03-03-2017, 08:08 AM
Hi Fanakz
I just gave a wonderfully elaborate critique, but somehow my Firefox froze up and now, well I am fizzled, but I will retry. Another lesson on save save save what you have written, but I was mesmerized and caught up in a wonderful whirlpool of words and didn't think to, but what else is new? I'm rather afraid my first critique may have been more useful before, but it was securely stifled by the leashes of uncertain technical gods. I wondered, though, on my first few initial reads of your poem if a pen had been loaned to a beautiful angel, one I'd likely defend...both troubling me and comforting me all at once.
it was forbidden whispers, burning,
branding calligraphy against our skin—
fractured lullabies, (my gods, my love),
bittersweet dahlia crumbs why always the dahlia?
(as fodder for clipped pigeons)— loved this line here, genius
that will always mean something,
nothing.
it was sanctuaries—the ones enveloped by dirty sheets,
billowing curtains, housing a homicide of tangled (carved, battered) bodies.
fingers entwined, melting perfectly into evolved gaps
(the grandest of canyons, the blackest of voids)—
as though they were meant to hold each other
for forever and ever; god given human desire
for a binary infinity. to be boxed and stored away
it was fingertips grazing, tickling (trickling and weeping like hail),
circling and hunting within oxidized sub-saharan plains.
we go up and then we come down,
(a spinning carousel: first there was a seed and then came the apple)
we flew up (breaching the heavens) and then we dived down
(christened with a gold medal from a formaldehyde babel).
it was an expedition of sacred (blasphemous), archaic territories. I find the word "archaic" becoming the new cliche
hesitance (my gods, my love, please stop us);
knowing—loving—how desecrating we are:
prostitutes of the forlorn, existentially jaded and biblically stoned.
hesitance (strung out on tomorrow);
knowing—enchanted with a lust, a greed, for passion;
two selfish, callous ships following erotic sirens (i love you, i love you, Callous is a bit of a misnomer. At the very least, a ship
my gods, do i love you). full of marshmallows on a bitter sea.
it was your secured limb snaked around my carcass, carcass should be more a sprout of strength
fastened, tightening, choking like bondage (my gods, i can't breathe)
bequeathing my soul to never falter—
us, stumbling (stuttering), drunk actors. at first and second read I saw these 3 lines subject
prescribed the only medical regimen for anxious fools. matter for an interesting separate poem on its own,
not sure it adds, maybe just takes away
it was this; this staged homily, preaching for alleged tomorrows,
the genesis of seven days (a continuous stream of light
in a consuming tunnel of onyx)— these last two lines seem to only add aesthetics,
this could be our ubiquitous infinity. I see where you are going, but it may only give
an impression of opposition, not a draining or wasting of light
it was cleft lips, cracked and dried by the sands of time, a lot of words for thirst
trespassing—barely there—
skimming with such unceremonious speed.
it was lazy moments of reluctance:
devouring, savoring honeysuckle, bliss-filled moans—
drowning in the swollen nectar of the insatiable.
us: pharaohs, gods of dimensions and creations,
parsimoniously indulging, haughtily hoarding all of life's wine.
it was shared laughter: (effervescent, evanescent);
radiating, echoing within the permeable chambers
of our labyrinth: this was for me and for you; ugg.."labyrinth" AGAIN? no, please.
it is for me; and it is for you. me doesn't cover a suspect of spectrum
it was blushing secrets: (no, please, we shouldn't)
shared with (bleak) opalescent willingness.
thrusting desires to the beat of our fibrillating hearts.
us: the fountainhead of evolution,
gilded parents, burying a multitude of children;
tombstones sculpted with the name of "shame." I think this harsh and whiny, without providing
a background of justification
it was finally unleashed—gates of heated passion ruptured open.
saccharine euphoria oozing as though from a sun-ripened peach
it was perfection, beautiful, and it was fervently revered;
it was stigmatized with the premonition of heart-rendering ischemia;
hog-tied down (my love, we must get back up) and unhinging our demineralized bones a repairable awkward form here
from their homely sockets.
it was love.
it was over.
Interesting read. I am thankful for it. It encouraged me to get excited enough to look up lit. terms and sparked my interest to learn. I wondered if it was written by someone gifted to teach who has been stifled or walks a new chosen direction, yet the gift remains strong and pure. I have written poetry using parenthesis, but limited myself to just one, I find them useful for adding to thought or promoting subconscious views. It works well here and actually adds to the poem IMO. It helped me to look within. My critique to this poem is a silly fear I have faced, because the poem is so large and wonderful, it took some courage... but it somehow is revealing how bravery often holds hidden blessings.
