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  • ifyouplease

    From ifyouplease on He Beseeches an Unearthly Vision

    Yes, death. The rest is beating around the bush. Eros exists in all seasons, a frigid queen or king, icily crowned lovers and their lovers and their lovers’ lovers.

    Go to comment
    2020/10/16 at 11:48 am
  • Fitbin

    From Fitbin on Lust On My Tongue

    Excellent invocation of the crimson mask. Red wine indeed. Cheers

    Go to comment
    2020/10/15 at 9:37 pm
  • From Pravda on Battle

    Wow! I really like this one, Alison. It’s great to see you branching out into rhyme. I don’t think you have many rhyming poems, do you?

    This poem also shows an excellent grasp of meter. It wobbles a bit with “forlorn” (wrong syllable stressed), and personally I would say “luckless” or something like that, stressing the first syllable. But overall, very good. Wonderful.

    Lines 5 to 10 are almost a Burns stanza, a standard habbie. Did you have your countryman in mind when you wrote them?

    I feel there should be a rhyme for “war”, and was expecting it to come in line 8. I think you should insert another line there, really, between “tell” and “mind”.

    Do you have any other rhyming poems on here that you could link me to?

    A x

    Go to comment
    2020/10/15 at 7:21 pm
    • stormwolf

      From stormwolf on Battle

      Thank you. I have many poems that rhyme. I usually know from the first line if it is going to rhyme or not but I never set out to write one way of the other.
      Some just call out to be rhyming.
      Alison x

      Go to comment
      2020/10/21 at 11:19 am
  • stormwolf

    From stormwolf on Just The Touch Of My Pale Pink Hand

    Simply a masterpiece in my opinion.

    One for my favs plus the anthology when it gets going again.
    Every line full of angst and meaning, too many to pick out.

    It brought tears as all great poetry tends to do. I resonated with the hour of loss, when the frailty and breath gives way to the unmistakeable touch of death. So dreaded but also so longed for..setting up a dichotomy in the mind.

    When the real end comes, it is unmistakeable. We are aware we are in the presence of something otherworldly and there is no going back.
    I felt the same when I sat with my dad. (and my mum) but mostly my dad because those hands had gone through a war and all its horrors.
    I felt overwhelming love for him that cancelled out all negativity of his failings. It was the most precious time for me..

    The gongs they give out like sweeties mean very little compared to the real sacrifice of those like our fathers.
    My dad would be turning in his grave to see what has become of us collectively. They gave so much for what I often ask?

    ‘…just the touch of my pale-pink hand.’

    This simple line is riven with pain. I sense the great pride but overwhelming frustration about the awareness of his suffering, the unacknowledged bravery.
    It speaks of a self depreciation that the hand who held his is a different colour of health but much more that it has not experienced life in the same way. Has not had to endure what he had to endure.

    I am hoping I am putting this over properly for the line is genius.
    It is apologetic when no apologies are needed.
    I will never forget this poem.
    Thanks for sharing.
    love to you
    Alison x

     

    Go to comment
    2020/10/14 at 2:44 pm
    • griffonner

      From griffonner on Just The Touch Of My Pale Pink Hand

      Hello Alison,

      Thank you for visiting, reading, and then commenting in such a valued way.

      I was also at my mothers bed side when she took her last breath. You are entirely right, there is something occult taking place that leaves one with a sense of having experienced something magical and magnificent – but at the same time devastating.

      Nearly every year there is a ceremony to remember those who gave their lives for ‘king and country’ – but we are conditioned to NOT be thinking of those, like my father, who suffered physical hidden disease, experienced directly as a result of their ‘reserved occupation’, for the remainder of their lives.

      My dad eventually passed away at the relatively tender age of 60 years, which meant nearly two-thirds of his life was blighted by lung damage directly attributable to the work he did as a skilled foundry specialist during WW2. (I often think that had he ‘gone’ to war, there was a chance he may have survived relatively intact, but he had no choice in the matter.)

      I remember having tears as a young man when at times he was subjected to the ignominy of having to attend an examination by youthful, fit doctors, who, on behalf of the government of the day were paid to try and diminish the significance and severity of his disability. I took him in my car to one of the examinations, where, with his emphysema, the climb to the first-floor examination room caused him to stop three times to catch his breath. He was blue when he reached the examination room.

      Like too many of that generation he ‘put up and shut up’ suffering the degradation and disrespect of the system.

      Unfortunately it was at the beginning of my period of ‘blooming’ when he passed away. Had I that confidence and stature when he was alive, maybe I could have created waves on his behalf. But it was not ordained to be that way.

      My Dad had a very strong inbuilt sense of right and wrong, and I know he would, like yours, have been ashamed of 2020 … I was going to say ‘statesmanship’, but that no longer exists, so better wind it up there!

