Nevertheless, I Don't Think Any Less of Them.

[jon1jt]

I have climbed, the highest mountains,
I have run, to the fields, only to be with you...
:D

[kiz_paws]

I like the way that this poem read, Jon ... a lot of imagery. Some lines that were very beautiful were
"Silver dawn calls to the world,
the sound of souls submerged"
or

"I struggle to get the world inside a poem"
It is difficult to pinpoint exactly what moved me, but anyhow, I loved how the last two lines follow the final stanza. Great stuff, as usual, my friend. :)

[TheFifthElement]

Loved this Jon, apart from this one line :


I imagined as a boy and I loved as a man.

which just jarred with me compared to the flow of everything else. I wonder, is it necessary?

Great poem though Jon. I agree with Kiz about this line in particular :


I struggle to get the world inside a poem

and the overriding impression of the irrelevance of classification, labeling, the not-knowing, and the things you know by instinct. I think, perhaps, there is more depth in this than I have gleaned, but another one to return to and re-read; my favourite type :)

[schadenfreude]

I've read your poem through several times and it is still as captivating as ever. I'm not very good at explaining why some particular poems capture my attention, but I love your tone, your descriptions and the whole rhythm of the poem.

However, what I like best about this poem is that you concede that you do not understand many things in this world, yet that simple acceptance seems to acknowledge that there is so much that you do understand which cannot be captured by our thin language. It is sad that sometimes what we know is limited by what we can say, even though we can certainly feel so much more than we can express in words.

Thank you for sharing this wonder, Jon, and I hope that my interpretation isn't too far-fetched.

[firefangled]

Jon, If ever there was an honest, unpresuming prayer, this is one.

I thought this was beautiful for its ability to equalize and unify all things and make them glorious at the same time.

It seems to strip everything of its name and deal with what you see and hear and fell about them only.

[blp]

Is the odd language ('silkish') supposed to be childlike? Feels like an unnecessary affectation to me.

The first line sounds like a common trope in TV advertising of the sort where rugged travellers reflect on impossibly grandiose lives before extolling something rubbish like an SUV or an aftershave. (Yes, I really dislike it that much.)

'A lot of poetry is really just listing things' - Bruce Nauman

This feels pertinent here. There are some great things, but the seem to me to need tidying up a bit and feel slightly disconnected, syntactically. Perhaps you need to either make them connect a little more or play on it by adopting a more obviously list-like structure. Perhaps.

[jon1jt]

I became tempted momentarily to go into a windy explanation, but no more, I'm going to pause and let the poem speak for itself. If you have any questions about this poem, feel free to PM me.

I can't thank you enough for reading this one, it's rather long, and time is tight,and it's the holiday season, of course. My little Buddha bow to you, reader.

[motherhubbard]

Jon, I loved every bit of this. It made me cry. It leaves me solemn and silent. I wonder if all of your poems are so powerful and honest- I think you are a brave poet.

[jon1jt]

Jon, I loved every bit of this. It made me cry. It leaves me solemn and silent. I wonder if all of your poems are so powerful and honest- I think you are a brave poet.

Thanks motherhubbard. Unfortunately all of my poems may not be as powerful, though honest they strive to be.

[AuntShecky]

I thought this was kinda goodish.

[Virgil]

Jon, I thought there were parts of this that were spectacualr and parts that poor.

I really don't think much of this part. The phrasing is both common and uninteresting.

I've scaled mountains and still don’t know their names,
nor the birds that drift in the morn sky.
I can only describe them as

Silkish, grayish.

The mountains, biggish.

They don’t know my name either, or the species I’m a member of,
or my first dog lying in the living room,
his tongue poodling foam and blood the carpet soaked in,
or the color of my brother’s eyes hovering above.

Clearish.


For me the poem really starts here:

I don’t know the names of rocks or rivers,
painters, not many. Languages, hardly.
For long I've stirred in the window air
hanging out the dead of winter.
I've thought about the dead. My friend, dead,
my father, dead, our squabbles still
in my mouth.

Do birds weep when they sing?
Why does oxygen pass through me like a stone fist?
I swallow its rottenness,
I don’t know any theories of sound
but I know the sound when it breaks,
silver dawn calls to the world,
the sound of souls submerged.

You don’t know why I call faith ‘hope’ and chew on it,
or why the night moves me around in its mouth.

I am a brick, an apple with one parent it can claim.
I run off edges, vertically into the lines and light.
I struggle to get the world inside a poem,
the words on my tongue without name
I bite down on. I don't want them.

I imagined as a boy and I loved as a man.
You don’t know the torsos of the beasts I’ve walked across,
the wasted limbs, the fists that shook, the sweet teeth on mine.
If it could only be as simple as tilting this page
to reveal the hidden confessions.

