What is a poem but the word made flesh?
It's the burning eternal dressed to kill.
It's our personal Cerberus unleashed
and Sisyphus puffing his stone uphill.
It's Jim Beam and Marlboros on her breath
while stumbling home from the Paper Mill,
her whispering to you she's yours 'til death
and wondering if it's all way too soon.
What poetry isn't is to enmesh
words that would growl, howl at the moping moon,
to collar and leash that dog of your heart
and guard the soul there from wailing its tune.
Be bold! Be bold and free at the hill's start
and when at the top let Cerberus bark.
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Come to hell with me......
Sorry, you cannot respond to an archived poemReviews
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Whenever I read you I know I'm reading a special talent. Your writing makes me feel like the amateur I am. I stumbled across this one amidst a long list of 'new postings' that arrived from you this evening. I must say, it always puts me 'off' to see poetry posted in huge bundles like this - it seems to cheapen each individual one somehow. I suspect, now that I think about it, it has something to do with retrieval from the archives maybe (?) Anyway, the first couple of lines intrigued me, and since it was you I looked it up.
Great opening line! You really don't shirk the 'grand' - which can make you look foolish if you mess up . But you carry it off effortlessly. That grand, classical tone continues till line 5 - and somehow the clash of the classical with the more-than-earthly sets both off to tremendous effect.
'It's Jim Beam and Marlboros on her breath
while stumbling home from the Paper Mill, '
Not content with the enjambment of meaning, you smash up the rhythm and meter with line 8. Something is WRONG in this relationship. As a reader, it is not really neccessary for me to know what, or too much more. The poem transcends the events it celebrates.
After line 8 its back to the grand design and once more you don't shirk the 'big' thoughts and lines.
Maybe it's just me Brandon, but this poem spoke to me without telling me anything. The word become flesh indeed.I'm going through something just now and I wish I could express it as you have expressed whatever it is you were going through here.
You are a wonderful writer in this writer's eyes.
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Don't sell yourself short, John....
and stop deprecating yourself. I've read your stuff and you have the heart of a poet, there's a certain tranquil sadness even in your notes to me. I thank you for your critiques. You always balance out the good things you say I do with guarded caution, which is nice because I know you're reading critically and not just blowing smoke up my ass as we say here in the States.
What was I going through? Life, my friend, is so beautiful and so brief and so ultimately useless. Only beauty is worth living for. I think I wanted to convey that melancholy, that sense of wonder in the mundane, and our broken hearts in the midst of it all. There, I've written something that some blowhard can print on a jacketcover
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'..that sense of wonder in the mundane'
mission so much more than accomplished. Some 'blowhard' may indeed have a jacketcover to print - or are you already IN print? I wouldn't be surprised - and I don't mean to fawn, I am seldom so gushing in my praise. Thanks for the reply which was much appreciated. That 'certain tranquil sadness' was a mood your poem evoked as much as hooked up with. And I know what you mean about the rest of it. Really enjoyed this. J. -
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Well, actually, I was printed by one of your countrymen, one Ronnie McGinn. He published my "Woman in Room 808" in "The Douglas Post," and the "Irish Examiner." I hope that's not all that happens in the future, but we'll see. Thanks again.
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Windhover
July 21, 2007