The Ultraviolet Catastrophe -- Summer Poetry 2010

I can't figure out Anthologies. So I'll just keep this thread up here. Have some poetry!

carnival

the water at the foot of the pier
warps cold and desperate as depression glass,
and we watch snatched fishing boats
with sails loose and buttonless as summertime clothes
from the top of the ferris wheel, whose gondolas
rock gently. we are cycled,
like a gene – your hand recesses
into mine, and the midway gamesmen below
reset their milkbottles.

lower table rock

we hike the lower table rock,
hill scalped by glacier, belljar of ice
sweeping across the valley like the hand
of a conqueror across a field map.
little purple bulbed flowers are smuggled along
the trail, petals curling like inner ears,
the madrones are red-skinned ulnas,
drying their washery of leaves.

passover of clouds – quiet, rumbling, like sea-noise
from a conch's slip. it is late may, and it is just
hot enough that the first layers of clothing come off, and
insects joybuzz in the tallgrass, embouchure
of summertime. you notice cat's ear lilies, gray as chapel bells –
they are the strangest blossoms that grow in size
as we hike further up.

this was
holy ground once for the modocs, this
natural table-land. I imagine braves and squaws
on a pilgrimage up the rockside, pushing past
ovulating poppies, faces painted
with the braille and morse of simple afternoon ceremony,
moccasins shushing, throat-singing
like moonshine jugs.

we get to the top, and the uphill breaks into
a refrain of meadow and field. despite the lack of shade
it is instantly cool, and goshawks hand-peel the cerulean. in the grass,
yellow-bracketed spiders weave like penelope before her suitors
and there are piles of pumice rocks – cairns for the fallen old crow
indianfolk. here, a battle took place – guns splitting,
ponies unshod, thunder rolling caisons
and the modocs pushed further and further
toward the edge of these table rocks
where they would topple into the lap-quilts
of ranch and farm.

the late spring blossoms leap in color,
like salmon upstream.


national geographic

there is a spread of the clay-breasted aborginees,
the women with heels cracked like china put away –
flat-nosed, the men skinny, prairie-bound and dancing
before vain bonfires that lick and preen, whose flames tuft
and flutter like clusters of overwintering monarch butterflies.

I turn the page – a volcano erupts in asia. volcanoes
are always erupting where there are people, cities
drawn to the foot of the phrenetic mountains like disciples.
the earth cracks, motherveins of lava clot wax
across the envelopes of earth. there is a picture
of a bed of fresh obsidian in undulant, dark tetnus,
bored with tubules, like a typist's wrists.

an interview with a paleontologist – his bedchamber of bones,
jurassic ribcages cupped into beachwood, tibiae
scribed with the worn paths of utah sand and insect,
sloped skulls of neolithic man – nightjars for dreams of
moon-tusked mastadons. in his picture, the man grins
and holds up a fluted ossic fragment like a witch doctor
of the academe –

the copy is dog-eared, finger-browned, the pictures
distinctively aged. grandpa was a lifetime member and
the yellow-spined journals are packed into shelves. I wonder
if he ever read through all of them, dreaming of the teutons, considering
the poppies of afghanistan, swept up like wind-socks. I wonder
how often he dreamed about seeing the places he read about, about
sketching the olmec heads, about running his fingers over
a scalped egyptian hieroglyph as a priest might
over the eyes of the deceased.

Ooh, Kylan is here! *waves to Kylan*

CARNIVAL

I really only had one little thing that I pondered over on this and it was with the phrase “depression glass.” What exactly it means, I do not know. But I can’t stop wondering. *wonders*

Otherwise, this is definitely a nice, descriptive piece. It’s not too cluttered with lots of adjectives and that’s always nice to see in a descriptive poem.

LOWER TABLE ROCK

I imagine braves and squaws

I know that you’re not a big fan of capitalization, but I know that Braves and Squaws are usually capitalized. I’m not sure if you would want to capitalize them in your poem. I’m not sure. I just figured I would mention it.

But the imagery and movement of this poem are priceless and very lovely to read. You really do have a wonderful gift for imagery.

NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC

You know what, I hate you....because you have skizzles. I can’t say anything mean or even criticize a tiny little thing. Your use of words and your knowledge of vocabulary is...well....I had to Google search a lot of the words you used. But still, it was a very intelligent poem!
Congrats!

Thanks lily!

Here's some information on Depression glass

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Depression_glass

-Kylan

Critique owed. =)

:O You get to be my first critique with 5 stars. Anyways to work:

Carnival

I don't feel the link between the depression glass and the water is extended to its full potential. But I do like the way it ties back to the "carnival" whether that was intentional or not. Overall, I don't feel as attached to this poem as I usually am with your longer stuff. You don't envelop your purpose around our brain at this point. It's a little weak, and cut off short but I can appreciate the sweet, summery imagery. Not going into too much detail as I do want to have time to get to the rest.

