Hi Marilyn,
Stimulating poem this... sort of exploring the poet’s state of mind in an
effulgent kind of way. There’s a precision about each sensory description...
However, I’m wondering if the descriptions were a little less descriptive
then the reader might then find it easier to make links with their own
experiences too. I’m making links tho: I mean I’m reminded, near the end
when you allude to music, of sitting in a tent at a poetry festival hearing
a string quartet play Mozart (the combination of music and reading was
amazing!). And the combination of evening birdsong and what I could see
being played was possibly as high an experience as the one you’re getting
at!
So, I’ve been wondering if it would be just as precise if one or two
adjectives were missing? I’ve been wondering, recently, if
adjectives/adverbs are ways the poet keeps possession of a poem, tries to
mark it as unique... and that makes me think that not using them may help
the reader find more for themselves.  It’s the whole reader and writer thing
isn’t it? I once heard someone say to someone that adjectives and adverbs
were a bit like expensive chocolates (don't eat them all at once...)
I’ve also been thinking if there’s too many sensory/artistic references (and
the painting words and the music words seem jammed against each other just
before the end...) and a filed full of unusual, rarely spoken, words
(trothed, skeined, scumbled... and amazing combinations of words as well:
"Perched jays satiated with sunflower/ seeds are hoarse from jokes and
gossip -/ a blue blizzard of muddled mutes.") but I now think that may just
be a British puritanical streak in me that’s suspicious of pleasure. (I'm
guessing part of the poem is about two senses of who you are.) I’m pleased
you’ve brought that suspicion of mine (and who I am) out!
I think I would take the poem to the hairdressers, tho...
Bob



>From: Marilyn Injeyan <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New: Soar
>Date: Mon, 8 Jul 2002 02:15:31 EDT
>
>                                  Soar
>
>             Immersed in a subdued blaze
>             and graced by earth-scented wind,
>             I float above a watercolor road,
>             watch magenta clouds melt
>             trothed to twilight.  Sun's last rays,
>             an amber comb.  Shadows crawl
>             over parched bourbon-colored hills,
>             trace and twine a net to catch night's
>                   pulse, skeined into stars' haloes.
>                   I shimmer from high to low.
>
>             Caressed by a resined bow, a cello's
>             voice in A minor invokes a dance,
>             infiltrates my garden.  In their fourth
>             summer, trees yield tart-sweet apples.
>             Beside a pond, a statue of Saint Francis,
>                   encircled by roses,   a cracked ceramic
>                   feeder and stone-carved animals.
>                   Perched jays satiated with sunflower
>                   seeds are hoarse from jokes and gossip -
>                   a blue blizzard of muddled mutes.
>                   I veer, spiral from low to high.
>
>             Day's disappointments washed away,
>             I salve raw places with a prayer.
>             The cello infuses my canvas
>             primed in remembered promises,
>             a maelstrom of undertones, stepped-on
>             dreams, hard edges now scumbled into
>             softness, black-boned sorrow,
>             my sister-self, released.  Brushed
>             and streaked in sky's vibrant hues,
>             I vault higher, ever higher.
>
>
>                             Marilyn Injeyan
>                             July 7, 2002
>
>
>




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