12-05-2014, 07:02 AM
Hey sweetie, my attempt at crit, it's hard to critique you because you have a magic pen that spews perfection, but here goes.
What’s the name of that broad-leaved herb
Romans prized for mending bones –
you bound leaves tightly around the break,
picked up your shield and kept running?
I can see in my old garden;
it spread like cancer if I was slow,
with a central spike in spring of
violet triffid flowers, quite small.
I can close my eyes and focus on
drops of dew, a sprinkle of hybrid
pearl/diamonds on wide furry leaves
regrowing each year under the quince
between the clump of yarrow
and the blue bearded iris
but its name has escaped me.
I can even see the book
in its place on my bookshelf
in another country, in a room
that doesn’t exist any more
in a memory that still does.
I turn to page 432 and see the
picture but I can’t read the
caption underneath. Is this
how it starts? Breaks that
can’t mend because
the words have gone?
Again, I was fussed at for ending on a question. Honestly, when you are speaking in an introspective one-sided conversation, there will always be questions. I love it, personally, the entire poem is a bit heavy on the adjective side, but I can't find fault with that, it gave me a clear picture of your garden. I adore the juxtaposition of the living plants with the fragile transient memories we have.
Really really lovely piece.
I looked for your herb, but all I could find were grasses used to bind bones. So I dunno dear.
love ya,
mel
What’s the name of that broad-leaved herb
Romans prized for mending bones –
you bound leaves tightly around the break,
picked up your shield and kept running?
I can see in my old garden;
it spread like cancer if I was slow,
with a central spike in spring of
violet triffid flowers, quite small.
I can close my eyes and focus on
drops of dew, a sprinkle of hybrid
pearl/diamonds on wide furry leaves
regrowing each year under the quince
between the clump of yarrow
and the blue bearded iris
but its name has escaped me.
I can even see the book
in its place on my bookshelf
in another country, in a room
that doesn’t exist any more
in a memory that still does.
I turn to page 432 and see the
picture but I can’t read the
caption underneath. Is this
how it starts? Breaks that
can’t mend because
the words have gone?
Again, I was fussed at for ending on a question. Honestly, when you are speaking in an introspective one-sided conversation, there will always be questions. I love it, personally, the entire poem is a bit heavy on the adjective side, but I can't find fault with that, it gave me a clear picture of your garden. I adore the juxtaposition of the living plants with the fragile transient memories we have.
Really really lovely piece.
I looked for your herb, but all I could find were grasses used to bind bones. So I dunno dear.
love ya,
mel