Arthur responds with an Impressionist painter - where they worked so rapidly
to capture a moment... yet when I first read this I was more aware of how
much chronological time you were holding in the poem... From strolling along
in the afternoon, all thro the evening, and into the night (then, with the
angels there's a hint of eternity - a longish time - in there as well).
(& in the penultimate stanza should there be a line break between "Heaven"
and "from"?
The mood you create seems, to me, to evoke more of the heat of high summer
than spring... I mean is spring supposed to allude to the symbolism of
youth? I wonder that because the "I voice" of the poem seems the youngest
person in the poem... the other people seem much older, the phantom
companions seem as old as the I voice, or ageless.
And the poem ends with "we..." so, after all the intimate details, the
poet's leapt out of the poem to tell us they're all asleep.
The last couplet, too, is a surprise! I don't know if there's a quotation,
or allusion, I'm missing here. It sounds OK! But I'm sort of surprised, sort
of wondering why angels write poems & who, therefore, wrote the last line
(the poet, or the angels, or the child, or the child-when-grown-up, or
who?).
Bob


>From: arthur seeley <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: Voices in Spring
>Date: Mon, 3 Jun 2002 07:37:51 +0100
>
>As colourful as an artist's palette, very Monet. Not easy to paint as
>colourfully as they can when we have only words. An admirable ambitious
>piece of work. Loved it. Arthur.
>   ----- Original Message -----
>   From: Marilyn Injeyan
>   To: [log in to unmask]
>   Sent: Saturday, June 01, 2002 11:41 PM
>   Subject: Voices in Spring
>
>
>                                   Voices in Spring
>
>
>   A violet dancer flits by,
>   its wings catch a sunbeam.
>   Mesmerized by patterns purling
>   down the embankment, I savor
>   purple shadows, ramble along
>   the road, pause to cup a creamy
>   bloom of the prickly chicalote, framed
>   by your sable curls and silvery sighs,
>   drowsy in the afternoon.
>
>   In a change of light, I hold a hand
>   of Twenty-one.  Lavender hats
>   askew, Mother and Grandma
>   kibbutz over my shoulder in unison -
>   "Blackjack! See, we told you to say,
>   'hit me,' didn't we?"  They chomp
>   chips and sip hot water with lemon.
>
>   Dusk settles and roams on the blued path.
>   Plum slices through coal-colored clouds
>   as we listen to a doves' choir.  I flick
>   a wayward thought, stroke your cinnamon
>   skin and even freckles seem to grin.
>
>   My phantom companions clip coupons,
>                                make gefilte fish and matzo ball soup,
>   scowl and giggle before the TV,
>   embellish old tales, knit, take naps
>   and swoop in and out since
>   they left this world behind.
>
>   Coral, jade and amber brush the twilight.
>   Bared beside a seashell fountain that ripples
>   over rocks and sea glass in our Eden,
>   you slip a fig into my lips from a snake-
>   carved bowl and desire returns
>   unsheathed in hunger to birth fruit.
>
>   Grandma embroiders a lion and lamb
>   for a patchwork quilt.  Mother, chic
>   in an ethnic gown, croons I'm in Heaven from a black and white romance.
>   They gobble grapes, stretch their wings,
>   search for keys, glasses and me.
>
>   We sleep in the poems of angels,
>   wonder how we can love and lose.
>
>
>                                             Marilyn Injeyan
>                                             May 31, 2001
>
>








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