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Untitled
doe-eyed and tragic
a blameless mariposa
clutching memories and secrets
close to a faltering heart
savage and ruthless
attacker so clever
sneaky and predatory
like an uncaged animal
possessions mean nothing
aside from hopeless reminders
of a lover so lost
stilled by the blast of a gun
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| very good poem....though quite vague...but interpretation depends on one's perspectives. |
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Cally,
I'm kind of confused by the other comments already here. I've read a couple of your other poems and I'm really impressed by your lightness of touch with words.
This is nicely done - it works well, I like your imagery and will have a look through your other pieces. |
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Comment by: - 2006-01-15 03:02
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| inncocent, soft, cornered, fear, untamed, wild and dead |
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Comment by: - 2005-12-29 22:48
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| Do not listen to those who say "I liked it" or "I did not like it". Such staements are neither literary nor critical and do not serve you in any way. Above all, do not let them influence you in any way. Poetry is not about emotions. Emotions are a mere tool. I find that you are a drawing out of yourself in a way that is really quite restrained, the restraint of art. However, there are two sides to this equation. The good side is that of restraint, economy of words, a certain contained intensity. The less good side is the source from which you are drawing. It seems, although I may be wrong, that this source is both internal and external. Internal for the emotional content, external for the subject matter itself. This latter, the external, is all that angst of modernism that the last century, now quite a dead century, simply could not get away from. Are you someone who is influenced by the wrong "milieu" in which you find yourself. I do not know the Liverpool poetry scene, being an American, but I imagine a great big city with the usual types who claim to be writers. Now, you are certainly a writer; but you may not be surrounded by them. Weak writers are all about the angst of modern life. They cannot see any farther than that. But a writer must be able to lift her eyes above, to cast her look to the far reaches of existence. Avoid the old adage: "Write what is in your heart". What is in your heart may not be a proper foundation for great poetry. Strive to be great, the greatest. This may mean stepping for a bit into the countryside of your beautiful and gracious country of England. Make that your constant goal. Breathe! In nature, God's art, one becomes even more reflective than you already are. Do not let the fashinable angst of a dead century enter into your verses, or you will never give us anything to keep for eternity. Think carefully about the poets of your native land. Let them be your influences, let them be your friends, your chums at the pub, your mates. Anyone wearing a leather jacket is simply superannuated, outdated, a relic. You would do better simply to keep to yourself for a spell; for, silence is the basis of all discipline. But your own beloved poets, they are with you always: they are forever new, just as Keats suggests in his Endymion: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever..." You are quite young yet. There is time to serve your apprenticeship to the past, and yet continue to be productive too. |
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Comment by: - 2005-12-24 20:49
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| *blink* Well, I'd like to say I liked it. Ther is somethign in this piece that repells me, it sends me spinning across the room even if I stay in place. It has a powere behind it, but is certianly not my cup of tea. |
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