This is an exceptionally good poem. The emotions you
express are deep and raw, but are covered by the
poetry itself. Seeing beauty in pain is not an easy
stance; Goethe did it in the Duino Elegies but
I have rarely seen it outside of his work.
There is a sense of bitterness in your second stanza,
although as I read the last three lines, "they" forget
their pain of your passing.
I assume you are talking about the recent sexual scandal in the Catholic Church here. That's how I read the poem.
Your poem shows a great deal of talent, ready to be
reigned in and perfected by writing more, and by listening to others. Your final line is very good.
I sense between lines a strong anger, and distain, for what you are seeing, which I again assume is Mass.
"Gold encrusted and Latin embossed" and "The Holiness..." make me think that. I am not sure those terms are applicable to other religions.
Or are you speaking of Christianity as a whole? I'm
not sure, but I am sure that you have a lot going for you. Please keep writing, and posting here on Writing.com.
This chapter continues to open up Eddye's character.
and raises questions in this reader's mind about his past, just what he is making up, what he misrecollecting and what is the truth. His interaction with the doctors is less here; put another way, this is more of a monologue. I find that I now question everything he says. Somewhere I began to distrust him. I am not sure where or why. I see him as less sympathetic now. I still see the situation he is in, the physical arrangement itself, as inhuman.
I don't this "breaks the rhythm" but I think that the
contrast between who he is now and who he was then is even more thin of a line than before. Eddye is very self-aware. I believe their love making would change somewhat; it just could not be the same with all of the changes that he has gone through and is going through. It is as though this entire scene is a mirage in his mind. It's almost a walk-through for him. Her character is fine. She is believably drawn,
and the dialogue is fine.
I'm sure you know that you needs transitions between the chapters. I know this is your first draft.
I am really into this now, by the end of chapter two.
It goes along great, the pace is fine, his dislogue/monologue is believable, the doctors and the setting -- all is fine. I can't believe, however, that he can muster the force to get up with all of those chains on him. It's reminds me of Silence of the Lambs , but I am not guessing his name. The story he is telling, it is true, is one that those doctors love to hear. you are going a good job. I don't know if I can stay out of chapters 3 and 4 before I have to sleep. I think I'll read them in the morning. I'll be fresher then and have a new perspective, unless I can't stop thinking about Eddye, and what is going to happen to him.
I think it is almost mandatory to spice up the narrative with "authentic" words now and then. This
kind of historical fiction takes a great deal of research as well as a good knowledge of history, from the clothing to the manners to the battles.
Incidentally, as I'm sure you know, "gringoes" is misspelled on the poll. I just had to point that out.
Excellent poem, and written with all the compassion of a misplaced NYer and the love of a son for his Father.
This is one fine poem, Flip. Your form and meter are
flawless, and the poem just glides down the page, despirte the interruption of the events you are relating. I'm happy you have your children and your wife. I hope we (our generation) can make the world a little better for those that follow, but from where I sit watching CNN, it doesn't look too good.
Keep writing! This is really one fine poem! Thanks
for sending it to me.
I wonder, as I guess we all wonder, what eternity will be life, and if we will have a chance to chose which memories to keep and which to lose. I think you have caught here a brief and fleeting glimpse of the essence of life, by using nature which is surely a great part of life. I wonder how our PCs work into this...and I'm not trying to be smart, but I remember the first time somebody said "That's why God made beepers" and I started off thinking.... I don't know if He made them, but He allowed them to be made' or did he? I've got to stop or I'll go on and on in a theological wandering about who made what when and why, and all I'm supposed to do here is review your
lovely poem.
Lovely it is, and I hope that you write many more.
I like this poem a lot. I think it certainly is true that the butterflies are much happier than man can
ever be. They are plentiful here in Florida, and I love to watch them.
When I first moved here I was in a second story apartment on the Bayfront in St. Augustine, FL and there was a large cedar tree of some sort at the end of a screened in porch. One morning when I awoke and went out to drink my coffee on the porch, the cedar was covered in Monarch butterflies. Apparently St. Augutine is one of their stop-off points when they fly south for the winter.
I would use the word "glide" where you have used "flit"
but then it'snot my poem is it? And you've done a fine job here, capturing the beauty in motion of this
lovely creature.
Well, I am sure glad you won The Poet's Prompt for this one, for it is a very beautiful free verse piece on the illness and apparently then soon-to-be loss of your beloved husband. This is a year later, and I wonder how thing are now.
My favorite lines are almost in the middle of the poem:
"There are things inside that scream and shout/Fighting with terror to force themselves out."
How well I know the feeling! I used to scream into a pillow sometimes, and now that I live along the Atlantic Coast I go over to the beach at high tide and scream into the waves. The waves, as I am sure you know, make a very loud roar when they break upon the water if there is any wind at all, and so my screams are carried out to sea and disappear.
You've fought off a lot of pain; I hope writing it out does some good.
This is a poem that seem to be a free verse poem that rhymes here and there. It is, I think, about the
inevitable loss of innocence, and how by the time we
are grown we feel betrayed and filled with lies. I think this is true for most of us, be it from Santa Clause or the government, we know that we are not being told the truth.
I also think this poem needs some serious rewriting.
The line "others grow to live for hurt or pain" is
very insightful, I think; it is also true. There are
those that enjoy hurt and pain, whether they are giving it or receiving it. The 2nd, 3rd, and 4th lines of the first stanza are, to me, very problematic. If you could somehow distill these 3 lines into l, and keep the first line, and the last two, you'd have a
pretty good first stanza. The rest of the poem is
just about there. It only needs a bit of work. You can do it!
