Fredrick,

Your opinion was well pointed, I thought.? Although I am not as articulate or focused of thought, I had the same feeling when I was reading the poem which describes a broken arm.? 

In my own work, I like to reveal the hidden. . . or bring out the less than obvious.? Here's a suggestion as to a direction the poet MAY want to take?? At least, for me, this is a direction I would take wth the topic.

I am sure there are issues with my suggestions too!? 

For what it's worth, though.? Here's another way of possibly looking at things

Cheers,

Mill



Quite young, I broke my arm.

All that's left to write this, in the breeze

of small white stitches from wrist

to dark night is the scar,

?

A pale and silent remnant, like

emptiness. I wake in the night,

thoughts cast from my body,

torn flesh and just the suggestion 

of the scar, a pallid scream.

?

No neat scalpel wound,

I held myself

Steady past the elbow

While they used a tree saw.

?

Quite young, I broke my arm.

Old now, the scar remains,

a slight moon when the chill approaches,

the human reckoning. I have

Sweetness, even that pleases me.

?

In memory, lying down on its own

fresh shelf, my broken limb is

A fading mark, a shaded room

Of what used to be.

?

A hurt softened, comfort is my pleasure

the full scent of grass, just mowed, 

the record low for this hot month,

the soft underwater feel of tree bark.



-----Original Message-----
From: Frederick Pollack <[log in to unmask]>
To: [log in to unmask]
Sent: Sat, 12 Jul 2008 12:42 pm
Subject: Re: another snap -- July 11, 02008


----- Original Message ----- From: "sharon brogan" <[log in to unmask]>?
To: <[log in to unmask]>?
Sent: Saturday, July 12, 2008 12:37 PM?
Subject: another snap -- July 11, 02008?
?
> Quite young, I broke my arm.?
> Old now, still the scar remains,?
> a pale and silent remnant, like?
> small white stitches from wrist?
> past elbow. They used a saw?
> to remove the cast.?
>?
> It screamed. Your leaving?
> was like an invisible limb ripped?
> from my body, torn flesh, no neat?
> scalpel wound. I held myself?
> together. I healed. All that's left?
> is the suggestion of a scar, a pallid?
>?
> emptiness. I wake in the night?
> to write this, in the breeze?
> of the ceiling fan. It's a dark night,?
> a slight moon. Chill approaches?
> the record low for this hot month?
> by human reckoning. I have?
>?
> softened, comfort is my pleasure?
> now, passion a fading mark?
> in memory, sensuality its remnant.?
> Deep mattresses; the sweetness?
> of strawberries on tart lemon cake;?
> the full scent of grass, just mowed,?
>?
> lying down on its own fresh self;?
> the soft underwater feel of a tree-?
> shaded room. Even the smoke from?
> mountain fires, the taste of ashes?
> in my mouth. Even that pleases me,?
> reminds me that I live.?
>?
>?
> [This poem is for Timothy Kittleson, on his birthday. It's not *about* > Tim,?
> but it's *for* him.]?
>?
> -- >?
?
What poetry is supposed to do, I think, is to create an experience (whether based on the poet's own experience or entirely imagined) and allow the reader to have it. What a wide prevalent kind of narcissistic verse does instead is to say: Look at me having this experience. Pity my suffering! Admire my bearing up! Be in awe of my sensitivity, my sensuality, how much I have spiritually gleaned from the event! The "I" interposes itself between the reader and his or her possible imaginative experience. The "you" who is often addressed in this kind of poem provides another buffer between poet and reader. Whoever that "you" is, h/s isn't someone the reader knows; the poet is saying, in effect, I'm not talking to you, reader, but to that "you." The only experience this kind of mainstream poem leaves the reader is that of observing the "I" (and the "you"); and however interesting they might otherwise be, they all tend, like poems of this sort, to look alike. Further: imagery here is!
  auxiliary to abstraction; the poem seems to think that abstractions are what "really" communicate. "comfort," "passion," "sensuality." If the cast, and the saw removing it, had been allowed to speak for themselves, as images should, the reader could have derived a "you," a failed relationship, a complex mood from them. --- This judgment will probably seem terribly harsh, judgmental, intellectualized, etc., but hey, it's how I feel. If I'd said "What poetry is supposed to do is to create ..." I might have been accused of trying to impose a dead-white-male law. As it stands, what I've said is "just my opinion" ...