PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

More than valuable, your: More than valuable, your words settle like dew on the altar—each sentence a benediction in itself. To be read so deeply, and with such reverent ferocity, is to be seen in a way few poems dare hope for. "Crossings" was an attempt to name the many departures we survive, the rituals we build to return to ourselves, and the joy that refuses to wait for permission. That you walked it not just as a reader, but as a co-witness, means more than ink could say. Thank you for meeting the poem where it lives—in breath, in silence, and in becoming.

There’s no doubt that he: There’s no doubt that he waits for you with nothing but understanding and unconditional love. And wearing sheer socks, of course.    We have all made choices we’re not proud of, but this poem and many others offer purpose, courage and valuable art to others. Never underestimate that gift. God bless.   

A spinal injury, five years: A spinal injury, five years ago, has skewed my lower nerves so that I can barely walk, but the pain in my legs is amplified beyond what I could have imagined.  This poem definitely describes pain with an authenticity that can almost be felt on the screen.

Sunday evening going into: Sunday evening going into Monday morning has brought to my browsing eyes to of the finest poems I have ever read since I began reading Poetry in 1973; and this poem is one of tbose two.  The robe of stars . . . walking barefoot into a wild life . . . and laughing so hard the stars come nearer:  these three phrase are the triangled pillars on which ths poem rises into its verbal magnificence.  The only two failures are the title, and the final two lines---far too much like Elton's maudlin song and therefore the reader loses the greatness of the poem.  But this is so easily fixable, and the poem can begin and end on its inherent stellar greatness.

  Reading this as a mythic:   Reading this as a mythic interruption, of light that intrudes, dazzles, and then departs. May this response acknowledge that what we witnessed was not just brightness, but a kind of quiet grief: the fleeting miracle of being seen, together. It reflects on the comet not as spectacle, but as elegy— an arc through darkness that becomes memory as it vanishes. And yet, for that brief moment, we looked upward and remembered what wonder feels like.

I love---let me say: I love---let me say again, LOVE---this magnificent poem, especially part V.  And I love how my words fail as I read yours, as they did decades ago when I began to discover Poets like Vergil and Wallace Stevens.  The joy of discovery dwindles in old age, but your Poetry brings it right back.  I really like the format of this poem. * Bookmarking this one for several anticipated re-reads; same way I love to hear Dvorak's 9th repeatedly.

Overwhelmed: Dear redbrick,   I admit I saw the notification when I went to bed last night. Your words honestly moved me more than I can say, in the best way. However, as you can probably appreciate, it is not without uneasiness and feeling unworthy.     I had to read your response multiple times, needing some time to absorb it and appreciate your kindness and understanding. Your reflection feels like a gentle yet powerful acknowledgment of my journey, and I am genuinely touched by the compassion and empathy you shared. It’s rare to find someone who not only understands the challenges I’ve faced but also has a deep understanding of what it has taken to move on and change the narrative.     So again I would thank you for such a heartfelt message — it made me pause, feel comforted, and gave me a renewed sense of purpose and responsibility. I genuinely appreciate your support and look forward to sharing more as I continue. I have posted a further reread of Eliot’s Love Song in case you missed it.    With gratitude cynosure (David W)