The Storm

[Miles Goetz]

I had awakened to find myself still adrift, the ringing of memory’s bell still strong.

The night still kept aloft, the light imprisoned in my palms like a cup with which I drink the milk of the clouds: all the faint musings of a blinded eye, the eye still bound to sleep.

Here is the floor, and around myself is wrapped a limp sheet. Beyond the plaster wall there is the shell of a storm still brooding, over the heads of the innocent and below the gaze of the strong.


I hear the sorrowful bend of the oaks in the gale; their song is played along the wretched strings of an instrument crafted from foul dreams.

Yet even in this horror I find peace. For what is a storm but the heralding of sweet songs through a voice so loud and brazen?

Come to me, sunlight, wine, and passion. Lift from the water its blue, and from the storm its grey; take us into the dawn from which all dreams took flight.

[DieterM]

Good writing, Miles—I really liked your poem. At some places, you could tighten the whole thing up a bit, in my opinion. And there's one thing I'm really not so keen on, and that's the form. Meaning your line breaks. As it stands, your "offering" reads rather like poetic prose than a poem. There are a few "still" too many for my taste, too, especially in places where the repetition doesn't add anything to the message or the rythm. The other thing I don't "get" is the change of tense in the last line; I think that if you replace "took" by "take", the message would still be the same but it would read smoother.

I tried to break the lines differently and came up with this:

I had awakened, still adrift,
the ringing of memory’s bell still strong.
The night aloft, the light imprisoned in my palms
like a cup with which I drink the milk of the clouds:
all the faint musings of a blinded eye,
an eye still bound to sleep.

Here is the floor,
a limp sheet wrapped around me.
Beyond the plaster wall
there is the shell of a storm,
still brooding,
over the heads of the innocent
and below the gaze of the strong.

I hear the sorrowful bend of the oaks in the gale;
their song is played along the wretched strings of an instrument
crafted from foul dreams.

Yet even in this horror I find peace.
For what is a storm
but the heralding of sweet songs
through a voice so loud and brazen?

Come to me, sunlight, wine, and passion.
Lift from the water its blue,
and from the storm its grey;
take us into the dawn
from which all dreams take flight.

Still your poem, and very much so. A very nice piece!

[virtuoso]

I agree with Dieter on the poem's style. A construct with formal stanzas would make the poem flow smoother. In its present form, it reads like a journal/diary entry. The surreal imagery is other-worldly. It sounds like the ruminations of a person in transcendental meditation. I love the deep feelings that you expressed in this poem. I look forward to reading more of your poems!