This poem made me initially think of the transition from childhood into becoming adults, where we go from being innocently confident and unembarrassed about ourselves not only as people but our naked form, to overcompensating later in life where our form and self are far too cringeworthy to ever be judged. Combining that with the overall sense of religious zeal/flavour running throughout the poem, I found myself thinking this could easily be about our need to cover up in the eyes of God.
That original sanctity that our body is holy and not for the eyes of others is rich within this poem as there is talk of devotion to a god and that the readers voice/word is just as worthy as the writer's. I think that adds a bit more depth to the poem if somewhat implicit of the presence of a prophet/messiah within the piece.
I like the author's note as it does shed light on the context on the whole and lets us understand exactly what is going on.
This poem made me initially think of the transition from childhood into becoming adults, where we go from being innocently confident and unembarrassed about ourselves not only as people but our naked form, to overcompensating later in life where our form and self are far too cringeworthy to ever be judged. Combining that with the overall sense of religious zeal/flavour running throughout the poem, I found myself thinking this could easily be about our need to cover up in the eyes of God.
That original sanctity that our body is holy and not for the eyes of others is rich within this poem as there is talk of devotion to a god and that the readers voice/word is just as worthy as the writer's. I think that adds a bit more depth to the poem if somewhat implicit of the presence of a prophet/messiah within the piece.
I like the author's note as it does shed light on the context on the whole and lets us understand exactly what is going on.
I lived without a voice once
and would never wish to live such
a life again"
your my hero. you know this.
the alarm of (in) poetry is that which claims our apprehension. the thing that
makes us watch the train wreck or the pre-lims of american idol; let's see
who cant sing, not who can. The great work at hand is facing the applet's
of our own insecurities. somedays we are the poet, anonymous, behind
the rectangle key board and some days our discerning nervousness calls
upon our perceived fear, the beloved. Good work, dana.
Oh, how I love this, Emily. You touched me, as always, not that it means anything....right? I'm just a struggling writer with a block from pain. Your piece is creative and down-to-Earth....just right.
the style and tone of this piece, even before I read your notes, def sounded biblical - or not so much biblical, but "spiritual", like a zen excerpt or a psalm.
love the last lines
Some days we are the poet
searching
and some days we are the beloved
found.
This makes me think of the Poet and the Muse, subject/object, the myth of the sculpture making his work come to life, or other classical dichotomies, but without the finality as it suggests that the roles are fluid, and the roles can be reversed.
It's very idealistic - in some ways it can act as a foil against my piece "a rose as red as lipstick", which is more fixed and one way... a sort of eternal dialectal never resolved.
I lived without a voice once
and would never wish
to live such a life again.
Those three lines bring painful memories. My social skills have gotten better as I have gotten older BUT as I told a friend recently "If writers were such great talkers then they would never have become writers to begin with"
Aside from that,
Beautiful poem. That haitus was apparently good for you because now you are hitting your stride and reaching heights that I have never seen you reach before. Be proud, you have become the poet you have always wanted to be.
It seems I am not exactly the intended audience for this poem, but I'm not gonna let that stop me from reviewing it favorably.
Innocence, I think, is not something easily captured in a poem. It looks to me like you pulled it off admirably though. The bit about living without a voice was particularly poignant. Well done.
to the Lost Boys
I am no Wendy;
but my voice brings you back to me.
And you sit around my feet,
anxious for a story
or a kiss.
Listening to my words
spinning adventures,
like so much g.. more..
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