Heh, this is such a fun poem. Even though it rhymes it doesn't come across as forced. It's playful and funny. Yes, even punny. Maybe the title can improve, and I'm not sure the ellipses in the first line is/are (!?) necessary. But thanks for this read.
This poem came around in the Read and Review link and for some reason it made an impression. I'm the opposite of religious, not a fan of erotica, domination or otherwise, and I don't write poetry. Why then?
The title, well, who doesn't like those words? Mortal flesh. It has something portentous about it. Nothing virtuous can come of it. I cannot get comfortable with the subtitle somehow. Who is the author referring to? This is really not clear unless its referring to some BDSM thing I don't know about.
Then someone has sinned. We are not let in on what this sin was but let's face it the Bible has an inexhaustible list of them, so just choose one, right? For their sins they must do the thing, which is to kneel down and beg to be forgiven. By whom? And why would they? Bible or BDSM, one has to presume. until your knees are raw. As biblical punishment goes the sinner is probably going, well it could have been worse. So unbelievably much worse.
And then the lines that probably got my attention in the first place. and the blest wood of the church. It stands out and it stands out. The sinner is in for some unpleasant damage to their knees and probably afterwards a good cleaning of the church’s furniture.
The question then, after all that suffering, is how often this is going to happen. It seems to imply that it has happened before, and that the author suspects it will happen again. Repent is such a biblical word. Remorse for the sin.
I'm leaning towards a BDSM interpretation of this poem because anything is better than biblical inventions in which real people suffer for fantastical reasons. It makes for better humour, at least.
Your poem was presented to me by the Read and Review thingy in the menu on the left. I don't know whether you want only a read or a review as well, but I'm doing a review. Disregard if that's not what you want.
Congrats on the birthday, by the way. Time passes whether we like it or not. It's a blessing and a curse.
You are saying, in the second line, that your loved one has still not returned. I wonder if you expect them to yet change their mind or whether you had a rhythm thing you were working on and was missing a syllable. Your life has veered off the path you (and your loved one?) had in mind and now you are trying to find your way in the dark. Are you suggesting that your amor is now not the clear light they used to be? The light is tarnished by the loss you are experiencing. It's a little awkward the way you put it, but I can just about see it.
Then the lover's lament. Do you even care? And of course they're likely to feel something, but the way life works, they're probably not going to feel as much as you desperately need them to. it is even possible that they will remember, but I'm not convinced about them remembering the memories. I'm not sure how you want that to work.
And then we get the shoulder slump, the resignation with a last call for hope. We've given upon the rhyme completely, now. The mi amor has to be there, because who says it better the the Italians? The French? Opinions are divided, but you've opted for Italian. Still, you will be there. My Italian is almost non-existent so I may have the pronunciation all wrong. Alternatively, you could go for if you return I will be sore? I don't know. I will love you more? You I will adore (forever)? This is why I don't write poetry.
My advice would be… wait. What do I know? Not much at all about poetry.
Still, if you are earnest about writing poetry, I can't help feeling it would help to read poetry. Good poetry is extraordinary. it can take you breath away, which is quite something for communication.
—-
Today is my birthday, yet something is not right.
You still have not returned, my life astray, I seek a tarnished light.
I think about you daily, but do you even care?
I think about you daily, i hope you’ll remember the memories we share.
I think about you every day, mi amor.
If you return, I will be there.
So many questions so early in the morning. I'm not sure that I'm up to answering them quite yet.
But I do have a few questions too. I wonder why bleed and not for example leak? Is bleeding more emotive and therefore more suited to poetry? What about sweat? One would have to change the from head to paper a bit, but then there is the opportunity to allude to something in the Bible perhaps. In the sweat of your... The fall of man and all that stuff. Lots of poets used to go for that. Or something more scientific. Exude or secrete.
The second question doesn't seem that interesting to me. One could almost ask it on a writing forum although you'd get some side-eyes for bleed.
The last question. This is another one that seems very dressed up but isn't really going anywhere exciting. Gushing is almost interesting because of its ambiguity – either the flowing blood or the over-enthusiastic praise – but then you helpfully remove the tension by positing the gunshot wound. And does it need to be a gunshot? Isn't there already quite a market for gunshot wounds? What about that great comedic stand-in, the unfortunate shaving incident? I imagine blood can really gush from something like that done in the right/wrong way. A million paper cuts, perhaps. I'm also not sure that blood ever trickles? Coagulates perhaps. Or do your thoughts coagulate? I don't know.
Well, I guess that just about answers your questions. Don't be discouraged by my review. It's much easier to criticise than to write poetry.
I've read and reread this poem so many times now it could be my own writing. I wish. I think it’s a good poem. Reading and rereading it hasn't diminished my enjoyment. Not that there is all that much to enjoy about depression. I'm having trouble thinking of one thing right now, but maybe it will come to me in a moment.
I love the first line but I cannot tell you for sure why. How do you hold yourself up with sticks? Crutches maybe, but that would make the line awkward - besides I don't like the word all that much. I think the idea is more internal. You need something to provide you with some kind of structure some fortitude and what you have are sticks and they're going to have to do.
Only they're not doing a brilliant job of it because gravity has done what it does during a depression and it has increased. You have become liquid and are pooling in the fields of Texas. I like the floating on the dusty earth because it gives the sense of not belonging. Water wouldn't float, but oil does because it does not react with the earth. It lies inert on top of it. Of course that tells you a lot about my knowledge of oil in Texas or anywhere else really. Still, I maintain that that is my interpretation of it.
The next line, dry breezes push sage brush lies, perplexes me somewhat. It has a good sound to it but I cannot quite make it out.
