Your poem is..."So beautiful, it hurts..."
The first stanza could be a summary of my reaction to your poem.
But wait. There's more.
There is a refreshing candour, a sense of intimate dialogue that seems as much to interact with inner you as the reader. This could be a monologue - complete with spotlight on a dark stage. O the drama of it all.
I like the casual expression - no forcing of poetic mannerisms; just an enchanting meander and pause and gush of words, as if the speaker is "just speaking" straight from the heart.
And those last two well known lines draw the poem to a grande finale, and a sobering close.
Overall, the poem is a wonderful representation, illustration of the hero's strength.
Wonderful dry humour embellishes this series of chaos piling on chaos. I am not sure that my humour would work so well as yours. I think panic and fear would be more suitable labels for me.
Your reference to a "helicopter, Russian made" pressed my "suspicious curiosity" button. How? What? Where? Why? Is it a reject or outdated helicopter?
Lively expressions e.g. "He ate about eighty dollars of my money..." buzz your writing with extra drama. So much implied in a few words.
Your last wry comment implies that perhaps you would almost rather be in eternity - but not in a Sierra Leone version.
An almost unbelievable set of circumstances.
I guess, going by all the mini tragedies in the opening stages of your new life choice, all these dramas could only be labelled as an adventure in retrospect - once all the tensions have been laid to rest.
For those on the outside - this story tantalises and beguiles because it is so refreshingly unique.
I am keen to read more, but I will steel myself ready for some shocks.
The culture of poverty is another "chicken or the egg...what comes first..." debate. All these fine expert opinions verify my belief that poverty - how it begins and ends and why it exists - has no clear resolution, no clear pattern. We need to recognise the many patterns and, above all, avoid being judgemental about those locked in the poverty cycle. Who knows, we may have a poverty season ourselves.
Your article was very informative and awakened many new ideas for me on the culture of poverty. However, I would have liked to see more comment and research on specifically women in the poverty cycle. To what extent is their pattern different from men's? Is their difference only related to family responsibilities? I must admit, your concluding comments - especially the last sentence - suggest that maybe the women's poverty culture is still emerging - at least in the United States. I guess too, in countries like Africa, the poverty of culture may not apply. There is just the culture of poverty - according to western social norms.
What an incredible experience. I am sure that this story could somehow evolve into a full length tale, maybe a novel. (I am also sure that there are many other stories to be told like this one.)
Your writing style is so fresh and bubbling with a touch of intimacy - probably with the use of "I".
But the ultimate wonder of your story for me is your ability to laugh at yourself and move on. That's worthy of a bravery award.
A wonderful, lively extravaganza of mule stories and information. So even Mr Washington was enchanted.
My favourite words must be:
"A mule is not stubborn. If he or she has a bond and trust with his rider, a mule is eager to please, just ask him."
I know close to nothing about mules - except that they have long ears + have a stereotype that is not so endearing - so these words rang for me.
A most enjoyable, entertaining and informative piece of writing.
(Wish I had room on my patch of grass for a mule.)
I too believe that the conclusion of this story is not all about the perfect happy ending. Being rescued from the island world may be one kind of happiness. But that happiness is "blotched" with questions and weighed down with burdens (gifted by the island) that are not so easy to rescue. These alternative realities within, the lingering beast, will be travelling companions for quite some time.
But I guess being rescued may be the beginning of happiness... a new version. What we don't know is the truth of the matter.
In short, I do like the ending of this story because it is so enigmatic.
So many highways and byways in your journey to find some spiritual faith and relief of your own. I have always believed that any belief system has little weight unless there is some connection with a personal identity. But the journey along the way can be so enriching, clarifying one's own choices and comforts and securities; and often we bring selected old beliefs with us.
Amazing how Mother Nature can offer so much for the spirit and only asks to be noticed and be respected.
A fascinating journey that sounds as if there may be more to explore.
Strange how enchantment and fear can be the most unlikely "bedfellows", just like love and hate. Yet somehow all have a "wired" connection with their opposite force, even an empathy. The intimacy of speaking in a narrator's personal voice highlights the drama of the poem. Delightful.
"For there is so much more to me than silver..I am a trick of the light through the filter of the sorrowful sky..." - so wonderfully lingering...
The life of silver seems to be a giving life, a selfless life, a life that does not seek accolades or reward. While silver's identity may be a little enigmatic and maybe shapeless, without unique identity, the pathway silver wanders breaks into the colours of magic. So therefore, silver must be the spirit of magic.
The sword is unsheathed... like waiting to cut through a new undergrowth of forest that secretes some new land... like some icy stargate waiting to melt or be melted...
A powerful poem that seems to overlay old legend with a new legend in the making...if the winter of discontent can possibly pass by.
We need to remember a few dark places overgrown with time but not erased - Chernobyl, the Holocaust - where children age by automatic transmission and some politically drugged grown ups can barely muster some indifferent "What?" And those of us who may be more sensitive souls, shake down the why's riddled like rain on our locks, but the rain keeps raining. This world can be a rather blotched (botched?) asylum - and more's the pity. Perhaps our memories need some key to colour-coding significant items. A moving, disturbing, challenging poem.
Wonderful, romantic mystique in the first two stanzas. Not totally sure what the reference to "lid" means. But a wonderful recovery from that confusion - for me - in the last two stanzas. "sweet air that tasted like sky - pure magic. It is as if she may not only "hold the line" but maybe "tow the line"?
The morning coffee is the incense for the mind - especially the cobwebbed early morning mind. Coffee soothes and activates - an oxymoronic status quo. Is it really the coffee or the aroma? The charades of morning are best left to a choir of bird song. Sadly, civilisation has clipped our morning wings.
Wonderful tumbling of descriptive images. Like a gathering of colourful drama that begins as a narrative and overturns into personal immediacy. Where a legend begins a new moment in time.
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