Lower table rock

Now this one is lovely. I quite enjoyed the underlying tone and really fresh imagery.

we hike the lower table rock,
hill scalped by glacier, belljar of ice
sweeping across the valley like the hand
of a conqueror across a field map.
little purple bulbed flowers are smuggled along
the trail, petals curling like inner ears,
the madrones are red-skinned ulnas,
drying their washery of leaves

I thought belljar and ulnas were both very clever ways of describing the individual images. Though I believe "belljar" is two words.

I'm not as fond of the image of the conqueror. It's a lot harsher of an image, in contrast to the softer, more subtle ones used to describe the scene. Though it could work to create a contrast, it seems as if it was plopped down in that middle of that stanza because it may add something. It's too blunt, forward and less thought through then the rest.

passover of clouds – quiet, rumbling, like sea-noise
from a conch's slip. it is late may, and it is just
hot enough that the first layers of clothing come off, and
insects joybuzz in the tallgrass, embouchure
of summertime. you notice cat's ear lilies, gray as chapel bells –
they are the strangest blossoms that grow in size
as we hike further up.

This one is a little more bland then the others. It doesn't really communicate much to the reader. It's sort of there for pleasure. The imagery is sweet, and the reader can feel it. But it doesn't have an individual feature that makes it pop as it's own stanza with meaning.

Also, I'm not sure if this a typo, "a conch's slip" even if it is. I don't associate slip with a conch very easily. If you said "a conch's lip" it would be a lot easier to make the connection.

this was
holy ground once for the modocs, this
natural table-land. I imagine braves and squaws
on a pilgrimage up the rockside, pushing past
ovulating poppies, faces painted
with the braille and morse of simple afternoon ceremony,
moccasins shushing, throat-singing
like moonshine jugs

Great stanza. It doesn't get much across but it manages to pack a feeling of the people you're describing in a few sentences. I wouldn't be too concerned about capitalizing braves and squaws. It's a rule you have to capitalize your "i"s but you don't and it works well to not put any unnecessary emphasis on those words.

we get to the top, and the uphill breaks into
a refrain of meadow and field. despite the lack of shade
it is instantly cool, and goshawks hand-peel the cerulean. in the grass,
yellow-bracketed spiders weave like penelope before her suitors
and there are piles of pumice rocks – cairns for the fallen old crow
indianfolk. here, a battle took place – guns splitting,
ponies unshod, thunder rolling caisons
and the modocs pushed further and further
toward the edge of these table rocks
where they would topple into the lap-quilts
of ranch and farm.

the late spring blossoms leap in color,
like salmon upstream.

One compliant would be, I'm not sure how Penelope and her suitors play into a poem in relation to indian underlights etc. Maybe do some research on legends that involve weaving. It would make the tone, considerably stronger.

Your ending is quite smooth, not with as much of a bang as I'd hope. But it definitely closes everything off really well.

national geographic

I may or may not be slightly in love with this poem. The concept is clever and so well presented. You address the things we see so commonly in national geographic with such precision. You picked things that stick out in people's minds. It's really fantastic. The language isn't as developed and intertwined in this poem, but those are just some loose ends.

These lines:

nightjars for dreams of
moon-tusked mastadons. in his picture, the man grins
and holds up a fluted ossic fragment like a witch doctor
of the academe –

Simply fantastic. Lovelovelove it.

Though,

the copy is dog-eared, finger-browned, the pictures
distinctively aged. grandpa was a lifetime member and
the yellow-spined journals are packed into shelves. I wonder
if he ever read through all of them, dreaming of the teutons, considering
the poppies of afghanistan, swept up like wind-socks.

This part is a little weaker, because you quickly start to lose the connections you made by giving it a more homey feel. If you give it more of an exotic taste, it could really work. Compare "grandpa" to a village elder, or something of the sort. It'll keep that intoxicating taste of things that are unfamiliar and foreign.

Job well done.

