of their silent growth. Perhaps, like the green oranges, human young persist in spite of less than ideal surroundings. These oranges are permitted to ripen on trees in the orchard, and are blanketed by fog and not threatened by frost. Yet they are far from their native land of India (some say Viet Nam) and thus could symbolize all who must thrive in a climate which is unfamiliar. Orange is a warm, flamboyant, sociable color, while 'green' feels almost chilly and implies growth, youth and inexperience. The poem stimulates thought about something most often taken for granted. The imagery is sensual and I especially enjoyed your use of the letter 'g' which stimulates an earthy, grounded feeling - in contrast to the mist. I hope I haven't wandered too far from your intent for this piece. My best to you, Joanne | 2004-01-16 13:53:37 |
| japanese verse 36 (Ku Klux Klan) | Erzahl Leo M. Espino | Erzahl: This poem knocked the breath out of me. It is so stunningly true. I believe you have illustrated another powerful use of the poet's pen - justice! You write powerfully of beauty, and equally as powerfully of evil. "Knights with Kerosene" are words I will never forget. We must not forget, and I thank you for this timely reminder. As we celebrate the birthday of the great Martin Luther King, Jr., these words in your poem are extremely apropos. Profound! Many thanks for your thoughtfulness! All my best, Joanne | 2004-01-15 22:22:56 |
| Blue | Jane A Day | Jane: There. A longing has been filled. It is as if 'no time' has passed. Time as I know it collapses completely when a poem like this one comes along and absorbs me. It is like cool water to the feverish brow, colors to the blind. It is the whole reason I keep reading and writing. Finding this today was equal to the thrill (for me) of a spontaneous visit from the muse, and an outpouring of words upon the blank page. There was (is) a page in my consciousness that wanted this particular poem and no other. Enough! To the poem -- Earthy blue under the crow’s wing where black seems all but total. How like you to find exquisite beauty "under the crow's wing" - the bird so common and often disliked, the one with the raucous voice whose call is frequently grating. But you caught the beauty of the "earthy blue" - what a sublime expression, for one thinks of blue sky and water, but seldom, or never of earthiness in context with this color. It is warm under the wing, and perhaps the earthiness arises from that life which gave warmth. Where is the beauty in our own lives "where black seems all but total" you seem to be asking us. We may look with refreshed eyes. The bluesheen, the shaft and flow of dark and feather. Your crow is so very different from the tyger in Blake's forests, but this poem evokes a luminous awareness, a humble appreciation which I can't help but liken to Blake's trandscendant writings. The voice is very different, one which makes us slow, stop, quietly look, run our fingers mentally across the "bluesheen" and sigh. The baptismal blue of the ocean breaking for the first time over land and rock. The rhythm here is flawless and engulfing. I want to keep these words like cherished objects, dance to the music in them, celebrate creation's wonders. Earthy blue under eyelash smudge and vein, tired hand, and pressing thumb. With "smudge" I am taken to a purification ceremony. Perhaps the blue of the crow's wing is like a woman's blue-black hair that I recall seeing; it seemed lit from within. The blue streaking, bruising from the inside, to the late night roll and twitch of no sleep. Now the rhythm changes, the physical descriptions evoke a ship's "late night roll" and you show us that exhaustion opens other doorways. That "earthy blue" comes at a cost. I see now how the color contains such fascination, such magnetism. It is the color of the desired "beautiful sleep" which remains elusive to the writer. The waking dream is the poem, and the poem induces a dream-like state in me. Sleep, o beautiful sleep, must be blue. The closing line evokes these words from a poem by Sir Philip Sydney: "Come, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release" May "no sleep" turn to deep, refreshing sleep, dependable as the sunrise. Thank you for this immensely enjoyable piece. My best to you, Joanne | 2004-01-15 21:54:11 |
| Blue Tide | Mell W. Morris | Dear Nekk: This is a most fortunate, joyous day! To find your poem, just as I finished submitting one, is serendipity at its best - certain knowledge that we are *truly* not alone. To drink in the sublime beauty of your poem (for lack of a word splendiferous enough) knowing that it springs from your "state of disenchanted duality" is to share in the "thrill" which comes "from above" and fills us both. I believe strongly that all readers will be lifted with your work, your reference to the music which "lifts" your "down" and "turns the tide around" for truly music is the universal language beyond spoken or written. As always, your poem is filled with lustrous words, is original and fresh as daybreak and lilts with a grace that is a trademark "Mell" gift to readers. When my days are hazy with tristesse, my heart a burden of regret, my soul seems polarized. If you can emerge from such burdens with this exquisitely written poem, then my heart is lifted to the heavens. Wonderful use of allits and poetic skills all through this work, of course - but the main effect is to thrill my soul, though my mind makes note of your artistry. The 'z' in "hazy/polarized/seize/realize" is like the buzz from the very saw that makes misery. And the word "tristesse" is soul-deep suffering, and from such so often poets create their greatest works. I believe you have done so here. I compare you to my favorite poets - though the style and voice may be different, the impact is the same. I am more alive, more willing to endure for reading what you have created. Eidolons of entropy seize my self --Incredible and my up is buried in mire, no desire to please nor ascend. "my up is buried in mire" - absolutely brilliant Riven and unshriven in my state -- of disenchanted duality, I realize it is time to revise my reality. No one could write this as you have, for it comes from your core. It becomes my credo, too - as someone who lives in "disenchanted duality" and wants to *real*ize *real* ity!!! Amazing - I wish I could be the first to say "Only you." I mean, maybe today I am, but it has been said before by someone who admires your work equally. With that insight, a score of sun-lit airs pours inside to luminesce, to erase the shadows and replace them with lambent light, chiming as a timely angelus might. Music lifts my down, turns the tide Your words are luminous, as you carry us with you, lift our downs, give us the gift of music which is one of the greatest healing forces known. around, and supplies a sarabande - luscious sibilance of sound. All provided from above to thrill and fill me with undivided love. One of the most astonishing qualities of your work, Mell, is your consistency of tone over time. What seems to change is focus, and in this instance, precise language which focuses on a state of being which is in the process of becoming. There is no complaint, no whining, only acknowledgment. I find myself sustained by your words, rather than merely entertained or diverted. You help us move forward, too, as you share your insight. The gift of your poetry is that you share the beauty of language and of the deep pain and growth of living, and you make it unforgettable! You invite us as readers to find ourselves as well. I am thrilled by this poem and would be no matter who wrote it - but it could have been written by no other. Brava! And again I shout it, "BRAVA!" Your finest to date! I do not hesitate to make this claim, knowing I will love your next poem and perhaps feel as strongly about it. All my best, always Joanne | 2004-01-15 17:31:28 |
