I feel the wearinessin eyes that
see not
what they
used
to
see
(are not
what
they
used
to
be)
or,
perhaps
have simply
seen too much
for a heart
too sensitive
in the accumulation
of quiet
yelling
sediment layered
in undefined
uncomprehending
vague
anger
vague as
the forest
in morning mist
The weight rims
cantaloupes
quarter moons
my waning light
some days are better
than others
this
is
not
one
of
them
2 comments:
I almost want to repeat what I just wrote above (Blurry Days) for how directly you convey the core of what this poem pertains to, not in statement or fact, at least not in a data-type fashion that is in turn registered and processed, but with a profound emotional persuasion, it is in the tone and the approach, in the sincerity and the simplicity. Details are insignificant, in a manner of speaking, words one might want to call them, the process by which one reads, reads what has been communicated is impressive, as though not the words but the thought, the emotion, the moment is being inscribed, not through eyes, mind, but through transference. Not a knowing upon one's person kind of transference of course, but to put it very, very simply show seen, tell heard. This also is another wonderful example of how adept you are at using certain techniques to assist in the creation of tone and emphasis.
The thought just made me smile of how grading your poetry, the actual noting down of the grade, would be a monotonous task. Quality straight.
Once again, I am blown away with your comment--in a good way. :-)
And I wonder, when my mind is blank, how I can ever write anything again. And I feel that way until the next image pops into my head. All of nothing, it seems writing to be. Thank you again for the most wonderful comments I think any writer has ever gotten. Your comments are a work of art in and of themselves. They really are. And I love reading them as a child loves ice cream. More chocolate please. :-)
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