Author Information
Born in a Field of Light
When was the last time you looked up
and allowed the clarity to rain down
and become your body?
The sky is more felt
and heard
than seen:
an a cappella blue,
a thousand names for joy,
a siren's delicate peril—
or is it simply a call to rise?
And what am I going to do
with all this purity?
I left myself for a
truer place and invited
everything privileged
to know that it lives
into my unearned freedom.
Yes, I know there is anguish in
the world and I know there's a
war going on between who we are
and what we became, and
there are empty people
with lost stories and
words gouging out our hope of
any justice and
lies pasted to a planet
with so much potential, but
living a cynical split-life,
a parody of comfort,
a trapdoor actually, leading
to high-voltage fear always
hissing under our skin,
whether we know it or not,
because the hate out there is
too real and too fertile,
and is worn
with pride like vestments
in a fiery mass.
A crowd of weeping faces
follows me to a honeyed field where
thoughts come to live.
A robin shines through
with the color
and faith
of martyrdom,
spreads its soft wings
and glides upon light.
Patricia Joan Jones
my camp too
The sky is more felt
and heard
than seen
… I’m in that camp too. It sings – far more than it shines.
Thank you for your very
Thank you for your very supportive and uplifting feedback. It means so much.
"Where thoughts come to live"
A nice place of "a capoella blue".
Thank you kindly for reading
Thank you kindly for reading and supporting.
Sisyphus confused In time
Sisyphus confused
In time attached to an iron handle
Time tries to wait for you
when it is silvered
He embraces chains of smoke To elude the interpretation of the poems
Brings back a memory of chemistry, and chaos
esmat alnemr
Thank you for stopping by and
Thank you for stopping by and sharing your metaphorical, existential reflections. I've always been fascinated by the story of Sisyphus because there are so many interpetations and applications of the myth to modern life. I appreciate your thought-provoking and poetic feedback.
Sisyphus confused In time
Sisyphus confused
In time attached to an iron handle
Time tries to wait for you
when it is silvered
He embraces chains of smoke To elude the interpretation of the poems
Brings back a memory of chemistry, and chaos
esmat alnemr
to be one with nature and a
to be one with nature and a part of the creator is a magnificent feat in it`s self
your soul drifting with the clouds looking down on green fields of clover,feeling the warmth of the sun
shining through your soul as you drift along
ron parrish
Thank you for reading and
Thank you for reading and leaving such an exquisite and insightful comment.
you`re welcome
you`re welcome
ron parrish
Reducing this poem to its
Reducing this poem to its simplest terms, we have here a grand choreography in a capella blue, which represents a thousand names for joy, is interrupted by a passing storm---and that is the storm of human makingm which is to say, a storm of human failures. And yet a tranquility follows, in a great effulgence of light.
I am going to make a radical statement here, and I believe the poem justifies it. Readers of my comments, on Patricia's poems and elsewhere, know the reverence and admiration in which I hold the poems of Wallace Stevens. But in this poem, Patricia transcends the final lines of the last stanza of one of Stevens' greatest poems, the remarkable and ever resonant Sunday Morning. His poem ends in the evening, and I quote: ". . . At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make / Ambiguous undulations as they sink / Downward to darkness on extended wings." Wallace Stevens wrote one of the greatest meditative poems in Western literature. Patricia has answered it, with her single robin, with the color and faith of martyrdom, as it---like Stevens' pidgeons---spreads its wings, but not to descend downward to darkness, but to glide on the light. I have been reading Wallace Stevens since mid-October of 1978. The recommendation that led me to his poems changed the course of my life. And Sunday Morning has haunted me all that time. It is an open-ended question, to which no poet---until Patriciajj---has ever given an adequate answer. Back in 1978, I was told that Stevens repays any effort to understand his work, and I have never known that assertion to fail. I can say the same about Patriciajj's poems. I have been reading her poetry for almost a year now. I am not the callow undergraduate nerd that approached Stevens work in 1978. I suspected, when I first began to read her poetry, that here was a greatness that is greater than any I have seen at postpoems in my almost twenty years here. This poem confirms that, this poem in which she challenges, and then soars beyond, even the greatness of Wallace Stevens. This is an example of one of the greatest achievements of poetry on the internet.
J-Called
First of all I want to thank
First of all I want to thank you for your advice. It made all the difference. And as one who values your opinion, it was with incredible satisfaction that I read your bulls-eye of a deconstruction. It was exactly what I was trying to convey and exactly the effect I was trying to achieve. I'm deeply moved, humbled and unable to find words equal to your kind gift.
Thank you for that kind
Thank you for that kind reply. I am still kind of reeling from the intensity of this poem, and I must admit I have read it several times---not in any doubt, but in tremendous admiration for the whole poem, and the respectful overturn of the despair of Sunday Morning at your poem's conclusion. Reading your poems, I feel an excitement I have experienced only twice before---as a student, and again when my own stuff first got published on the internet. I feel privileged to have been able to witness the rise of your greatness on postpoems. Even in the midst of my declining health, that excitement does not abate. My first publisher, Albert Victor at the Starlite Cafe (which I left for the greater site of postpoems) once told me that our poems, and our comments, when posted on the internet never really delete, but are retained in some server somewhere. I take comfort in that because my comments on your poems will, presumably, retain some access---not for their own sake, but to bear witness to your greatness. Greater scholars than me will come after me, and to them I will look like an"aw shucks" primitive. At sometime, your entire work will be a whole unit, and then the greatness will really begin to radiate and resonate. I will not live to see that; but I have lived long enough to predict it. And, in regard to your poems, I will describe my viewpoint in some of Stevens' words, from the late "Soliloquy of the Final Paramour" in which he said, ". . . being there . . . is enough."
J-Called
Thank you kindly for your
Thank you kindly for your extremely moving and sincere vote of confidence. It means the world to me. Trust me, I'll never forget.