The beauty---the magnificent,: The beauty---the magnificent, elegant and exquisite beauty---of this poem is so vast that a single reading cannot take it all in. The verbal combinations, the images evoked, the setting described . . . all of these are so perfectly choreographed to create an overwhelming reading experience. I have been reading poetry for fifty years, as of this past April, and I normally do not allow poems to have this kind of effect on me. But . . . wow! . . . I feel like I did during my senior year in high school when I was first discovering Poetry's emotive effect on one's soul. This poem is one PostPoem's very greatest ones.
The accumulated phrases add: The accumulated phrases add up to a vision of almost unbearable sadness, but it is so elegantly stated in your usual format of nine brief lines.
I’m glad you enjoyed it..: I'm glad you enjoyed it.
You thinks it's a cute write?
Thank you Ramona.
You know why that is?
Because it comes from a cute writer.
You know what makes me a cute writer?
I know all the angles.
To be honest, I actually don't know all the angles.
There are some I don't know, but am willing to try.
I'll try any angle.
I'm a cute 'try angle' writer.
Sometimes I'm not a cute 'try angle' writer.There are times when I'm obtuse.
When that happens I'm an 'obtuse try angle' writer.
But that only happens in the summer usually.
Only when it's above 90 degrees. If it stays below 90 degrees I'll remain an..a cute 'try angle'
Right?
Er..
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.
Thank you so very much for: Thank you so very much for these words. I had been feeling a little down about being unable to attend worship services yesterday, because of the recent aggravations to my medical condition, and then this poem came as if a compensation. Then your comment added additional joy for me.
Thank you so much for commenting on this one.
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!
Timeless splendor and: Timeless splendor and authentic adoration swell like a symphony in this devotion worthy of being called a "Poem After Psalm 27". And King David is a tough act to follow!
But I know you didn't write this to receive accolades. Quite the opposite! So I'll just add that the truth of this, the sincerity and Light of this, touched my spirit.
Thousands of years later, The Psalms still live.
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