Dear Sue,
 There are touches in this poem that make it seem not exactly old-fashioned,
but not quite modern . This may be deliberate high tone, but I feel it tends
to make every poem into a Poem, which is sometimes not appropriate.
 I have put a few thoughts below, and apologise if they seem inappropriate
in their turn.
Kind regards,
 grasshopper

From: "Sue Scalf" <[log in to unmask]>
Subject:      newish: Love Out of Season, Out of Time
Date: 19 January 2002 04:40

Your comments are welcome and appreciated!

Love Out of Time, Out of Season
 (scroll down for original version)

When poetry won't come
and words lie heavy
like the pain of an old wound
that aches again, (redundant, I think -you've already mentioned the pain)
or there seems reason
not to say what can't be said,(unnecessarily convoluted?)
or reticence puts its finger on the lips, (You have personified and
particularised reticence then generalised the lips.The definite article
seems wrong here,-does reticence put a finger to your lips, or its lips?)
think of this, my friend: (I would omit 'my friend' -it has an almost
'Gentle Reader' quality)
remember the fountain,
how water splashed and played,

made thin cascades of sound,
and all around, moon -lamps
made larger moons
than the small one
hooked above upon a cloud
in a sky, cerulean, rain-clean. (cerulean is a bit of a Poetickal
cliche,would use a different epithet)
A poem waited in the broken branch
of a pear tree, a scepter of blossoms,
wet and frothy with spring. (you move from fountain/moon/rain/tree/spring- I
would suggest the poem would be stronger if you concentrated on fewer
images,-it feels a bit like a grab-bag)

But what was there to say?
Life determines what limb will break (should that be 'which limb'?)
and who shall love
or never will,
the vagaries of time and place,  (I have a feeling this whole philosophising
stanza could be
cropped out of the poem, then go to 'some little wisp of song...)
seasons out of season,
the places we visit but never belong---

all this perhaps or just some little wisp of song ( I have seen long
damnations of the word 'just' on other poetry lists-perhaps it could be
omitted here?)
like a whistle in the night (is it a song or a whistle?Isn't one wordless?)
when someone walks down a dark street,
hands in his pockets,
and sees pear trees in rain.
Write that one. Write it for me.

Sue Scalf

http://www.members.aol.com/poetscalf

Love Out of Time, Out of Season


When poetry won't come
and words lie heavy
like the pain of an old wound
that aches again,
or there seems reason
not to say what can't be said,
or reticence puts its finger on the lips,
think of this, my friend:
remember the fountain,
how water splashed and played,

made thin cascades of sound,
and all around, moon -lamps
made larger moons
than the small one
hooked above upon a cloud
in a sky, cerulean, rain-clean.
A poem waited in the broken branch
of a pear tree, a scepter of blossoms,
wet and frothy with spring.

But what was there to say?
Life determines what limb will break
and who shall love
or never will,
the vagaries of time and place,
seasons out of season,
the places we visit but never belong---

all this perhaps or just some little wisp of song
like a whistle in the night
when someone walks down a dark street,
hands in his pockets,
and sees pear trees in rain.
Write that one. Write it for me.

Sue Scalf