Kamas

Thanks Kamas!

twelve

gethsemane of poppies, ruined by
the heavy summer rain, and weeping ventricled petals –
I am sorry that I didn't have longer to appreciate them.
lasting into july, they would usually douse the evening
sunlight like a fire department, and keep bees
in their mouths far into august
like childhood speech impediments.

the whole summer smells of lambswool
and diesel. it is my first summer in 4H, and I shear
the suffolk's yellowed shag with an oil-mandibled
set of electric clippers, little bales of wool blowing
on the warm milky breath of june wind and the lamb shuddering
with each human
touch.

in the back of the pickup truck, with august
brethren, I close my eyes to keep out the gnats and
blowing seed husks of hay from the floor of the truck bed.
the willowtrees lean and stretch over the roadside barbed wire,
white-limbed, like girls before plié. the cow pastures seep,
the houses shrug against the hillsides in the heat –
cattle gather at the pondsides, which are shallow
as headprints in a morning pillow.

and on sunday evenings we drive
up the mountains, windows rolled down,
fireflies glowing like isotopes – we climb
above the treeline, until we can see out into the basin
of the valley, which is filled with smoke
from the box fires out of happy camp. we build bonfires which
are undone, branch by branch
by the fire like a wedding corset
undone latch by latch to reveal the coals
of a cool belly.

stars rattle in the tin begging cup
of the night, and oberon plays with our earlobes.

Dear Kylan. I have been away from the site for a while, and as such, have not read any of your poetry during that time. Lo and behold, I come back to find that you're writing just as brilliantly as ever. If no one's ever told you before, keep it up! And if they have, well, good, lol.

gethsemane of poppies, ruined by
the heavy summer rain, and weeping ventricled petals –
I am sorry that I didn't have longer to appreciate them.
lasting into july, they would usually douse the evening
sunlight like a fire department, and keep bees
in their mouths far into august
like childhood speech impediments.

I love the number of near-rhymes in this stanza, and I love the huge variety of directions that references and images come from, but that they all fit together so nicely (e.g., rain, fire department, speech impediments).

That said, the Biblical references make me narrow my eyes and nervously say "where's he going with this?" I also found the following stanza really strange. It makes me feel like I'm in a time warp (probably because of the constant juxtaposition between pastoral and mechanical):

the whole summer smells of lambswool
and diesel. it is my first summer in 4H, and I shear
the suffolk's yellowed shag with an oil-mandibled
set of electric clippers, little bales of wool blowing
on the warm milky breath of june wind and the lamb shuddering
with each human
touch.

*gasps*

Why have I only just found this?

carnival

Only one thing really struck me as amazingly different about this (other than the magical vocabulary of yours) - I imagine a carnival as fast, chaotic, crazy, colourful and just insane. However, the tone and pace of the poem are slow, laid back, lazy, even. Lines like 'we watch...sails loose...rock gently...' couple with the the exact areas where there are line breaks make the poem lilt, as if the narrator is watching the carnival almost in drowsy contemplation of the whole place, as opposed to them being actively involved in it. Just a thought, that's all. Don't know if that was unintentional or not.

lower table rock

Mountain climbing - one of my favourite pasttimes. And that's such a pure and powerful feeling - of seeing the whole earth laid out in front (or behind) you, seeing it as a whole, and also noticing each and every part, each tiny detail. This poem was mostly intimate, cute with its word choice, and it almost seemed to me like you were trying to distract us the whole time with the 'Look here! Look at this!' kind of gumdrop imagery in order to divert our attention away from the vastness, the frightening expanse of the landscape. But at the same time, this wonderfully personal experience is made somewhat less personal, less intimate with the mentions of battle and the history behind the place. Almost as if you are stopping us from getting too wrapped up in the imagery by throwing in some lines that make it seem like someone's already been there, seen that. Again, an interesting effect.

national geographic

Haha, here's another thought: I am reading about reading here. Describing foreign lands, landscapes - this is you at your most creative, I'd say. There are some alarmingly grabbing images: 'men skinny...I turn the page - a volcano erupts in asia...running his fingers over a scalped egyptian hieroglyph' - I mean, scalped, of all the words! And...you know this, but I thought I should mention anyway: I want the imagery to linger there in my mind; I want there to be something to tie it there in the future, to concrete the words in some way. I see, I touch, I smell, hear, taste when I read these but...I guess that's a paradox of poetry and of human experience itself - unless there is a centre point and a focus, it's difficult to remember. And, my god would it be lovely to remember these, no question about that.

twelve

I wondered what the title meant, reading this. In fact, on second read, I am still curious - hey! There's a bit of intellectual stimluation! (YAY.) Is twelve the first word of the poem? A reference to a time (midday or midnight - though I see little hint of that in the poem) or perhaps an age? 'I am sorry I didn't have longer to appreciate them' - yes, I like this. A confession, when so often the imagery acts as a beautiful distraction. But then, after that line, there is so much wondrous imagery to lose oneself in that it's easy to forget the fundamental question that line raised in the first place: why? 'Fifrelies glowing like isotopes' is a personal favourite there...and, far from strongly wanting to know the circumstances behind which the narrator is 'sorry,' I find it does not matter much, in the grand scheme of things. They're enjoying themselves, and...I guess I will too.

