I wish that, when I was a: I wish that, when I was a younger person, I could have had the sense to say something like that. It may have smoothed over to very rough patches.
Chuckle Chuckle: I lean left when I write
there is no better angle
underneath lava flow
signifying change
in a world motivated
by fear.
.
No page remains empty
for long. The end cometh
and like Cassandra, I speak
to those who can never
hear me. The gods of greed
will not share. We sing
anyway.
.
Lady A
.
And thank you for that very: And thank you for that very kind comment. I do not think I could have gotten this poem down without the precedent of your cosmic poems.
I'll tell you how I know that: I'll tell you how I know that this came from a place within you yet beyond you: It alludes to ancient wisdom and to universal, esoteric truths. The fact that it poured itself onto the page in your eloquent voice but without the constraints of your preferred forms (appropriate for your other poems but for not this one) is another sign of a finer, wondrous source of inspiration.
Yet it takes skill to funnel higher wisdom onto the page without filtering it too much with poetic interpretations that come from overthinking and second-guessing. And yet you managed to maintain the purity of the message while delivering it in a reliquary of soft, gleaming artistry.
There's no shortcut to a profound relationship with the Almighty. You can't get there any other way but through love. Not the easy, convenient love that falls apart with every gust of emotional wind, but the love you described in this gorgeous and moving poem.
To see in "the faces of our neighbors . . . the Face of Our Lord . . . regardless of what aspects are, or are not, appearing."
Yes! You struck gold. That's what it's about. That's all there is, actually.
A melodic invitation to "weave our common cloth more closely". Amen and bravo!
Thank you kindly for your acknowledgment and support.
Patriciajj's comment led me: Patriciajj's comment led me to this magnificent poem, but leaves me with nothing to say, because she has so succinctly summarized its effect. But, unable to improve upon her comment, I will gladly add my applause for this beautiful poem.
I am so sorry I failed to: I am so sorry I failed to respond to this kind compliment, and I thank you for the encouraging words, even after all these years.
Thank you so much for those: Thank you so much for those kind words and that very validating comment. I am glad you liked the word "Nearing." It comes from the little that I know about Doppler shifts of light in astronomy---red show a moving away, and blue shows a moving near. (I have to thank Edwin Hubble's research into galaxy expansion for first showing me that concept.) That is why Cerulean appears in my poetry as a name, and a named person. Eliot spoke of "blue of Mary's color" in Ash Wednesday and, while I do not think he was then (1927) aware of Hubble's findings, it gives contemporary readers another meaning to bring to that manigificent line,
Thanks again for the comment. The poem could have taken form without the precedent of your Cosmic Poetry.
"Creativity is intelligence: "Creativity is intelligence having fun." —Albert Einstein.
You must have been having blast when you extracted this supreme intelligence combined with "jubilant and privileged delectation" from the ethereal. You went beyond the cosmic to the realm of creation and the first stirrings of life, before poetry was even a concept in the human mind.
To have creation, in all its visible and yet-to-be known splendor, address the Creator is your most astounding idea to date. The way you make our miniscule place in the unfathomable vastness seem at once like a speck of dust and the dearest thing to the heart of God is one of the best examples of the cosmological poetry you refer to.
And I'm completely in love with the word "Nearing" with all its factual references, nuances and profound implications. A stunning choice that changes everything. You also did a superb job weaving allusions into your grandeur.
I'm being honest here: I would be writing this same review even if this poem wasn't gifted to me. And what a gift! I accept with the greatest, heartfelt gratitude.
God bless you.
Battle In Dark And Light: Psychosis and severe depression need attention in this country. The entire industry was dusmantked in the 80's and in-mates thriwn out on the streets. They ended uo in correction facilities, job corps, anywhere they fit like hakf-way houses. .
Criminally insane and Schipzoids filled quotas in private owned prisons. The lucky ones found compasionate homes with friends/ relatives. Entire mental health hospitals closed, no one wanted to fund another overly populated poor.
.
Hope u r okay.
.
Lady A
.
Metaphor As Football: .
A five yard completion would work for me, prnalties define the in-zone, wherever it is. A complete quarterback, no nickle and dimebacks is a clue. Wishing you a prosperous New Year. The Zone is out there somewhere. .
Lady A
.
f