From there again it picks up (if that term is appropriate considering the theme) again. The wet socks just about work because of the weight of them, and then the analogy or reference to the Great Depression is nice. My knowledge of that time comes straight from Grapes of Wrath and this informs me that it was strictly not a pleasant time. And dusty. It's not like those socks are going to be clean at the end of the day, but they won't be wet anymore. Not sure now much that's going to do for the depression but I guess one thing at a time.
So, to finally recap, I like this poem and it will stay with me long after the depression has come and gone. It's not perfect, for whatever cruel definition we use as our goal in writing poems, but it resonates with me. it does a great job at describing what it feels like when one is depressed. I read somewhere that poems are never done. There is always something to worry at. Which is why I don't write then and leave them to people such as you to get on with it.
Encased in your glass walls
You live in fantasy
Every time the walls break
You're enveloped once more
Isn't it obvious?
You're trapped in your own cell
A self-induced prison.
I think I understand. You are addressing someone you care about. They are, according to you, not engaging with the real world as you experience it and every time an event brings them into contact with that real world they quickly retreat again to their own. it would seem this event is quite violent or traumatic because the glass walls are broken (although they are not shattered). In your view they are living in a fantasy world, by which I imagine that they are oblivious to the harsh realities of the world you live in. What's more is that they prefer their fantasy world because they are forever rebuilding those walls.
Then you wonder whether they get it at all. That is, do they not notice the glass walls and the, in your mind, actual world beyond. the world that you live in. It's a reasonable question given the glass walls, but I have to say I think I know the answer. My feeling from this poem is that they are not unwillingly ’trapped’.
self-induced, is a nice touch. They've persuaded themselves to live in this prison.
This is indeed a very concise and brutal tragedy. Perhaps more consequential than the ending implies since it also, one would imagine, affected other future readers. Or their potential futures.
I am intrigued by He ran to the gate. Perhaps I'm being unbearably pedantic, but this action doesn't seem to fit the character of this person and so it confuses the story for me. Clearly the cafe owner has some reverence for this character - so much so that they close the shop because of something this person said. Why then would he run? I realise that English may not be the author's first language, but the little story is compelling and I would like to understand. There seems to be something I'm missing here. Misunderstanding.
Thank you, I appreciated the story, and the title is perfect for it.
This is quite a strange situation I find myself in. Under normal circumstances I would simply not review a piece such as this. However, I have the feeling that this was written by an AI. If that is correct then this would be my first experience of it in this kind of setting.
If I'm wrong... I'd rather not yet contemplate that possibility.
I came to this poem via a depressingly negative review. There I was, surprised to find such a negative review in the first place, and then on reading your poem, finding the review to be thoroughly misguided. The poem is awesome.
It is punk rock. I can see that title as the title for a NOFX song and I applaud. As an answer to the negative review it is very good. I also feel that you have the hang of poetry.
But I raise my fist to the skies in an act of resignation
Is ‘resignation' the right word here? I don't know. Raising ones fist at the skies seems to be the opposite of resignation. That maybe intentional. By using ‘raise my fist...’ you have perhaps worked your way into a corner because if you don't use resignation then it is a truism of sorts. Sorry, this is totally just in my mind. The other problem is that I was expecting a, ‘raise my fist…’ line, which may indicate that it is a cliché?
Not sure how the Spaniards are going to feel about this poem.
The idea or metaphor of the ambush bug is great. I am not entirely comfortable reviewing anything poetry, but this one is in line with the poetry I do enjoy.
I loved this piece. It took me once or twice to understand, but it rewarded my effort. I hope it is not out of order that I interpreted it below in case that might be useful to you. I loved the original.
It is about a little girl who achieved her goal despite much persecution. Though it was not very easy, she was able to achieve her goal. She was the third born of her mother. Her parents were very caring and loving. While growing up she didn't know what big calamity lay ahead of her.
Then a bit I don't quite understand:
until she lost her Father though she has stated experience that when her mother took her father to a naboughring Town for a treatment
After the death of her father she was the only one who could assist her mother. Since it would take too much time mother to go to the farm or the market, she did all that for her mother.
One day she went to the farm to bring yam for the family. On getting to the farm she put the yam on the basin. She looked around for someone to help her lift the load on her head but there was nobody. She tried several times to lift the load but the yam fell on the ground. She cried for help but there was nobody around to help her. She remembered that her father loved her so much. She thought that if her father was around he might have helped her. With that faith in her she tried once more and she was able to carry that load on her head.
Men!, right? Said in exasperation, in disappointment, and finally in resignation. After having met a few, I have trouble agreeing with the subtitle. I feel it should read: can't I live with them, can't live with them. But looking at the current world population numbers I guess I'm very much in the minority.
I like the poem. It is unpretentious and to me reads well (I'm not very knowledgable about the finer points of poetry). And it certainly seems that the author has some experience with relationships as evidenced by ‘compromise’ and 'talk it through'. The final line brings us nicely back to Men!
Thanks for the read. I'm not very experienced or knowledgable about poetry, but I enjoyed the lightness of it and the theme made sense to me. There are many poems on WdC about loneliness but this one shows what the alienation is like. The poem seems light and is easy to read which I suspect takes quite a bit of effort to produce. Very nice indeed .
The phone beeps. You've pinged me, I ping back.
‘You pinged me’? For symmetry?
I'm not a person.
I'm just a ping, in queue.
For some reason I feel it is missing an ‘ a '. ‘ in a queue’.
In sum, I enjoyed this poem and will come back to it to reread.
This guy. She's well rid of him. Thanks. I enjoyed that. I cannot see anything that needs changing. Everything about the character is and remains consistent. He is utterly oblivious. Not psychopathic, just not smart enough to get it. And then the sinister ending. “I always offer good stuff.” Very nice.
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