PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I'm always deeply moved and: I'm always deeply moved and astonished by the precision, depth, magnificence and intricacy of your comments, and not just the ones you leave on my posts, but on any post that has the honor of your attention. I can't even scratch the surface of my gratitude with mortal language. Peace and every blessing. 

I attempted to post a comment: I attempted to post a comment earlier, but due to my stupid laptop's glitching, everything I wrote was lost, so I am going to try to reproduce it here, and I apologize in advance if it is not exactly the same.  I think I have combed out all the typos, but I make no guarantee.    The poem's center of gravity is the stanza that begins "In truth . . ." and this is not just a poetic statement that she makes, it is also a philosophical and metaphysical statement that approaches theology.  Only the greatest of Poets do this:  Vergil, Old Possum Eliot, and Pop Stevens.  I have said, in earlier comments, that, at the banquet table where those Poets are seated, Patriciajj has a standing invitation and reservation.  She may even play Euchre with them (here's a hint:  add the joker as the supreme bauer, that can overthrow the other two, to make the play more exciting, and that also gives the cat's hand a full compliment of cards).  To that group, I would also add Callimachus, the director of the great Library in Ptolemaic Alexandria, said to have been appointed to that position by its founder, Ptolemy II.  Callimachus was a Poet of Aetia---the poetic explanation of the beginnings of things:  the cosmos, cities and wars, games of Euchre and the cats' hands (no, just kidding there).  In this poem, Patricia gives us an Aetia of how something---an attitude, a perspective, a metaphysical awareness---begins; and she defines that in the final stanza, and it is on this stanza that I would like to concentrate this comment.       She speaks of the morning of birth; but it is not her birth as an infant of which she writes.  Long before Ptolemy and Callimachus (who were ethnic Greeks resident in Egypt), the ancient Egyptians believed that the sun was reborn each morning.  But they were also sensible enough to realize that the sun was not reborn as a newborn star each morning:  the sun already knew what path to follow, and for how long to stay in the sky.  The sun was born into the newness of the day; and, in this final stanza of the poem, Patricia's soul enters the newness of the day, which is a rebirth of sorts, the same process as the Egyptian sun.      But then, she swerves beyond ancient Egypt, and goes back to Eden itself, and look how her lines in that stanza resonate.  Eden was a garden, and we know there were trees thriving there.  God breathed into Adam and Eve the breath of life and, according to Moses' theology, that made them living souls.  And what did they do then?  They lived.  Even after they fouled up, they lived.  This final stanza reiterates that process in three short lines---in the garden of the trees, the breath of life enables a living soul to live.         This is one of the aspects of Patricia's poetry that I love the best and, frankly, admire the most.  Her lines are mot restricted to the here and now; or her location in geography or chronology.  She can range throughout recorded time---this one stanza has helped us revisit ancient Egypt, and then further back to Eden; and she presents this with the style of the Great Poets . . . in this case, Callimachus.  Her poems' structures are different than his, and I don't think she runs a library, but her metaphysical approach is in the same field and venue as his, and that is a might fine place to be.    One of my life's frustrations has been that, although I was taught by some very fine scholars about Poetry, the poems that the taught were written by Poets already deceased.  Sure, I knew how Vergil wrote his epic; I had read "my girl" Mary Shelley's journal about her struggles with Frankenstein; and I had read Valerie Eliot's amazing transcript of the original Waste Land manuscripts, which allowed me to watch a poem gathering itself together over the course of several years.  But none of this was in real time.  But then, almost three years ago, shortly after I had been released from weeks and weeks in the hospital, random browsing brought me to Patricia's poems ("Gates of Orion," "Council of Stars")---and, as I began to delve into her gallery on PostPoems, I knew that, for the first time, I would now see---as an ongoing process---the same functions that I had spent years studying.   I have not been disappointed; not for one fraction of one second.  I have described Patricia's poetry as Cosmic.  She does not limit her perspective to the mundane local.  Like Dante, she takes the whole cosmos as her poetic venue.  Frankly, I don't want to live to see her final poem, because I don't want to see the process ever end.  I am content to read her final poem in Heaven, and I certainly believe that the Heavenly library receives each new poem that she constructs.  I won't live to see the PhD dissertations that will be written about her Poetry, either; but, unlike those future grad students, I have a ringside seat to the ongoing process of her Poetry's expansion, and, for once, they can envy me.  Their understanding will be far more refined than mine, because they will know the whole completed work.    But I, and all of you who read her poems, have the thrill---the privilege---the blessing of watching the poems assemble right before our amazed and astounded eyes; and, more than that, our souls are among the first souls to whom her Poetry speaks.  That's a mighty fine time and place to be, and I, for one, a, grateful to her, to the Cosmos of which she writes so poetically and majestically, and to God, Whose wonders she gathers into her poems to remind us of just where we live, and who we are.            

For the experience and the: For the experience and the complete journey, that is what this poem brings. And for forks and avenues of thought and imagination bringing even more- as an elegant feline moving through the foliage, graceful, elegant and strong.

You could read a shopping: You could read a shopping list and it would sound elegant, so the listening experience was otherworldly in its excellence. But savoring the words in print had its own transcendental rapture and ability to electrify.   "the world indeed is too much with us"   Wow! That's a line to die for. But then, so is the next line and the next . . . one can be absolutely submerged in the artistry and the feel of this.    You are The Bard!

Both are precious and: Both are precious and heart-tugging in different ways.    The first is a searing casualty of our unsparing reality: a child facing adult-sized pain and the second, some comic relief penned in your witty, signature style that leaves one wanting to laugh and groan at the same time. Not too many people could pull it off with such innate skill, but you turn the everyday into sensitive and cunning art.   Another successful Heron Clan!   

The feeling of isolated bliss: The feeling of isolated bliss on an ocean island is quite an experience. And to have music to fill the air adds to it an ambient atmosphere.