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I think......
...your style of little or no punctuation and/or capitals is bearable - if a little irritating - in your shorter works but in a longer piece like this it's a detriment.
I'd love this if it wasn't such a chore to read. It's a bit like viewing one of those pre-digital negatives, the image is there but not quite.
Just one persons opinion.
Tess
Pace Tess
but I liked this, the images slowly drawing together. It makes me want to read it more at leisure to suck up the atmosphere. x
I like this
The lack of punctuation doesn't draw from the poem, in fact, I think it adds to it, as in a clean, chilling image. This poem reads as you intended, a mixed medium of art. It's as close to illustrated poetry a poet can get without an accompaniment photo.
Brilliant images
But I am not sure where you are going with this but this might be me.
*
some of this is quite nice, but like a painting with too many brush strokes.
last stanza overstates it
can:
empty as empty can be
and maybe another line
ps 5
A rich textured vacuum
A rich textured vacuum depicting the nothingness evoked by an intense passion in the past. I love the way the scene is filled with matter and physics to intensify the sense of emotion being absent. The “empty as empty can be” is the one problem I have with this poem. May I suggest that that line should consist simply of the word “empty” so that the line is in fact filled out by silence.
I love your poetry which had not been published here when last I looked quite some time ago. I'm going to soak up one per day until I get through them all.
Love it
A sensuous silence, pregnant with carnal pleasure denied, thwarted, betrayed, pervades this poem. There is a rich depth that has gone to waste in these characters for they seem to have failed to engage and soar—weighed down, perhaps, by the rich potential left unrealized. And so they go around in circles, paralyzed by their failure, failing because of past failures, Poignant, sad, even tragic for all the joy they long for and cannot find though they are capable if only their vision where clearer. Or is he just to weak to give this woman what she wants?
Love this poem.
I'm surprised
After I had written the second comment, I discovered my earlier comment. I honestly didn't remember writing the first one and it is interesting how my second comment is congruent with the first. I suppose when one begins to go senile one can really have fun in life as the familiar becomes surprisingly new and stimulating because of bad memory.
Thank you
This is a brilliant piece, yet not perfect.
The distant narrator of the consciously streaming mind is interspersed with exclamations and gestures. I felt as if you had stolen my emotional frame from me with the early first one. I would have suggested to move it after the second or even the third stanza, separate, reinforcing the forced and struggled for distance.
I know this place and you reminded me.
I read poems aloud, always, my brain cannot hear. And at the end of the third stanza I longed to know more about the harshness of the moment – I wanted those eyes shut. Closed? When his nose and lips are lined with light? I felt in the preparation for this ending the tug of desperation, how he would not shut them then. In your fourth stanza the narrator ventures away from his recital – and draws back in stanza five. I love this; it emphasizes the deliberateness, the careful, crafted steps of the mind not to get too close to the half-halo – lest it burn.
And then his individuality must assert itself, in those three words “no black keys” I knew he must. And so he acts, not speaks – the recital lulls him into a false sense of security – but in the end it is not enough, is it; shadows just, leaving him exposed. This part of the composition is absolutely brilliant and for this alone I love this piece.
In the end I wish you would have left the cleft out of the frame. The “title” like heading for the next section in my view should have subsumed into the stanza nine. I wanted to replace “one” with “a chair” and leave the “title” away.
Thank you for this
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