| Minipo’ms (inspired by Bienvenido N. Santos) | April Rose Ochinang Claessens | Dear April: I haven't yet read poems of Bienvenido's, but be assured that I am now about to seek them out. Your poem is intriguing and enjoyable - filled with surprising imagery. I think that that fine quality alone is well worth the read. But your work has much more to commend it, in this reader's view. I. I was having a glass of milk when I saw my poetry yawning; --what I meant by surprise! drag yourself out and catch a cupful of sunlight, I told it but it groaned and held on tight to its pyjamas and the next thing I knew it went back to bed and was snoring to my face. I absolutely LOVE the image of your poetry as "it groaned and/held on tight to its pyjamas"! You bring it alive on the page with this personification. This is a poet's poem, and as such especially delightful. It is laugh aloud droll - how dare it snore to your face! It made its own little joke by allowing this poem to come out to play, however. We are the richer for it. II. My poems slept and dreamed of the Statue of Liberty and the Golden Gate; when they awoke they were wearing stars and stripes and had snowballs in their hands. Indeed! So much of the nation is covered deep in snow, it's no wonder your poems dreamed found playful delight in forming them, ready to toss at the reader's blinking eyes. Now I long to find some Santos poems. This one, which its wry characterizations and colorful, lively images intrigues me greatly. I believe it deserves an "A+" for originality and for making us smile. Now we are going to be the wiser and richer for the poem itself, and for your introduction of the minipo'ms to us. Thank you for this whimsical, lilting interlude! I feel happier for having come this way. All my best, Joanne | 2004-01-15 15:34:32 |
| Green | siddharth Gopalakrishna | Dear Siddharth: It is a pleasure to read a newer member's work. I am delighted to find your poem and hope my comments may be useful and encouraging to you. I absolutely love "Grass it drapes/green" and "oh! the smell of green"! You portray green with fluid visual imagery, with sensory cues to stir the readers' memories. But this poem is much more than a paean to one of nature's most glorious colors. You describe emotions which may be destructive, inimitable enemies to ourselves and to others. I thought they were friends, Thought (I) knew them well, --suggest using a capital "I" somewhere, a monster, green was leading them to hell From a pleasurable color to a "monster green" - you show us the varieties of this thought and expand your idea aptly and intriguingly. Green! also colours envy, sight of which breaks my heart, deadliest of the sins, I feel (Yes, so very true!) for it poisons,without reason, every part It comes from the knowledge, they (must) realize is untrue, --perhaps "must" would clarify your striking thought here yet believe they do, it's ecstatic feeding the green goo -- WONDERFUL! The monster in green, I have felt the disease too(;) forgiveness while you still can, is the only cure!! I'd suggest using "forgive" in line 3 above, for clarity - or, "practice" or "offer" before "forgiveness" as the word is a noun which must have a verb as companion. Those grammatical minor points aside, your vivid poem makes its theme abundantly clear, with straight-forward charm. I believe readers will recognize this quality within themselves and greatly benefit from your generous offering of insight. I enjoyed this piece immensely. All my best wishes for your success, Joanne | 2004-01-15 15:03:59 |
| Love As A Postcard | Rick Barnes | Rick: I read this offering yesterday and wanted time to allow the words to soak in before responding. Finding a poem of yours ranks with some of my life's best moments of delight. (You may be aware of this.) As I've learned to do from you, I cannot help but go deeper than the surface of this work. And the surface of it is a commendable poem on disappointment at only receiving "love as a postcard." A bit of regret in response to the little, which "is all she sent." I may wander into the realm of the speculative, with your permission, in these comments. Hmmm. Seems as if our hero has had a symbolic visit from "Love" - and it is a singular signal, coming as it does, "alone in the post" and particularly of note as it occurs on a day when "most/Folks received no mail at all." We, reading, are the "most folks" which are now receiving your "mail." What is a postcard, after all, but condensed communication, information or news that is coming our way. Our hero really does recognize that this signal is an important one. He can't be in the shoes or observe through the eyes of 'those other folks' who, he states, didn't receive any mail. He is aware of the conundrum of having received love 'as' (disguised?) a postcard. A bit of circumlocution, I know, but it takes me a lot of words to dance around your few pithy ones. And dancing around is all I am doing. Observing the singularity of this arrival of a 'postcard' has caught the attention of the speaker. Does his observation of it change its meaning? The one who sent the postcard, the Someone Near, as 'he' defines 'her' may represent a sweetheart, who has taken up residence in another part of the world (known to our hero as a 'place') but is elusive as mercury. If they never meet again, the shared memories fade, and their worlds slowly return to almost their previous separateness. They'll never be the same again, but our hero & Someone Near are still themselves. How do such disparate consciousnesses relate to one another? Were they at one time united?? When one 'being' splits into two, how do we then look at them? If we have observed them both - at the moment of their separation, they each remain 'local' - that is, separate. The person who speaks and "Someone Near" can never be rejoined as one entity again, or can they? What if we observe each of them a second time? If it were not for the first observation, we would know nothing about their relationship 'cause there wouldn't be one. Oh, dang, I cannot hold this thought! Love as a postcard Hosted a scene So damned serene I wished I were there. I am laughing here - feeling that the joke is on me. The speaker WAS/IS there! Observing it yet remaining distant from it is an impossible point of view, IMO. Love as a post card Said, “Wish you were here.” And on the back in faded ink; Signed, Someone Near. Maybe there is no "one reality" and to peek at it as "Love as a postcard" may make one yearn and hunger for their to BE one! If time is about *direction* then the faded ink on the card implies that the reader of it perceives the writing to have happened in the "faded" past; however, "Someone Near" remains accurate, as the 'arrow of time' is but an illusion. In that case, our hero doesn't need to fret as he appears to be doing below: I thought I knew love better And deserved at least a letter. But as quickly as love came, And as swiftly as love went, Love as a postcard Is all she sent... Ya gotta love this guy! His "quickly" and "swiftly" maybe are hints that he kind of does understand that the 'particle' of the postcard and the 'wave' of the letter he felt he deserved are a matter of 'how' and 'where' he looks at the situation. My perception is that he looks at it in a droll way and his quiet smile is not one of resignation but of recognition. They - our hero and his "Someone Near" - are not separate, after all. (Talk about reading into things! If I am errant in this speculation, I am off the map.) But the poem is a greater treasure than my meanderings can enfold. I need to walk around it a few more time, just to admire. As ever, admiringly Joanne | 2004-01-14 18:26:32 |