      Blessings and love,
      Allen
      x

      Go to comment
      2020/10/14 at 3:52 pm
      • stormwolf

        From stormwolf on Just The Touch Of My Pale Pink Hand

        Thank you for your reply Allen. *hugs*

        The wars left so many suffering for many years. Your poor dad. It literally makes my blood boil at the treatment meted out to him and those poor souls like him. Disgusting does not begin to cover it.

        There was someone here who wrote a poem once about the damage done to his grandfather’s lungs from gas during WW1.
        As a child, the home he lived in, was suffused with misery and suffering that was never spoken about but had a significant effect on him as a very young boy.
        So the damage was inter-generational as it was so often.
        It educated me to the far reaching consequences of obscene wars.

        My granddad in Glasgow was a fire warden, too old to go to war and often over-looked but during the blitz he had to do some terrible jobs.
        Those men who were willingly put in harm’s way by our lily-livered politicians.

        I once met a lady when I was on retreat in a Benedictine priory.
        She was an old lady then but circumstances had us feeling able to share with one another in the confines and the ambience. She opened up to me in a way she said she had seldom ever done.
        Her husband had come back from war, captured by the Japanese. He was dreadfully tortured but NEVER spoke about it to her, even once.
        She longed for a family but due to his injuries and his mental trauma, such things were never to be.

        I will never forget that lady. Grey haired and gracious. She had lovingly accepted, not only the loss of her dreams but also the knowledge that her husband could never, ever bring himself to speak of the dreadful things endured. 🙁

        In this way, war has endless casualties.
        Every one precious.

        My dad was only 65 when he died too. I am sure your dad will be very proud of you now.
        Alison x

        Go to comment
        2020/10/14 at 4:27 pm
  • Guaj

    From Guaj on Just The Touch Of My Pale Pink Hand

    The things our forefathers did for King and Country. A fine tribute to your father and so many of those like him.

    Go to comment
    2020/10/14 at 8:46 am
  • griffonner

    From griffonner on The Rain Came In.

    Lovely!
    Allen
    x

    Go to comment
    2020/10/13 at 4:55 pm
  • griffonner

    From griffonner on The Forgotten Man

    Engenders very serious and deep discussion, Fitbin. This must have taken you a great deal of endeavour. Excellent.
    Allen

    Go to comment
    2020/10/13 at 4:49 pm
    • Fitbin

      From Fitbin on The Forgotten Man

      Wow, thanks. I’m glad you found some portent within it. I’ve been away for too long.

      Go to comment
      2020/10/15 at 9:30 pm
  • Guaj

    From Guaj on Wordless (fine tuned)

    Oh Alison . . . .

    I didn’t read the earlier version, I had a bad day yesterday (effing Banks!) but this really, to me, paints only too graphically, the terrible feeling of not knowing how you should feel when someone abandons you unexpectedly. Gave me goose bumps.
    Having stared out at nothing (and feeling nothing) on such occasions I feel the picture is perfect. (sorry Luigi)

    Go to comment
    2020/10/13 at 2:35 pm
    • stormwolf

      From stormwolf on Wordless (fine tuned)

      Hi there Guaj 🙂
      The original was actually ON the picture. There was a typo in it and I thought I could improve the poem too. So Luigi was referring to the previous one 😉
      I am glad you can see where the poem was coming from. One of the few times I am lost for words!

      Alison x

      Go to comment
      2020/10/13 at 3:12 pm
  • stevef

    From stevef on Kiss my Ass Sophia

    I like this piece a lot, guaj. Slightly over-written but it has to be to set the scene for something this short. I’d suggest leaving mention of the E17 right where it is.
    …’pausing just enough seconds…’ didn’t read smoothly to me. Maybe consider ‘pausing just long enough…’ ? Passive writing in a couple of places might (arguably) be dulling a sharp edge.
    Nice work. 🙂
    Steve

    Go to comment
    2020/10/13 at 2:30 pm
    • Guaj

      From Guaj on Kiss my Ass Sophia

      Thanks very much, Steve. Funnily enough I chose, just enough seconds, to avoid using, just long enough.
      Maybe I was trying to get over the urgency of dropping off a couple of hookers without being noticed and convey fact the driver is fooling himself ‘cos everybody know what’s going on. I’m not totally sure why if I’m honest. 🙂

      Go to comment
      2020/10/13 at 2:58 pm
  • griffonner

    From griffonner on Pillow Talk

    She puts the ‘phone down and breathes a sigh. “I feel better now I have spoken to him.” She says to herself whilst crossing your name of her list of ‘things to do’.

    Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. Your poem does that though. it makes you visualise the event exceedingly well. Can I say I enjoyed reading it? Well, I did, but I really understand where you are coming from.

    Go to comment
    2020/10/13 at 12:02 pm