There are no anchors to set, no sails to shake,
no O suns or roars of the sky's shake.
I know what I am and you...

I don’t know you,
but don’t hold it against me.
That is all excellent. Except for the closing two ines. Eliminate them and I think you've got a nice ending.

Out of the good section of the poem I find these outstanding lines:

I've thought about the dead. My friend, dead,
my father, dead, our squabbles still
in my mouth.
and

I don’t know any theories of sound
but I know the sound when it breaks,
silver dawn calls to the world,
the sound of souls submerged.
and

There are no anchors to set, no sails to shake,
no O suns or roars of the sky's shake.
I know what I am and you...

[jon1jt]

Aunt Shecky: Are you making an allusion to my Circus poem...kinda? LOL! That's me, Aunty, I'm always bending words, and I'll break them if I can. Stay tuned. :) thanks for reading.



Jon, I thought there were parts of this that were spectacualr and parts that poor.


I really don't think much of this part. The phrasing is both common and uninteresting.



For me the poem really starts here:

Thanks Virge for isolating all those lines, wow. Let me say I agree with you insofar as measuring the verve of the line, since the lines you note in the first section are banal enough. The measure of a poem's worth is not with each line, for me. Let me say this...

The fact is the dog choking up blood was "my" experience, the one I witnessed as a child and one I merely wanted to explicate as a moment the reader could on some vague level identify with. But, the poem's trumpet call is clear enough. If the lines are banal it's because I stated them as fact---even though I made up the word "poodling.";) Perhaps it's equally banal when a stranger tells you his sister died, or if I told you how my friend died, my father died, I'm not sure. Maybe I'm not the stranger, maybe you'd understand. Maybe if I were your neighbor you would feel some of the depth of ache in me, maybe not. The fact is, I can't explain some things well, and my poem here is a testimony to that. And neither can anyone else explain everything. And I don't know you. ;)

[TheFifthElement]

Did I mention that 'poodling' is my new favourite word? It's white, fluffy and inappropriately shaved - love it!

I also like the last two lines - they're overtly personal, almost as though you were standing in front of me speaking the words. I like that.

[jon1jt]

Did I mention that 'poodling' is my new favourite word? It's white, fluffy and inappropriately shaved - love it!

:lol: Cool, I love your description! I was just thinking that 'poodling' has many potential uses: e.g. I was poodling around the library all day; Stop poodling, there's work to be done!; The hair poodling over his eyes; the moon poodling the stars, the stars poodling back. :p

Have you ever made up a word for your poem?



I also like the last two lines - they're overtly personal, almost as though you were standing in front of me speaking the words. I like that.

That's the effect I was hoping for, that's great, thanks! ;)

[amanda_isabel]

i liked it. the first lines got me but i do have to agree with the others around here that the first lines are not as good as the rest. :)

[Virgil]

The fact is the dog choking up blood was "my" experience, the one I witnessed as a child and one I merely wanted to explicate as a moment the reader could on some vague level identify with. But, the poem's trumpet call is clear enough. If the lines are banal it's because I stated them as fact---even though I made up the word "poodling.";) Perhaps it's equally banal when a stranger tells you his sister died, or if I told you how my friend died, my father died, I'm not sure. Maybe I'm not the stranger, maybe you'd understand. Maybe if I were your neighbor you would feel some of the depth of ache in me, maybe not. The fact is, I can't explain some things well, and my poem here is a testimony to that. And neither can anyone else explain everything. And I don't know you. ;)

Sure I understand that. But I think such a shocking, dramatic moment in a poem or a play or a novel (as opposed to real life) has to be earned. To jumpo into a moment like that without building the foundation for it is melodramatic.

[SleepyWitch]

hurumpf, I've read it for the second time... I've got a cold once again and my brain's kinda fogged up. I'll read it again when (if ever) I feel better.

[jon1jt]

Sure I understand that. But I think such a shocking, dramatic moment in a poem or a play or a novel (as opposed to real life) has to be earned. To jumpo into a moment like that without building the foundation for it is melodramatic.


Right on, all writing has to be earned, I understand that part. My concern is with this "jumping into a moment like that..." regarding my line about the dog/childhood. You're applying a temporal, linear approach---i.e. rising action, climax, resolution to a piece that was written spontaneously on a couple napkins in a coffee shop with a borrowed pen. Spontaneous writing is the foundation of this piece. In the case you point out I wouldn't write poetry, I'd write a novel or drama piece. :confused: Now that's not to say poetry doesn't use those elements on occasion, I'm saying they're not bound to them. And occasionally I dispose of them altogether, and some people don't like that.

Thanks for the input, Virge, I truly appreciate it.

Thanks Sleeps, Amanda. ;)