| A Life Sentence | Mell W. Morris | Mell: This melancholy work seems a haunting commentary on the effect of one person of undisputed effect on the speaker - her mother. It is a cautionary tale, I think, for those still in relationship with offspring or a mother. These effects we have on one another, the cross-generational duties and dreads, afflict all of us at one time or another. In this work, there is no attempt to 'pretty-up' or rationalize the behavior and outlook of the parent, but instead a rendering of her as she is experienced by the speaker as disdainful and derisive. And yet, the circumstances call for compassionate response now that, so to speak, the shoe is "on the other foot." "Another day" is pronounced in a weary tone, though the scene is luxuriant and lovely; someone's presence overwhelms the surroundings: "My mother's face at the window like a full moon." Although the scene is only partially lighted, we glimpse intense beauty which contrasts with the "eerie visage" in the window, "like a full moon." The notion of the full moon has long been associated with lunacy, with hospital emergency rooms filled with accident victims and the inebriated. Our sense of the moon's "too-muchness" comes through with clarity in the early part of this work, highlighting the mother's persona as overbearing -- "prolix pain" gives an unmistakable impression of drawn-out misery, signaling the reader with the repeated plosives that the speaker has taken blows which are still resounding. And "time served" is far from the idyllic childhood that all children deserve but few receive. Hard g's in "granted/gleaned/gestures" that there were hard knocks aplenty - not necessarily of the physical type, but ones which lacked softness and kindness -- "no soft words of compassion" says it completely vividly. And "a chronicity of frowns" is eloquently phrased. We are there with the speaker, but we don't want to be there any longer than necessary. It is a sad commentary because all children crave love and tenderness, and deserve same. Now it's my fate to serve another sentence here, assisting her with details of earthly departure. These days when I walk outside for a glimpse of beauty in her garden, I sense Mother's stare and her willing my return to her lair. I feel her reach as an undertow, a desperate go at pulling me to her side and along for the ride as she leaves for a final unknown destination. Bleakness, loss of hope and a surrendering to despair seem overwhelming here. The mother's imminent death seems to make her want to hold her daughter captive, as if in maintaining a grasping hold she could forestall the future. It is clear that she must feel inwardly empty and is attempting to force a kind of "oneness" with her daughter which is more like an imprisonment. The last lines leave us with the impression that the speaker will be released from extreme bondage when the mother "leaves for a final unknown destination" but there is also more than a hint of concern for the mother's ultimate destiny, at least in this reader's opinion. It is impossible, this poem seems to show us, to separate yearning for what never was and never can be from mourning, relief, guilt, resentment and underlying, love unreturned. It is harder to let go of those who never fully acknowledged us yet helped to frame the very being that we have become. Excellent writing on an agonizing dilemma. I am torn between wanting to offer comfort and reading the poem as a poem, as well as recalling those in my life who left a legacy of yearning for what can never be. As always, your poetry reaches the far places in my heart. Brava! All my best, Joanne | 2004-01-13 13:15:23 |
| The Apostrophe: Enos at the Bacchanalia in Cozumel | Thomas Edward Wright | Tom: I looked up "Enos" and found it to be the Fourth book in the Book of Mormon. "Enos, the son of Jacob, briefly records his testimony and conversion experience, along with prophetic promises made personally to him by the Lord." LDS FAQ, BYU website. In this "apostrophe" the writer (Enos?) addresses a missing or rhetorical persona. I found the reference to Cozumel fascinating, and uncovered the following informtaion: Ancient Mayans considered the island as the home of Ixchel, goddess of love and fertility; future wives made a pilgrimage from the mainland at least once. Today, Cozumel has become a dream destination for nature lovers, as is this writer. I noted that the first letter of each capitalized word before "Cozumel" read backwards spells "BEAT." I am onto something! Or *on* something - stronger than coffee?? (http://viva-cozumel.com) Looking at the poem from another angle, it could be an anti-war statement, with the words "Freedom" and "Patriots" featured prominently. However, there are terms which could symbolize a sexual emphasis, such as "tender inches of wealthy endowment" and "tight and wet inside." References to "altar boy" and "maxima, minima" may reference a politico-sexual-religious theme that is a bit beyond this reader's current grasp. It's beyond me, but fascinating. I am intrigued and anticipating what others will see in this Rorschach-like work. The last two words could be read in a variety of ways, with different emphases: "WHAT, Patriots?" or "What PATRIOTS!" or "WHAT! Patriots?" Or "What 'patriots'?" Curious, LeJoanne | 2004-01-12 16:05:33 |
| As to the Site of the Preservation of Memories | Thomas Edward Wright | Dear Tom: Why is it that the best writing seems to come from the deepest kind of emotion? This is as authentic as writing gets, in my opinion. I read it a few weeks ago and was overwhelmed with my own identification - so visceral - so truthful. So sad. All of these internal thoughts are familiar territory to me. I wish it were not so for either of us. Maybe this is not your own circumstance; it could be based on empathy for your patients. But I don't think so. The ring of truth is so thunderous. The admixture of "pine box", with Cocoa, "blindly foll’wing her nose" and the gentle rhytm and rhyme of "deep in the wood where the raspberry grows" contains enough sorrow and love to tear one's heart in half. As if I were not already undone, then you write -- I’ll get her drunk and – I remember she’s an alcoholic. I could use that now. But we don’t. We just smile and hug and smile and say “See you soon” and run and hide and cry. The last line above is exactly how we are - how I am - how I wish I were not. Let me add my words admiration for this piercing work to those of others. It truly deserves at least the recognition of first place in this contest, but better yet, wider publication. But you've said "But through us she'll live on - in here" as if addressing us at TPL, as if pointing to the "in here" of this waystation in cyberspace. I am undone by this poem - perhaps a poor excuse for my lack of a coherent response to your poem, to you. The "in here" might be within your heart, which I suspect is a vast space. I think every adult who has stood beside a parent with such an illness will know the exact truth of your words. How I wish things could be different. How I want to go back and do it all over again, only better. Joanne | 2004-01-06 22:20:11 |
