The Cycles of Time: There is always the great renewal of cycles, and so many cycles there are – both big and small – across our own lifetimes and beyond.
Sometimes: Sometimes I get in the habit of compression. But I don’t want to get too overly reliant on it, as I sometimes do. I still find great joy, sitting with something for weeks, months or years – and just letting it ruminate and ferment. Or until I’ve gotten to the right place in my life, to say it properly. And sometimes, that requires letting yourself age too.
Some funny folks in the world: Some real funny folks in the world. Some folks that live in their own world – and think no one can see into it. They always end in trouble soon enough. And The Farm ain't no place to be.
Hello Ramona…: Hello Ramona.
I came across your poem here.
I wanted to check something with you.
Did you want someone to check your spelling?
I did a quick check. Everything looks fine. Have you heard of Spellcheck? It's a program that automatically checks your spelling.
I've used it. It's pretty good.
Have a lovely evening!
My mother's three brothers: My mother's three brothers were in the European theater---two participated in D Day and the Battle of the Bulge; one was a pilot of a bomber. All three survived, although the pilot passed away, several years afterward, from complications that could be traced back to wounds received. My father enlisted in the Marines, was sent to the Pacific Theater, and served aboard the Nevada as a gunner's mate. He helped operate the guns that shot down the Japanese suicide planes. Ironically, my mother and her brothers were the children of two immigrants, one of whom was from Germany; but, to hear them talk, their German ancestry in no way ameliorated their fierce desire to combat, and ultimately defeat and destroy, the Third Reich and the Nazi Party.
Very perceptive and very: Very perceptive and very astute. Our species has abandoned moral altruism for an unspiritual and immoral truancy, and we have too long ignored the great Poets---like yourself---who remind us of this unfortunate fact,
Patricia's response to this: Patricia's response to this poem is so appropriate and well expressed that my own words have nothing that can be added to it. I will say, however, that I applaud how much movement or process you have choreographed into the brevity of this poem. There is the likening to a rose illuminated in moonlight; then a becoming, becoming the moon itself; then a ripening of moonlight upon some satis texture (satin on a bed, perhaps?), and then the effect of her heels' heat upon the speaker's brain. The poem's apparent brevity reminds me of the placid surface of a substantial body of water---say, for example, a rural lake. The surface impression (in this case, the poem's brevity) does not disclose the profound depths of meaning it contains, until it has been read---and multiple readings reveal a deeper connectedness to some of the finest Poetry of all time: how many of our great Poets have written of rose, moonlight, and impressions burned into the mind. Spinoza's poem connects with all of them, while remaining---independently and impressively---itself.
The first stanza births: The first stanza births picturesque and luminous imagery, the second blossoms into a majestic metaphor and the rest . . . Wow! It enters into some truly ethereal and elevated territory that interweaves sensuality with the sublime.
A praise-worthy creation I could read again and again and revel in as much as the first time.
Respect!
This poem is splendidly: This poem is splendidly philosophical or psychological or existential (I am sure each reader will see one or more of these aspects), all three at once, and it presents a paradox that I have never seen stated before: that the shorter the cut, the deeper the wound. To me, reading this for the first time this morning, your statement and explication of this paradoxical situation is short of brilliant. Though the subject is tragic (sometimes bordering on comic when one realizes the stupidity of always taking the short cut to the deep wound), your presentation of it is elegant, empathetic, and very, very convincing. This poem is not talking about something fictive---like perpetual motion machines, or little green aliens from Alpha Centauri; this poem is telling us of the very human condition into which so many of us wake, and from which so many of us retreat into fiftul and disturbed sleep. You have posted a poem that is excellent in all of its aspects.
Thar first line, about the: Thar first line, about the streets being filled with broken dreams and cliches is so very poetic that it constritutes a poem of its own!
A strikingly insightful and: A strikingly insightful and brilliantly navigated journey through those exasperating psychological landscapes where even shortcuts are perilous. I get this!
Superb and highly identifiable.
I have been reading Poetry: I have been reading Poetry for fifty years, as of this past April. And although I am at a loss to know what the name of your writing style is, or how it should be defined, I am sure, as sure as I have ever been about any poetry I have read in this half century, that I like your poetry very, very much.