Originally Posted by
islandclimber
I like that this poem seems borne upon the wings of a real imagination. Poetry is just that, a melding of bold imaginings into fierce realities. What is this authenticity we're always craving anyways? Are we suggesting that imagination cannot be authentic? This poem, I enjoy the way it attaches imaginings to a reality that all cultures can comprehend. For me, that is authentic, and if not, surely inauthenticity can be beautiful then.
The way it closes the circle from Cypress tree to Cypress trees, it's so natural. ANd I adore the use of an imagery infused with the way humanity adapts nature to its own uses. The "delicious" use of native foods, and mudbaked architectures, and underwater canals. In the end this metaphor of life and death as just the cycle from cypress tree to cypress tree, this is what I received...