| Snow ( A Rondolet ) | Drenda D. Cooper | Drenda: I could swear that I've already critiqued this! I've read it several times, and admired, and responded with remarks - but only "in my head" it seems! I hope you won't mind this last minute response. I love this piece!! It happens that where I live (you may be hearing about it on the news) is deep in snow - in some areas, blizzard warnings are still in effect - and the loveliness is breath-taking if hazardous. You used sound like a master musician here - to great effect. Soft, falling snow White feathers floating to the ground - exquisite! In silent flow 'Til rising winds begin to blow -- splendid assonance of 'i' And whirl with wailing, mournful sound - and consonance of 'w' Flurries of fragile flakes around -- WONDERFUL! In sunset's glow. Simply lovely in every way possible! I can 'hear' a melody in this, and wonder if you heard one when you wrote it, as well. You left a trail of beauty with your words. The rhythm is perfect and the imagery sublime. If this is your first, I can't wait to read your second attempt! All my best, Joanne | 2004-01-06 21:30:27 |
| Where Elliott Waits | Terrye Godown | Dear Terrye: I had to revisit this poem, as I read your critique of Carolyn's "Good-bye to Grizz." I remembered that I especially loved it. I love it even more, now, as my daughter has a chocolate lab named, "Cucumber" whom I love intensely. I know that I reviewed it once before but I wanted to comment once again. Through this gateway built of timber Past the trees tossing glints off the pond You’ll see a pathway leading somewhere... The “Rainbow Bridge” lies beyond The "somewhere" leaves the reader to behold each one's 'inner bridge.' It is a bridge I long to cross when the time is right. Many await me there. The list is long, and your poem serves to remind me of the many blessings of canine and feline companions along life's way. Each reader will view his or her own scrapbook of memories. If you don't mind my asking, would you consider re-submitting this one some time soon? As afternoon's warmth receded, one October day The cool, Fall breeze beckoned one last time It whistled through your silent darkness --this passage has an exquisite, eerie beauty About six years past your prime As afternoon fell, crisped by autumn air Under a sky of azure, framing red and gold -- WONDERFUL! You took your last soulful soujourn - exquisite "sou" sounds and parted forever from your fold - But you were loved and lived unchained.. Somehow, that must have been enough Undaunted, your weary paws responded Sunlight’s last dance on faded buff -- this is what brought tears once more And so we bid you farewell old friend The cool wind whispers adieu We know you’ve reached the meadow Where all life begins anew Terrye: You've a wonderful gift for eliciting emotions for the reader of your poetry. I am looking forward to reading something new by you sometime soon. All my best, Joanne Each Fall will paint your shadow Faithful companions are all too few So meet us at the Rainbow Bridge That day when we cross over too | 2004-01-06 15:49:21 |
| Visions of Yesterday | Claire H. Currier | Dear Claire: This rare treat is lovely! I love the way you've made it vivid with abundant imagery, present tense, and warm memories. Though the occasion of the anniversary is sad, the joy within the poem communicates complete trust in reconciliation for your parents. Such spiritual reassurance is a strengthener of faith and hope for us all. I think you have captured something else very important here, as well. As one grows older, the blending of the past, present and future increases; when you write "as clear as day" the carity of this melding is sublime. It is what we hope for but do not completely realize until we are close to that "gate" - or so it seems to me. As I close my eyes to rest Visions of yesterday Float about inside my head -- wonderful assonance of "close/float/row/boat/poles" for example! As clear as day I see you there Gathering your fishing gear Row boat ready to go Filled with Buckets, worms and poles Off you go my love Catch us a good meal Tonight we shall have A fish fry I am smiling with the picture of the two enjoying a fragrant repast together once more. I love that you placed this is present tense. It is so immediate and real. Daybreak is yet to come (A hint that your mother is not ready to meet him yet?) The children sleep I find myself rocking On the inside porch Watching the diamonds Dance across the lake What an exquisite image - one can see the "diamonds dance across the lake" through the speaker's eyes with delight and anticipation. Happier days of long ago Shared together, you and I Tucked in the lining of my heart Forever and always Ready to spring forth Whenever I close My eyes to rest The unsaid thought here, but implied, is that when the time comes for those eyes to close for the 'final' rest, they will open to the sight of the beloved! It has been forty years Since you went away I am now ninety two And still waiting for you To join me on the inside porch Watching our diamonds Dance across the lake Lovely in every way. I wanted you to know how much I appreciate these "diamonds" from your heart to ours. Blessings to you and your mom! All my best, Joanne | 2004-01-06 13:58:10 |
| The Stoop | Mell W. Morris | Dear Mell:
Your poem this Sunday morning is like hearing a loved psalm, or the taste of]
a breakfast prepared by a loved one. It is something to savor and return to,
over and over again. I rain my eyes over the lines, then stopped and began
again, as sensory memories and shivery delights of color and sound played
through my mind like a Winton Marsalis profusion of "Where or When" - (I am
listening to him now!) Reading your poem, I am reminded of what Stanley
Crouch once wrote about Winton: "The most important thing about Marsalis is
that he truly loves to communicate the essences of music to his fellow musicians
and to his audiences." I think that *you* do this with poetry! You are, in my
estimation, a *poet's poet* as well as someone whose work is certainly loved
by those who are lucky enough to read your melodic creations.
Marmalade of gold with orange
striations, fresh-snipped mint,
crumbs from a mother's array
of treats, and a child's sweet face.
Luscious tidbits of sound such as 'ar/ra' in "marmalade/orange/array" are only
an appetizer to the main feast. The sounds within "fresh-snipped mint" are truly
onomatopoetic. One can smell the mint from the cut edges, hear the scissors'
snip. I had to return to the first line at least five times to immerse myself
in its luxury again and again.
The herb will wilt soon like energy
in late afternoon and the child runs
outside to play while the light lasts.
