I will begin by likening this: I will begin by likening this poem to my most favorite tale by Robert Aickman (who is acclaimed by many, including myself, to be the most brilliant writer of horrific tales in the twentieth century): Pages From A Young Girl's Journal (which is now online in a pdf format), in which he juxtaposed beauty and charm with a mounting sense of horror. You have done exactly that, but in a far briefer format. I also offer this compliment, which I mean with all the sincerity of which I am capable: had Aickman been a poet, he would have written poems like this one of yours.
I like the way you deploy the four stanzas into a kind of outer and inner balance: the first and last stanzas (which I call the outer) emphasize the speaker's predatory nature; the second and third, the inner, emphasize the speaker's beauty and attractiveness.
Back in 1991, when I completed my first reading of the Young Girl's Journal, I was a litte shaken up as I considered how fascinated I found its speaker to be, despite what she willingly and eagerly became. And then, I realized that this was exactly the effect Aickman wanted me, and all of his readers, to experience. And this same effect drenches your poem as I have read it.
Like your Siren poem, which I just read, this poem has impressed me so much that I feel that any comments I make, no matter how superlative or evenextravagant, are insufficient in the poem's brilliant, provocative, and eminently successful presence.
Wow! I did not expect to: Wow! I did not expect to begin my Saturday morning with a reading of such a brilliant poem, but here it is, right in front of me! And I applaud the strategy you have deployed: what appears to be moving toward a love poem in the second stanza, suddenly swerves into a horrific tale. And like the best of such tales (whether in verse or prose), historically, you do not depict, tritely, the gore and grue (like in a slasher film), but wisely leave such details to the reader's imagination (and the imagined is usually far more terrifying than the depicted).
Since my senior year in high school (back in the days of the dinosaurs, lol), I have loved, and collected, and loved some more contemporary poems that make use of ancient myth. You have brought a siren forth from ancient myth; you have kept the poem brief (and I think ancient Callimachus would have applauded this poem as much as I do), and you have allowed my imagination to participate by filling in the blanks that you have, wisely and adroitly, left open for your readers.
This is one of the most memorable poems of this genre that I have read in a long, long time, and I am sure I will be revisiting it often.
I just cannot praise this poem enough!
A joy to wrap my head around.: A joy to wrap my head around. You certainly did justice to crypticbard's image by illustrating, with literary thunder, the enigma of this human invention called time. Amazing work, great sorceress of words.
Yes! A chicken soup poem. We: Yes! A chicken soup poem. We could do with more of this all around. In some parts, I've heard some call it 'get-well soup.' Thanks for sharing.
The sunset upon the landscape: The sunset upon the landscape is a burnished tapestry that engulfs the beholder and to be lost in it we are found in wonder at witnessing and the possibility of being part and parcel of that sunset some glorious day when our sunset arrives. Thanks for sharing.
Only love? I just want to: Only love? I just want to argue all night on 'only love' what a beautiful yet gruesome piece. It really torments the reader on so many levels. Calm down, irs 'only a poem' ss - a bloody great one.
Glad you enjoyed the ride. : Glad you enjoyed the ride. I'm still traveling the avenues hoping to find something that I already possess. It is rewarding if someone else can benefit from my psychotic musings.
Thanks kindly, Spinoza. Power: Thanks kindly, Spinoza. Power does not equal bluster. It makes me wonder I had only left one post or only posted once, whichever, on this account. It's good to see that a hemming together is being forged here and now. Have an awesome weekend.
Funny how we think that of: Funny how we think that of the women we love/loved. There was a time that all I could write off and think of was the girl. And immortalising my feelings sometimes served to stifle and anchor me in place while she moved on. Perhaps writing in hindsight has distinct advantages, emotion-wise. Thanks for sharing.