Best wishes.
I just gave a wonderfully elaborate critique, but somehow my Firefox froze up and now, well I am fizzled, but I will retry. Another lesson on save save save what you have written, but I was mesmerized and caught up in a wonderful whirlpool of words and didn't think to, but what else is new? I'm rather afraid my first critique may have been more useful before, but it was securely stifled by the leashes of uncertain technical gods. I wondered, though, on my first few initial reads of your poem if a pen had been loaned to a beautiful angel, one I'd likely defend...both troubling me and comforting me all at once.
it was forbidden whispers, burning,
branding calligraphy against our skin—
fractured lullabies, (my gods, my love),
bittersweet dahlia crumbs why always the dahlia?
(as fodder for clipped pigeons)— loved this line here, genius
that will always mean something,
nothing.
it was sanctuaries—the ones enveloped by dirty sheets,
billowing curtains, housing a homicide of tangled (carved, battered) bodies.
fingers entwined, melting perfectly into evolved gaps
(the grandest of canyons, the blackest of voids)—
as though they were meant to hold each other
for forever and ever; god given human desire
for a binary infinity. to be boxed and stored away
it was fingertips grazing, tickling (trickling and weeping like hail),
circling and hunting within oxidized sub-saharan plains.
we go up and then we come down,
(a spinning carousel: first there was a seed and then came the apple)
we flew up (breaching the heavens) and then we dived down
(christened with a gold medal from a formaldehyde babel).
it was an expedition of sacred (blasphemous), archaic territories. I find the word "archaic" becoming the new cliche
hesitance (my gods, my love, please stop us);
knowing—loving—how desecrating we are:
prostitutes of the forlorn, existentially jaded and biblically stoned.
hesitance (strung out on tomorrow);
knowing—enchanted with a lust, a greed, for passion;
two selfish, callous ships following erotic sirens (i love you, i love you, Callous is a bit of a misnomer. At the very least, a ship
my gods, do i love you). full of marshmallows on a bitter sea.
it was your secured limb snaked around my carcass, carcass should be more a sprout of strength
fastened, tightening, choking like bondage (my gods, i can't breathe)
bequeathing my soul to never falter—
us, stumbling (stuttering), drunk actors. at first and second read I saw these 3 lines subject
prescribed the only medical regimen for anxious fools. matter for an interesting separate poem on its own,
not sure it adds, maybe just takes away
it was this; this staged homily, preaching for alleged tomorrows,
the genesis of seven days (a continuous stream of light
in a consuming tunnel of onyx)— these last two lines seem to only add aesthetics,
this could be our ubiquitous infinity. I see where you are going, but it may only give
an impression of opposition, not a draining or wasting of light
it was cleft lips, cracked and dried by the sands of time, a lot of words for thirst
trespassing—barely there—
skimming with such unceremonious speed.
it was lazy moments of reluctance:
devouring, savoring honeysuckle, bliss-filled moans—
drowning in the swollen nectar of the insatiable.
us: pharaohs, gods of dimensions and creations,
parsimoniously indulging, haughtily hoarding all of life's wine.
it was shared laughter: (effervescent, evanescent);
radiating, echoing within the permeable chambers
of our labyrinth: this was for me and for you; ugg.."labyrinth" AGAIN? no, please.
it is for me; and it is for you. me doesn't cover a suspect of spectrum
it was blushing secrets: (no, please, we shouldn't)
shared with (bleak) opalescent willingness.
thrusting desires to the beat of our fibrillating hearts.
us: the fountainhead of evolution,
gilded parents, burying a multitude of children;
tombstones sculpted with the name of "shame." I think this harsh and whiny, without providing
a background of justification
it was finally unleashed—gates of heated passion ruptured open.
saccharine euphoria oozing as though from a sun-ripened peach
it was perfection, beautiful, and it was fervently revered;
it was stigmatized with the premonition of heart-rendering ischemia;
hog-tied down (my love, we must get back up) and unhinging our demineralized bones a repairable awkward form here
from their homely sockets.
it was love.
it was over.
Interesting read. I am thankful for it. It encouraged me to get excited enough to look up lit. terms and sparked my interest to learn. I wondered if it was written by someone gifted to teach who has been stifled or walks a new chosen direction, yet the gift remains strong and pure. I have written poetry using parenthesis, but limited myself to just one, I find them useful for adding to thought or promoting subconscious views. It works well here and actually adds to the poem IMO. It helped me to look within. My critique to this poem is a silly fear I have faced, because the poem is so large and wonderful, it took some courage... but it somehow is revealing how bravery often holds hidden blessings.
Best wishes.
there's always a better reason to love