A mint sprig in her tea for viewing
Lovely, liquid, lilting 'ill/ilt/ild/ile/li' infuses L1, 2 and 3 especially.
I am endlessly fascinated with the perfection of even the look of the letters
in L4, for example, my eye catching on the 'i' of "mint/sprig/in/viewing" and
on the earthy 'g' of "sprig/viewing." One can almost see this as written in
calligraphic letters, as well as hear it as music.
a sea of persimmon, cinnabar,
and then grape-deep tints of sunset.
And so begins a tremolo of night's
timbre, its color tone. Scene
Here I almost felt as if I'd overdosed on exotic tastes, colors, scents, and
above all, sounds. "tremolo of night's/timbre" is brilliant and exhilarating.
No one but you could write "grape-deep tints of sunset" and have me both
ecstatic and envious! The languorous "sea of persimmon" meets the "grape-deep"
of sunset, and we surrender to the desire to descend into "night's timbre" -
almost in trance at this point. But my chills haven't subsided enough to
endure the frisson of what you deliver in the next stanza:
from the stoop: a panorama
of nature against a stellar backdrop
of cosmic curtains. Child at her side,
the mother knows they will survive
Within this stanza is the whole of what we need. The nourishment of
"nature against a stellar backdrop" implies spirit or at the very
least, divine beauty and meaning. With the addition of "cosmic curtains"
mother and child are surrounded by a pervasive splendor that inspires hope -
truly what is needed for survival! The clue that may be taken from your
exquisite eloquence (at least for this reader) is "God's handwriting"
as Emerson once wrote of beauty.
any dearth or paucity because the earth
always provides. A certain fertile smell
tells that without light, unseen life
goes on until the sprout of dawn.
You know I love "dearth/earth" but I have to say that these words, combined with "fertile"
are in themselves a song, a paean of gratitude for "unseen life." I read 'spirit' here,
as well as a multiplicity of earth's minute lifeforms. Your "a certain fertile smell" evokes
a plethora of memories of the scent of fresh dug earth, of holy, hidden things within
the planet that sustains our lives. No mere embodiment of minerals, you show us her as
a divine creation, if I may use that word one more time. | 2004-01-04 15:10:35 |
| Poetry (in the Tradition of Science) | Jordan Brendez Bandojo | Jordan: I couldn't pass this by! Anything with the word "science" in the title, along with "poetry" is sure to catch my attention! Here are my favorite excerpts" "mothballs in my closet vanish without a word" What scintillating imagery! I will respect them more following this, as they change form, becoming 'invisible' and yet - they leave their scent as a reminder of their favors to us. Moon looms from glowing --Mmmm! "Moon looms" is a gorgeous phrase. seat to shine over the shore at eventide. As well, the soft sounds of 'sh' in "shine/shore" are truly a treat. Planets revolve around Phoebus Apollo as they rotate about their axes. ('he', 'his') Here you refer to the Sun god, as well as being the god of prophesy, poetry, music and healing. I think this title should be considered as singular, as Apollo is also known as "Phoebus Apollo" and this is one being. Light dances over Einstein's mind... Ah, what Physics! Ah, what poetry! I love it!! Father's sperm cell converses with mother's egg cell. Now I breathe and verse. Again, very droll writing - for example in "converses/verse" - what a sumptuous concoction you have made for our delectation, once more. Applause!! All my best, Joanne | 2003-12-26 16:01:50 |
| Life at ThePoeticLink | Jordan Brendez Bandojo | Dear Jordan:
What a delightful confection of a poem! I read it with enjoyment, and am honored
to find my name. You have given a gift with this piece which we will treasure
long past the "void pixel."
"July 2000 I was born" - a story of your birth here as a poet!
How witty - the "virgin pen" and the "meadow of verses"! As well as the pun of
"net of poetic horizons."
Puerile in my ways, (As we all are, at the beginning, I believe.)
I dared take up the yolk (Yoke? Or are you punning? | 2003-12-26 15:43:14 |
| An Old Man's Song On Christmas Eve | Rick Barnes | Rick: This warm, nourishing poem is also a beacon. It is to the extent that we are able to "reach beyond my own affairs" that we truly live. And so this is a more than able offering for the Christmas season. There is not a smidgeon of preachiness in this work, but simply a model to observe and follow as one will. And of course the poetics are pure Rick Barnes. I have naught but my memories This night to sing to me, Yet the song is sung by everyone Who once reached out to me. Perhaps in one sense we all consist of our memories, at least in part. And all are part of one another, hence shared memories, though we may not have met. The "old man" could be anyone, everyone. And so I sing in praise of reach And offer silent prayer, That my own reach may too extend Beyond my own affairs. The quatrain above could exist as a poem in its own right. The prayer is "silent" and does not call attention to itself, and it invites everyone in. "Reach" is the one balm for loneliness, I believe, and could be defined as that force in the universe known as 'love' - a much-overused word - the cohesive element which binds all things together. Much as the warmth of a distant fire Warms sea and earth and sand, The warmth of your touch does not require The presence of your hand. Your closing stanza exemplifies what it describes so aptly - "warmth" and "touch" in the sense that it reaches the reader (this reader) with a bit of its "distant fire" and does not fail to enlighten and encourage. We are that, I think, to one another on this link - "distant fire" much like stars, whose distance is unfathomable, and yet these inspire us by their ineffable beauty. Do the stars do this with the intent and focus of your poem? Are we stars to one another? I leave the answers to these questions to another. My response is one of joy and a sense of brother(sister)hood. A finer gift could not be found. Many thanks for this celebratory offering during this time of diminished light from the physical sun. I think that at this season the light of the spirit shines even brighter, as you ably demonstrate in this poem. And the light can only glow more brightly from this point. Bravo! All my best, Joanne | 2003-12-26 12:25:41 |
| Saluting Robert Creeley | Mell W. Morris | Dear Mell: No one - NO ONE - writes the way you do! I enter into your poems with an anticipation I can only liken to certain pleasurable obsessions of mine, such as encountering a book I've longed to find, or discovering a new, thrilling author, or -- entering a flower nursery for the first time in spring, with full knowledge that I am going to fall in love, over and over again, relishing the scents and colors. And taking home more of them than I can rightfully claim as my share of joy. Reading this poem just now is like that for me. Dew-jeweled, fresh, renewed. Raindrops filled with treasure as a river pleasuring in its persistence. What can I say in response to such intense linguistic "pleasuring" but "ahhhhhhhh"? You capture the movement of water, the thrilling sparkles of dew, rain and rivers with your liquid sibilance and exquisite sounds, as in "dew-jeweled/renewed" and "treasure/pleasuring." To find emptiness is to fill it, even his words with aching holes. Smoke signals are noisy compared to his spare speech: simple, select, rare. --- "compared/spare/rare" -- I am dumbfounded with the beauty here Merely a mouth like Noah's dove. --WONDERFUL! Oh! The final two lines have sent into ecstasy. As Creeley writes in "Water Music", "The words are a beautiful music. The words bounce like in water." Your poem honors him and enchants me. It will take its place with your finest, and with the finest I've read on this link! Kudos, and garlands tossed. . . All my best, L.L. | 2003-12-20 18:57:55 |
