PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Nice Image: "...where thaw will first strike" Ready for the transition, positioned for the lightening bilt of the unknown. ~S~

Because I believe that every: Because I believe that every new poem you post is an event---both on postpoems and in the general realm of poetry---I would, even on my deathbed, gladly comment on a poem of yours.      From 1976 through 1980, I was learning---although I did not know it---to be able to contemplate and to observe a Poet's explication of the reality that we call the Cosmos.  And that did not stop in 1980; it accelerated, as, through the 80's, Eliot's star began to set and Stevens' to rise in its place; yet, they were dead, and therein was the frustration.     My membership in postpoems was a privilege I will cherish beyond my life in this world.  Jason has given me my wildest dreams---to publish my poems and to become what, since 2001, I wanted to be . . . a minor internet poet.  But the unseen and unexpected benefit was yet to be disclosed . . . in 2020 . . . when I first read the Gates of Orion, and the Council of Stars.  And all the tumblers fell into place, and there was . . . unlocked before me . . . the experience for which I had been preparing since 1976, to see a living body of excellent Poetry of the extremest high quality, expanding itself poem by poem, and gathering as a gift of the Cosmos to itself, to be articulated and explicated by the Poetics of your metaphysical vision.  I had often wondered what it would have been like to see a provincial high school teacher reveal Symbolist poetry to the world, when he published Afternoon of a Faun; or a London bank clerk bring The Waste Land to the world in 1922; or a Connecticut insurance lawyer declare that the entire Cosmos followed Ideas of Order in 1931.  Now I need not wonder.  You, through postpoems, have given me that experience.      And it is not just grad students who will learn about Poetry and your Poetry; other poets have much to learn from you.  Walnut calls me to reconsider my own poems---especially the Ad Astra poems, which are only possible because of precedents you have established.  Walnut, as an Envoy of the Cosmos.  Hydrogen atoms became stars, and stars fused other elements which, together with Hydrogen, became us; such that those who are really Poets and not mere imitators may tell the Cosmos who and what it is.  This is what your Poetry demonstrates and articulates; and you have done it, always, well; but, with Walnut, you have broken through your own high precedents and achievements to a new level of greatness.   What you have made possible, and your understanding of Etienne and what you wrote for and about him, have made me a different poet than I was two weeks ago, or two years ago.

You need to focus on your: You need to focus on your health.  take care of yourself and get better.  I appreciate any comments I get but I also understand that everyone else has their own family and issues in life.  Sending good vibes your way.

I'm deeply troubled by your: I'm deeply troubled by your suffering, and if I've helped you in any way at all then I'm incredibly gratified. There's no better feedback than this.    That you took the time to write such a magnificent, spot-on review in spite of your anguish is very moving, and human language is inadequate to express my gratitude.   I'm marveling at the way you recognized every nuance of my expression. I was particularly stunned by your eloquent statement: "The Cosmos is all around me, and is working just fine to include me and bring me forward."   I'm beginning to think you're psychic because one of the endings I was kicking around while editing this basically said just that. I went back and forth on that last stanza and finally chose the one that I felt had continuity with the previous stanza and also fit the soundwork.   Anyway, here was the ending you somehow predicted:   "The Universe is right here, now, in music, feathers and light"   I just thought you would be interested to know that.   I loved how you, with wondrous, startling interpretations, expressed all my intentions here and went beyond appreciation by internalizing the message and finding some comfort in it. Is there a greater reward for any writer? I don't think so.   It's always a pleasure and an honor to have you analyze my poetry with poetry.   I am greatly concerned about you. More prayers will be coming your way. Peace and every blessing.   

I like your use of the: I like your use of the Elephant Man as your poem's metaphor.

Your understanding of Mary: Your understanding of Mary Shelley, and of my fascination with her, brought tears to my eyes.  The last time I wept over remarks about her was in December, 2019, and I was hospitalized then also, and the Sunday Morning news show on CBS interviewed the Nobel laureate in genetics, and he said that Frankenstein should be required reading for all freshman science majors (and an essay required to demonstrate their understanding) because, in his opinion, it is the finest presentation of the failure of scientific ethics in all of literature.   If I were introducing a student to her, I would begin with your comments.  I hope my granddaughter will encounter the novel when she enters high school next September, and, if so, I will be sharing your comment with her.   Your question about the great nightmare coming out of such a diminutive figure brought a smile to my face:  when I did my sophomore project, I read of a backstage meeting she had with the actor who first brought the Monster to the stage in a theatrical version that she did not write but had filly approved.  At the premiere (for which, being so humble, she attempted to purchase tickets for her and her son; which the theater manager refused and gave her a private box with the rich folks), she was very delighted to hear real screams from the audience when he first appeared in makeup he had created.  After the final curtain she asked permission to meet him, a man who stood well over six feet tall.  When they brought her back to his dressing room, he broke into a sweat, and his hands were shaking.  She asked him why he seemed so nervous, and he said she terrified him, because so much horror in words had come out of such a small stature.    I learned something today:  her father in law, who despised her, actually had, when dying, knew that the estate would pass directly to her as the widow of his only son.  I thought he had left it to his grandson directly; but the laws of primogeniture applied to him, because he held a baronetcy---the lowest and least of the British peerage.  What a delicious irony that such a hateful man, who had forbidden her to ever enter his home; who had tried to take her son from her; and who paid her only the bare minimum of child support from the estate (until William IV, newly crowned, and a collector of her first editions, literally ordered him to loosen the checkbook) knew that the primogeniture did not care about his spiteful prejudices.  It also goes to my resentment of the History department's prejudice against my study of her, as my faculty advisor was an acknowledged expert on the peerage and primogeniture, but refused to countenance my interest in her or my sophomore project.     Thanks again for your comments about her, and about the poem.  Though my life has a lot of failures and bad decisions, my study of Mary Shelley, since 1968 and until I leave this world, has not been one of them.

"People themselves are caves/: "People themselves are caves/ formed by mischievous stone." So much in those lines. I'd say you still got it!