I'll be glad to re-review this after you have made some changes; just let me know.
This is an excellent free-verse love poem. It is written in four stanzas, each of which appears on
the page as though it were a staircase, steps to the
lady's room. The title fits the poem perfectly: she
has a votive candle on her table.
It is the last stanza that makes my gasp occur. "It is/as if/he begged/of her new life/from what was ashen/
wand would not reach for heat/that he might wait for
passion." She is his Goddess, and he is unwilling to
touch her, preferring to wait for the passion. This strikes me as an l8th century or l9th century notion, and it is surprising to find this characterization among the work of this very fine contemporary poet.
This poem is written in formal verse, and depicts an
afternoon in autumm, an afternoon of love and making love. It is a beautiful poem, written with sensitivity and beauty, and takes it place among some of the finest poems on WDC.
The presentation is flawless. There are no typos or structural errors of any sort. The established rhyme
scheme is adhered to throughout the poem.
This is a somewhat long, thin poem written in free verse that flows down the page while telling a story of lost love. First the man meets and has a word with a pregnant woman, then he visits her after the child has been born. I assume they are ex-lovers and she is now married to another man, and has a child. He continues to "watch/at each corner/for you/to turn again." A seemingly hopeless watch he has put himself off, and the poem is one of inconsolable sadness.
It is also very well-written, and presented to us without errors. It is a very Good Job!
This is a poem about loss. I interpret it as two people who have just come from a funeral have taken a
walk beside a stream, beside verdant grass. Others from the funeral party go another way. These two, alone, do not speak; the man searches for days for her,
and asks: "How many hundred days since then/Have I searched the ways you do not run,/Dusk-stricken at the water's edge?/River and rock, tree and grass remember."
This poem's lines are immaculate, full of imagery and
gentle sorrow, motion of loss, and confusion. It is
doubtful he ever finds her. He speaks of his "brooding pulse beneath the bridge". Not only is this a good example of alliteration, but it bespeaks a deep sympathy for the bereaved, and the deceased. We are not told his relationships to anyone.
The poem is beautiful and intense, It remings me of the late Beethoven string Quartets whose sadness overcomes me each time I listen to them.
This long, sad poem is written in free verse. It tells a tale of a man, who, seeing another man walking
drunkenly along, stops and cares for him, and sees him
home. In the final stanza he asks: "Who can be/accountable/for impossible memories?/I only saw/the thirsty demon/that led him out/into the January night/
and left him/addled and alone/and was not near/ to see at fifty-five/death take my father."
This is quite a stanza for the ending of the poem. It is eye-opening, and quite surprising. There is no clue that the rescuer know the man, let alone that it is his father. Why does he leave him alone? Most likely he has seen his father like this before, and thought he would be all right. And he asks, qiote rightly, "Who can be/accountable for impossible/memories? Is he responsible? Is this evidence of his guilt? Does it matter? I think what matters is the question. In a life that is becoming more and more full of "impossible memories", 9/11 being the beginning, this is not a strange question at all. It just may be that it becomes the question for our time? Why did the young man leave his father to die alone? Why did London and Egypt esperience terrorist bombings in one week? Is the magnitude of
the destruction that different?
This poem is excellent. It reads beautifully down the page, in free verse, and sets us up very well for the
last stanza. Congratulations! You did a Great Job!
This is a lovely, flowing free verse poem, It flows so gracefully one can almost feel the wind on the hill
which the poet is speaking of. I like the lines "I beheld a small cloud/pasted on reverent skies."
There is possibly a small problem in the last stanza.
You stand on a hilltop, in the wind, and this time you know that God led you there to show you his will.
Then: "Then I see and run/And exhausted fall/And He'll pick me up/When I answer His call." The line "Then I see and run" makes little sense to me in this context.
If it were "When I see and run" for the first line, and leave the second as is, then the third "He'll pick me up" and last "For I've answered His call" I think it would be better. This is only my opinion, and it is YOUR poem, so you are surely free to change it or nt. It's just a suggestion.
This is a very beautiful poem, very simple on the surface, and very haiku-like. Good write!
It took me a few minutes to figure out if the water or the cold stone is what is laden with impurities, and I decided it was the cold stone. Since, in your final stanza, water falls on water, and the impurities have been cleansed. Apparently the water wants to be free, and not impeded by hard walls. How close to the human soul that seems! How beautifully put with such a tender yet torrential metaphor. Congraulations on this one!
May the Muse stay with you!
VerySara
This is a very entertaining story of two young people meeting in an art gallery, and striking up a conversation. The dialogue is well done, and shows the
gawky fumbling so common to teenage boys. This is shown very well when the girl remarks about the culture that they are surrounded by, and refers to it
as "our canned up modern life." This is a rather sophisticated remark for a young girl, especially when there are Andy Warhol's handing on the wall.
Your presentation is flawless, and I found no mistakes.
All in all, this "slice of life" encounter is very well done. A good read, a good write!
This is a great example of the fine spirit of Writing.com, and how the members work together for the best for all of us. This was a wonderful thing to do!
I'm only sorry I was not around to contribute.
I like the way you are taking another's feelings into
consideration, and the way you deal with the situation.
I like the rhyme scheme, which is carried throughout the poem, and is not overly done so as to make the poem too "light", light as in fluffy, not light as in
sun. This is a poem to a friend, and you are being a good friend in return.
Overall
There is nothing I dislike about this poem, and I surely have no suggestions as to how to go about making it a better poem. You did a good job here!
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