| Establishing Vocabulary | Mell W. Morris | Dear Mell: I see what I have missed, while away from the link! If this is a sample, I have been in the wrong places. I ought to have been here, nourishing my soul and mind with your 'spiritual lexicon' - truly. Nascent, incipient man, requiring spans of years to acquire the lexis of his clan. Upon mastery, some are elated by such uncalculated possibilities: a noun, a verb, every word incantatory, a chant of glory. The tyro poet forms a rhyme, his first line of harmony. With "nascent/spans/clan/mastery/incantatory/chant" you have thrilled me through and through. I can't compare this to anything, except transcendent music. Every word counts for a plethora of allusions, sound combinations, imageries and delights. They've set my sensorium humming. This poem is a splendid example of 'inspiring' in the truest sense. And at the end of each day, the sun sinks to think and to fathom. If only the perplexed poet imitated the cogitative sun, could see in which lexicon he might reach the halcyon, spiritual realm, his soul would be appeased. To please the empyrean is his goal and his prime concern is to learn the meter to the utmost rung that he, yet incomplete, could greet --- SUBLIME Charmingly wise personification of the sun, who "sinks to think." The sonic dances of your plosives in "perplexed/poet/appeased/please/prime" are energetic and scintillating. Such slant-rhymes as "lexicon/halcyon" add an almost syncopated feeling to this joyous descant to language. the Lord of tongues. And the denouement of this work is a surprising, equally thrilling one: greeting the "Lord of tongues." This is one of your finest - without doubt. What can I say? I can only bow before your gift, presented to all with your typical grace. Kudos! All my best, Joanne | 2003-12-19 16:40:49 |
| The Blizzard (A Story Poem) | Drenda D. Cooper | Drenda: Your narrative poem is a great treat to me after an absence from the link. It is ambitious - and I had the feeling while reading it that it 'wrote' itself, with your aid. It felt, I think, like a story waiting in your subconscious - rather like an archetype, I think. The story of the hunter and the hunted is not a new theme, but there is a unique quality to this one which very much appeals to me - gives me deeply felt 'shivers' of my own. As does all of your poetry, this one affects me as a 'soulful' work - and in it you allow us to view the hunter, the white-tail buck, and ourselves. I experienced this poem as an allegory for life. This archer is focused on a specific direction with clarity and single-mindedness, but still, loses his way (becomes blind) and dies in the end. Is this not the fate of each of us, in one sense? He hunted "alone and only" --wonderful assonance here with bow and arrow. In his "haste this day" he had -- and here not "waited for the latest" -- and here! on the weather. As we experience life as individuals, we are truly alone, at least in one sense. We move ahead or through time without waiting for the "latest on the weather" as well, for we, too, must experience the hazards of life on earth, whether we must hunt for our food, like the protagonist in this story, or seek to understand the meaning (weather) of our experience. With light feather steps he followed fresh deer tracks deep into the snowy wood; then stopped abruptly, hearing a crackle pierce the silence. The rhyme of "weather/feather" is thrilling, as are the soft fricatives in "feather/fresh" -- so suggestive of the soft element of snow. I love the sounds within "light/silence." I've always thought of snow as a sign of purity and cleansing. It can also represent blocked or frozen emotions - as you develop the poem, the hunter's "frozen heart" takes on greater meaning. Perhaps there is a purification suggested by his death. In a clearing just ahead it stood. Motionless, behind a tree the hunter barely breathed lest the white-tail buck sense his presence. There is a sense of awe, of wonder, which intensifies with each line. We hold our breath with the hunter. Again, I am enthralled with the sonics you've used throughout - for example in "sense/presence." There is a reminder here, I think, that in a sense we are "volunteers" as was the deer. This makes him no less magnificent - more so, I think. Though in one sense he is defenseless, he remains majestic and powerful, as it is he who leads the hunter. Time seemed suspended as the hunter's arrow flew. In that same instant the deer knew and with a graceful arch leapt across a fallen birch. He bled a crimson trail that led the hunter on his final chase. A "fallen birch" suggests to me a failing of spiritual development. The deer "leapt across" this - and I can't help but draw a Christian analogy - as we read that the Christ bled for humanity, and led as a way-shower. You gave me as a reader a sense of suspended time, as well. I sensed a strong unity between hunter and hunted, as if each were part of the same consciousness. "In that same instant the deer/knew" described a kind of affinity that cannot be portrayed in another way, in my opinion. The connection between these two beings is a holy one. "graceful" speaks to me of grace. The sounds within "arch" and "birch" are reminiscent for this reader of Robert Frost's "Birches" - also possibly because the poem, while different in style, conveys a sense of personal and impersonal destiny as "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" did for me. A trail that quickly disappeared beneath a cold white sheet of blinding blizzard that numbed the hunter's heart and froze his feet. Of course above I think of the body underneath "a cold white sheet" in death, as in a hospital. What was the quality of the blizzard that "numbed the hunter's heart" as well as freezing his feet? Is it the quality of the experience of life on earth - the spirit being numbed by encasement in matter so that divine origins are forgotten? Above, I wanted to see "that" in another place than at the end of line, but I have no suggestions. I am loathe to tamper with this piece, as its lyricism speaks to me eloquently as it is written. The blizzard is both "blinding" and numbs the hunter's heart. It evokes for this reader, at least, the temporary blindness experienced while in the body. The white-tail buck some way ahead heaved his final sigh, then found peace; buried soon beneath a mound of ice. In dreams, ice can symbolize frozen emotions. The buck achieves a kind of immortality in this poem. As we read, he dies. As we begin to read again, he is still heading away from the hunter, leading the way with a "crimson trail" and ultimately finding peace. We can cycle through the poem again and again - and yet, it doesn't end. The deer and the hunter have become a part of my