No subtext! <G> I'm really saying that you don't need to warn me because I
believe that poetry often shocks. That's ok with me. It's an invitation,
if you like. My careful wording had to do with my not wanting to incite an
all-out discussion about the meaning and purpose of poetry again! Sorry
about the trepidation.
Terrie
----- Original Message -----
From: "cara may" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Saturday, November 24, 2001 3:20 AM
Subject: Re: New sub for c and c: Washed-Up
> Terrie, I read your comments with trepidation thinking
> after the first few sentences that you were going to
> go on to damn the poem as saying something banal and
> obvious (in the circumstances). Thanks for being more
> favourably disposed. I sometimes find it quite hard
> to 'locate' my poems in a critical spectrum. This
> poem was based on an incident in our neighbourhood
> which had us all feeling strained and sad. I do not
> always feel that I have read the writer's sub-text: in
> this case I wonder if you are actually saying 'No need
> to give a warning!'.Anyway, many thanks, cara
>
> --- tlrelf <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > Cara: I just
> thought I should give you my
> > pounds-worth...Aren't poems meant
> > (some of them, not all, I concede) to shake us up?
> > Bring us to a point
> > where we need to look at something that may
> > previously been hidden? Just
> > like other forms of art, poetry is not "all about"
> > pretty flowers in a
> > bowl...
> > >
> > > As for this piece, here are a few thoughts and
> > impressions: highly
> > imagistic with clear, sharp illustrations; filled
> > with sensory array; the
> > "story" of the poem is clear;
> > > While the ending may be a bit gruesome, it's real.
> >
> > Terrie
> > >
> > >
> > > --- Washed-Up
> > >
> > > |She walks by the river
> > > crosses the foot-bridge
> > > over turbulent falls,
> > > flounders in cattle prints
> > > near the stiles.
> > > Buoyant mallards make light
> > > of choppy waters
> > > or tuck themselves up on banks
> > > to dose in wintry sun.
> > > A herring-gull, tired of its laziness,
> > > makes off on sturdy wing.
> > > Sometimes she uses her binoculars.
> > > She hears the current's suck and pluck
> > > at the deep edges under the trees,
> > > then follows where the river widens,
> > > mockingly innocent in its calm.
> > > Four men come towards her on the path
> > > one wreathed in rope.
> > > They pass with grave greetings.
> > > Would it take so much rope? she wonders
> > > as she had doubted the relevance
> > > of the gaudy canoes and their
> > yellow-jacketed
> > > operators.
> > >
> > > She turns back,
> > > feels useless.
> > > She knows nothing of water rescue.
> > > Has spent, it seems, a lifetime
> > > rescuing others from lesser hurts
> > > on dry land.
> > >
> > > As she crosses the last stile
> > > the ooze of melted creosote
> > > spreads into her palm;
> > > but what she sees is blood
> > > from a tossed head
> > > merging
> > > into sullen waters.
> > >
> > > cara November 2001
> > >
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