03-13-2014, 02:22 AM
in amber, I sit on her shelf For me the poem starts here.....
among her more novel finds;
displayed on occasion,
as a mere curiosity I'd prefer, 'a curiosity'
for visitors to gaze upon. and 'for visitors'
I recall gilded epochs This is nice
awash in concert,
navigating frothy seas, 'frothy' is superfluous, and I'm guessing beyond the comprehension of a trilobite.
but now I lie
in Trilobite cast, There's something inelegant about these three lines.
a land-locked replica
of what I had been.
Only impressions I'd prefer a more concrete example. rock strata in the wrinkles on your skin?
of my former self persist,
my reflection in mirrors is vague.
Draw fingers over a fern frond
in shale to find outlines
that hint of a past.
Passion slowly morphed
into stone, hardened sediment
displaced flesh. Vestige of warmth
is absent herein; amorphous fragment
of petrified wood. No longer pliable
clay in her hands,
I am impotent mineral
that fossilized.
There are some good ideas in this, and some nice language, but you rather miss a trick by making the poem about the final object, and not the process by which it came to be - the tree sap trapping and encasing the mosquito, isolating it, the sand building up over the trilobite and than solidifying to crush the imprint. 'Petrified' is a very good word.
among her more novel finds;
displayed on occasion,
as a mere curiosity I'd prefer, 'a curiosity'
for visitors to gaze upon. and 'for visitors'
I recall gilded epochs This is nice
awash in concert,
navigating frothy seas, 'frothy' is superfluous, and I'm guessing beyond the comprehension of a trilobite.
but now I lie
in Trilobite cast, There's something inelegant about these three lines.
a land-locked replica
of what I had been.
Only impressions I'd prefer a more concrete example. rock strata in the wrinkles on your skin?
of my former self persist,
my reflection in mirrors is vague.
Draw fingers over a fern frond
in shale to find outlines
that hint of a past.
Passion slowly morphed
into stone, hardened sediment
displaced flesh. Vestige of warmth
is absent herein; amorphous fragment
of petrified wood. No longer pliable
clay in her hands,
I am impotent mineral
that fossilized.
There are some good ideas in this, and some nice language, but you rather miss a trick by making the poem about the final object, and not the process by which it came to be - the tree sap trapping and encasing the mosquito, isolating it, the sand building up over the trilobite and than solidifying to crush the imprint. 'Petrified' is a very good word.