consciousness. The deer "buried" beneath the "mound of ice" is like the living spirit of us, "buried" in temporal life, in materiality, in frozen actions and emotions. We will achieve peace, too, I believe strongly. Everything about this poem suggests a cycle which does not end with the death of the deer or the hunter, nor with the discovery by the ranger nor with his recounting. Hopelessly lost in dense forest, the exhausted hunter numbly stumbled on. -- WONDERFUL! His last thoughts likely were of warmth, of hearth, and loved ones at home. Next day a ranger happening upon the hunter knelt to get a closer look. He felt a sudden shiver as he peered into that stony face; then noted on the hunter's back his quiver still in place. The ranger later would recount the tale of how he found that day two frozen forms; first the hunter, then, a mere ten yards away lay his white-tail prey. And we are the listeners. And the hunter, and the Deer. And the ranger, recounting. The suggestion is that the hunter achieved a kind of immortality in his frozen state, "quiver still in place." I can't help but associate this image with my belief that our stillness in death is a temporary state, followed by the beginning of our 'true' life. Forgive me for projecting my own images and interpretations on your work. It is deeply affecting, and I feel that it will resonate with me for some time to come. Drenda, thank you for this incredibly layered work. I do not feel that I have done it justice in my comments, but must leave my remarks "as is" for they are the response from my deeper self. All my best, Joanne | 2003-12-17 23:18:24 |
| Missing | marilyn terwilleger | Dear Marilyn: This is such a personal poem of loss. Your conversational language makes the poem's impact even greater. Holidays are hardest for me, too. I don't think we ever 'get over' the loss of a beloved spouse, child, or parent, but merely get used to the anguish. Your detailing of the everyday things missed most and the lasting heartache makes this a deeply moving and poignant work. "Sundays sometimes make me cry" The line above could be a song title or an alternate poem title. I smiled at the rhyme of "pie/cry" because it is for such ordinary things that we yearn most. Probably you baked wonderful pies which he enjoyed and you recall his pleasure and appreciation of your baking. After my son's death, a friend brought over a pan of lasagna, and I surprised her by bursting into tears. That had been his favorite meal, along with garlic bread. I've noticed night-times are bad because my bed always seems to grow larger I miss him in summer just a tad but winter's chill inflames my ardor I love the slant rhyme of "larger/ardor" and feel the contrast of "chill/inflames" adds greatly to the intensity of this piece. It is clear that it is heartfelt. I recogize the irony of "just a tad" because, of course, you must miss him enormously all of the time. But those times of cozy snuggling under warm covers were especially intimate. Our bodies remember the physical presence of the lost loved one, and especially with the changes of season, I believe. I miss him when pines whisper and streams ripple or when I make pancakes I miss him at noon but more at supper the years go by but never my heartaches You've got me crying again, Marilyn. What has helped me some, with my own losses, is believing God can shine through the opening, the ragged hole in a heart ripped open by death. It is this grace which shines in your poem. Another title might be "When Pines Whisper." Somehow, I wanted a more glorious title for this splendid poem. However, it is perfect 'as is' for it reaches into the reader's heart with its honesty and sorrow. May God continue to bless and heal your pain. All my best, Joanne | 2003-12-03 15:07:49 |
| Mirrors Have Memories | Annette L Cowling | Annette: I can't resist this! I hope you will forgive me, but I'm going to make some suggestions for change, which I seldom do. I strongly feel that a poem belongs to its author, and as such, is that individual's unique expression. This one is so close to perfection - and it would not let me leave it and pass on without writing with candor to its author. Discovering a "new" poet (new to me) is one of life's great thrills. I found that irresistible something in your poem - maybe it's the melancholy or the rhythm of your voice - I don't know which. Here's my first suggestion: I think your first line below would make an exquisite title, because of its cadence - and the word "maybe." You let the reader ponder on this idea with this line, more so than with the original title. The faint suggestion, if you see what I mean, is more 'mirror-like' really. And then, beginning with the second line as first -- "And I should toss you out." ...could bring the reader to attention sharply. I love your addressing the mirror as "you" for it brings up all kinds of allusions, at least for this reader. The ideas coming streaming - toss out the "you" of the 'self' which reflected back, the 'other' or "deaths and broken dreams." I'm not sure what you have all seen, (I'm not sure of what you may have seen - ?) Maybe deaths and broken dreams. Your vintage charm from long ago Must be what attracted me so. As long as I've gone out on this limb to make suggestions, what about dividing the lines into quatrains? And ending with a final couplet? I might leave the reader dangling, and not repeat "Maybe mirrors have memories" if you do decide to use that first line as your title, and if you are interested in revising this way. See what you think. Here's how I visualized it while reading. Toss out these suggestions if they do not fit your vision for this piece. But what sadness has gathered Like moss over ancient stones, And stares back at me When I am the most alone? (deeping evocative) I never underestimate the power Of sadness, and its insane hold on me. Ending with the line above seems apropos as it is, in this reader's opinion, the most powerful of the work. I've enjoyed this piece immensely, and look forward to reading other poems you've written. All my best, Joanne | 2003-11-21 22:59:05 |
| Haiku | Drenda D. Cooper | Dear Drenda: What a lovely surprise to find your "Haiku." I have been away from home, so very limited activity on the site until today. I am delighted that you have submitted this for comment. silent reflections lost in the mirror of time repeat history It isn't cliche to this reader. The idea of reflections repeating themselves in a mirror is a very metaphysical idea to me. It is a small, perfect gem, IMO. Repeated o's and r's give it a soft ambience. I see in my mind's eye a very old mirror. And cannot help but think of a program I viewed recently which referred to the idea of parallel universes, of probabilities. Perhaps the probabilities are mirror-like with one another. This is where this poem takes me! Thank you for this. All my best, Joanne | 2003-11-21 19:00:27 |
