Indeed they are; and for a: Indeed they are; and for a "chief of sinners" (to borrow Saint Paul's phrase) like me, it takes nearly a lifetime to figure that out.
melancholy sweetness:
I was taken along by the story within. Funny how objects act as embers of the past.
A chocolate vanilla swirl of melancholy sweetness.
the perfect title:
The rippled pattern of generations though time… a very interesting thing to ponder.
Braids of Life – was the perfect title.
Enjoyed this.
A glowing Gem – From the Archives:
This is just as alive, and impactful, as the day you wrote it.
It’s touching, and loving, and heart wrenching – and a whole well of beautiful soul feelings in one place.
We’ve had some incredible gems on Post Poems over the years. This is one of them.
And I read it the second time, while listening to the song…
Nat King Cole - "September Song"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WIAbmT6WH2U
I think the cool kids in high: I think the cool kids in high school are the biggest assholes on social media now. They're still trying to recapture that expired glory.
The rhythmic flow of these: The rhythmic flow of these lines bring the reader to the imminence of the silencing of the soul. One feels with the poetic narrator and moves with the emotive language. Thanks for sharing. /RIk.
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.