I remember, Rae, from our: I remember, Rae, from our many email conversations how you often asked questions for me to ponder rather than just make outright assertions. And you do that in this poem . . . questions are left open for the reader to ponder.
Please forgive me for yet: Please forgive me for yet another failure to reply timely to a comment, and then the discovery of my failure years later. I apologize deeply for this failure to acknowledge your kindness, and I hope you can forgive my ineptness.
Your perceptive reading: Your perceptive reading always gets to the heart of what is being read! Thank you so much for sounding out matters of the heart and the metamorphosis that it undergoes. Steadfastness is not often found nor easily expressed. That was the main challenge and continues to be a feature of writing over decades of life experience and maturing. May the adventures continue on!
Thank you kindly, Starward.: Thank you kindly, Starward. It is with great pleasure to receive your feedback, particularly the link between music and poetry that has been asserted here. There are some things that have to be physically shouted out while others just the mere putting to words is enough expression. If that makes any sense. Again, my gratitude.
Rae, how could I have failed: Rae, how could I have failed to comment on this very earliest poem of yours on PostPoems? I see that even Afzaul Shaq managed to comment (and also, as was customary, to insert an allusion to his political beliefs). I am sorry I let you down by failing to visit this poem in a timely manner. I hope that, now in Heaven, you have some idea of how much I miss you, and that I am truly sorry for failing to comment on your earliest poem.
Rae, you left us a bit too: Rae, you left us a bit too soon---but I speak that from your absence that pains my heart, and not from a defiance of the decision of Christ to call you to His eternal home, which He now shares with you, among the stars. I look forward to meeting you in person when I arrive there, perhaps even sooner than I think. As I write this, I borrow a concept from T. S. Eliot who wrote after the passing of the novelist Charles Williams that Heaven seemed more real now that Williams was there; and I thought that exact thought, just a moment ago. I even felt I could see its starlit edges in that brilliant cerulean color I believe it to have. I hope that whoever might read this comment in passing might visit your poems on comment on them more up to date than the present comments on them are.
I thank you that when the interloper, who so often back then tried to "ride my coattails," inserted himself into our conversations, you treated him with the compassion that I felt he no longer deserved. You were a better Christian then than I am now.
An astonishing metamorphosis: An astonishing metamorphosis of the heart: I can feel the swelling inner triumph, the resolve, in the first stanza that gives way to the undeniable truth, expressed with tremors of emotion and showers of beauty, in the second. Your cunning imagery makes it an extraordinary adventure.
Stunning!
Love can be complicated, but: Love can be complicated, but how well you turned the cyclone of the human condition into remarkable art! You spun some impressive word play in this hard-driving expression:
"Crushing the pages I used to hide in . . ."
"you struggle to continue a story that ends just like this"
"We love like weapons sing"
And my favorite:
"I want to love like I can't change"
It's true that, most often, we just need to leave our creations alone, but I enjoyed where you went with this. A pleasure to read and comment on.
I love the pensive realism,: I love the pensive realism, the intimate informality, the emotive undercurrent, of your words that are more powerful than anything that trumpets and struts with ornate poetics. With expert subtlety you illustrate the detachment in the relationship, reminding us at the end how those memorable words were spoken "Not to me/ But directly to me".
Then you hit us with that killer quote.
A streamlined, candid and beautiful window into the heart.
Thank you for this. I think: Thank you for this. I think this poem has been brewing in me since Autumn of 1976. During the first term of my freshman undergrad year, I was placed in three courses that were among the several required of all students in order to graduate (no incoming freshman selected their first terms' courses). The middle course of the day was a Religion 101, taught by exactly the same sort of pompous blowhard that I have tried to imitate in the poem. His very often repeated summary of his purpose was that since we still couldn't know what really happened to Jack Kennedy in Dallas in '63, we sure could not know what happened outside of Jerusalem in about 30AD on the morning now known as Easter. Because he did not seem to recognize the existence and purpose of Faith, he judged everything by the quantity of knowledge that could be obtained. When I watched him make one of my classmates cry because she could not express her faith in terms of historical knowledge, I felt the beginnings of a long and abiding contempt for him. It is his sort that both give scholarship a bad rep, and also deserve to be parodied and pilloried as I have tried to do.