| The Other Side | Mell W. Morris | Dear Mell: I imagine you can guess that I am going to have a strong reaction to this poem! It is excellent as a poem - constructed with your trademark ease of reading and musicality. All of the elements I love best in your poetry are present. The subtle change in voice and the poem's theme suggest a transition or transformation of a spiritual nature, yet there is nothing in the least preachy or doctrinaire in this work. It is, above all, a work of art. Any philosophical directions I find reflected in it may or may not have been your intent - they could simply be my own projection. "The Other Side" as a title evokes for me the realm of spirit. There is a book with this title, a compilation by a psychic of her experiences with the departed. The poem addresses traversing one state of being to another - so that, once again, a poem of yours has universal application and appeal, though very much a personal expression by the poet. There's something about a bridge that pleases my senses and eases my spirit. Evolved from man's resolve to cross an abyss, ravine, or the sheen of a river, it becomes as sleepless as the water that runs under. A "bridge" may serve as a metaphor for any transition, as in "a bridge over troubled water." For going from one experience to another. It may be symbolic of the speaker's personal experience of reality undergoing change. In line three, the word "spirit" gives me chills. The impression of a bridge leading from the physical earth life to the life of the spirit overwhelms me now, as it did when I first read the work. The idea of crossing "an abyss" or "a river" further suggest the final crossing of death of the body, at least to this reader. It is always a sign of movement and change, in any case. The bridge, which has "evolved from man's resolve" has become "as sleepless" as the "water that runs under." It is only the body which sleeps, never the soul. Your trademark internal rhymes, for example, in "evolved/resolve" and "pleases/eases" are soothing, and yet, I am disquieted. I am caught up in pondering the abyss, the ravine, the "sheen of a river" which must be crossed. The "water" that "runs under" is one of the most universal symbols. It is usually connected to emotions, intuitions, psychic impressions (there's that word again!) and of course the subconscious mind. It is, as well, the symbol of archetypal feminine energy. In Christian rites, water represents life, death, and resurrection. The water "that runs under" is deep. My favorite bridges are not formal, turreted arches but the old wooden, spavined spans that rattle as I pass. If I stick with the metaphor of a bridge as a means of transition, I lose something here. Perhaps a bridge can also represent religious rites, those which can enhance our "ease" of passing over from one realm of existence into another. In this case, the speaker eschews "formal" religion, prefering "old wooden" - comfortable and familiar. I love the sounds of "spavined spans" and the acoustical imagery of a bridge which rattles as the speaker passes. This stirs a memory for me of another sort of bridge - one crossing a swift, deep river on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington State. It was an old rope bridge, with wooden steps which were mostly missing or loose. It took all of the courage I had to pass over that bridge. I was the last in the group to cross over it, and I stopped in the middle and looked down. I wasn't afraid, but aware that I would have missed this moment of exhilarating beauty had I not had the courage to cross. Covered with honeysuckle vines that twine along the railing, they assail with splendid scents. What a welcoming passage it would be, to walk across such a bridge, one "covered with fragrant honeysuckle vines/that twine along the railing"! Honeysuckle symbolises deep affection and faith, I believe. This is not the flower of formality, but of spontaneous joy and simplicity. This bridge is one which welcomes the one who crosses it with deep affection, for that person is *known* as they are, and unconditionally loved. It demands nothing. It's said that a bridge assumes most aspects of the water around it, and serene or spumescent, this perfection of connection elevates my being. I can read this poem no other way than as a sublime spiritual passage. The bridge is one which is fluid, assuming the aspects "of the water around it" --taking a form or shape which is comforting to the passenger. The connection between bridge, water and speaker is one of ultimate "perfection" and thus speaks to this reader, at least, of entering the heavenly realms. "perfection/connection" and the many sibilants use throughout the work are samples of the wondrous construction you give this work - one which feels entirely as natural as the lovely old wooden bridge. My focus then turns inward to locate traits I may assimilate from the streams and rills that fill my dreams. The speaker contemplates her inner spirit, and shows us how she has already perceived, in dreams, her ultimate connection with Spirit. This is so beautifully written as to bring tears. Whether they are of joy or mourning, I cannot tell. You, and this exquisite poem, become a kind of bridge for the reader to contemplate the ultimate meanings of life and death, and the way in which we shall approach them. Profoundly moving work. What glorious images you have given us, once more! Brava! All my best, Joanne | 2003-11-20 16:38:54 |
| Finding Hope | Rick Barnes | Rick:
I'm confounded, searching for words to respond to this piece.
It strikes me where I live - in the solar plexus. Reading it is like
being held in the "outstretched/Dormant and barren arms" of those bare trees.
I love the double emphasis of "Bare trees" and "barren arms," and the assonant
'e' sounds in "pieces/trees." The first line telegraphs a kind of complete
surrender and acceptance of *what is* as opposed, for example, to *what might
have been* - this is the hope of the realist. The speaker encompasses the scene,
observes its rather sterile offering, yet speaks to the sublimity and perfection
of the fractal pattern made by the limbs of the tree in the "ash gray sky." It
feels like an existential kind of landscape; however, there is a welcoming in it,
too, for unsentimental readers who will observe that the "barren arms" are, indeed,
arms. Northern birds are usually hardy species, accustomed to harsh conditions and
cold. The birds make no complaint, but zero in on exactly what they'd hoped to
find - a place to "stay the winter." There are no allusions to spring, flowers,
abundance or any other pastoral scene. But the bleak "November scape" of what IS!
It becomes less bleak for our identification with the northern birds, who allow
what may be their fate - or is it the opposite of fate (title of Amy Tan's new
book)? Perhaps we may choose only how we accept our 'fate' or circumstances. I'm
reminded of something I read, (I know not where) about how, once we settle in, we
may cease struggling with our limitations. Not in a masochistic way, but without
pretense and with the simplicity of grace accepted. I am not trying to reduce the
poem's theme to "making the best of limited circumstances" or any oversimplified
observation of that nature. You have opened possibilities within this piece of
looking at things straight on, and seeing *what is there* with an absolutely
non-judging presence. This is a poem which makes me want to expand within the
intricacies of the "fractal jigsaw pieces" of ash gray sky, to probe in a
direction I hadn't thought of exploring. Once more, I am perplexed with the
need to use words other than 'profound' to respond to a Rick Barnes poem. I
can't find many. | 2003-11-20 15:13:31 |
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