Anyway, thank you for starting up a thread! I wonder though...why dramatic? Just curious .

Thanks guys!

Navita >> You got it -- twelve is an age. And why dramatic? No reason -- completely arbitrary. Thanks for your comments!

talking of michelangelo

outside in the courtyard, someone sells flowers –
blossoms filled with pistils like
the mouths of seamstresses filled with pins. they smell
of chipping paint and quarry stone.

nimbus of pigeons in the courtyard
scrabbling like kitchen noises in the same way they must have
as the Sculptor stood on strutted scaffolding to reach
the ceiling of the chapel, paint egg-speckling his beard, his hands
trembling slightly as his brush pushes versets of blue,
like a lover brushing a loose strand of hair
from the eyes of his darling.

and god reaches out to adam, and between their fingers
grows the gamete of a galaxy, and apostles stand around,
craning their necks, like relatives guessing the sex
of an unborn infant. he painted little wishbones of light
on the inside of their thighs, and in these strokes there is
the secret to all things beautiful and simple, a chromatic
proof of godhood.

raphael's tapestries rustle like an unbuttoned blouse –
assumptions and the flimsy hands of pale saints
shiver in the saucered light of the april morning.
the Sculptor must have yearned for something
more solid under his hands – a granite hip, a marble torso –
as a sailor longs for
the glissando and glottal stop of the ocean, but instead
he paints in local constellations. he painted adam's ten
first edition toes, around him
the chapel hollow-feeling, like a bone
before a drop in barometric pressure.

he worked by candlelight, stubs purled, their flames
little mea cupla's, nodding sibyls. now, we all look up,
and see the weather pattern of heaven, of three hundred
oil-based souls, and our necks ache as his did.

--

This is not really a poem. But sort of.

peter

Aperture snipping shut like scissors around the last umbilical cord of evening light, shutters folding wings, the arthropodic rattle and shuttle of the old Minaulta camera, as I shoot a picture of the man on the pier. He is at least seventy years old, Greek, body ravaged and sickled by age and hard work, except for his eyes which stare down the lens of the camera with the same confidence and expectancy as they might have had fifty years before, stepping off the pilgrim boats from Smyrna. His skin is daubed and raised and calicoed with sun and liver spots like the surface of some impressionistic painting. His white hair plastered to his head, hat held in his hands, chewing tobacco, proud of the way he smells of Red Man leaf and the quiet, cursive rot of the eastern sea-board.

That's great, I say. I take another picture. He grins and his teeth are stained by coffee, leaking from under his gums like rust from oxidizing washers. He tells me that he is also proud of his teeth. He has lost one for every woman he has loved. He is missing seven teeth. The Minaulta spasms, capturing the upside-down negative of the man by the pier, as insubstantial as the feeling of being watched.

He points to a missing tooth.

This one, this one was my favorite. Second cousin from Crete. Nipples like pomegranates. Could move each of her toes on its own. Can you do that? I cannot.

The clouds are bruised where they lay, like corpses purpled by liver mortis and seagulls cry revelations above us, drawn across the sky like nightchains. It has been a long time since I was last beside the ocean. I am almost out of film. I want to take pictures of the lighthouses.

Get some good photos?

Yes sir. Thanks a million.

He offers to take me out on his fishingboat, but the sea is rough this morning, waves heaving, bell-gutted buoys clanging like death carts. I shake my head and his hand. The boat he walks to is outfitted with sails that sag like old neck skin. I want to name him Peter. He is waiting for Christ – there is a crufix around his neck. He is waiting for someone to walk along the pier and beckon and make him something more than he has always been.

But I am just a man with a camera, and there is nothing else in sight but the tattery of gulls.

Demeter to Persephone

the cross-stitches of frost are undone, untangled
from the windowpanes at your approach – the flowers
push through black dirt, quiet and vital as middle daughters and
as it seems for the first time in years, a thrush emerges
like a trait for freckles that has skipped a generation,
into the evening.

we embrace;
you smell like a brass instrument
removed from its case after years of unuse,
eyes slipping like mother-of-pearl valve keys,
mildew along your horn, wheezing a little
your tune that I remember to be sweeter, clearer, but
you know how
we remember things.

I tell myself that I am not surprised at
how you have changed, how you wear your clothes,
hopechest of your heart filled with broken, household china,
how the darkness clasps where he has touched,
how you bruise
easily now.

you step from the surrey of the night,
fringes of unreflected stars, albatross of smoke – you gleam
in the moonshine, plutoid, in the quilted cocoonery
of predawn. you do not weep, and so this reunion
is different than the ones before, and I know
that we will have a dry spring.

as you step, the harelipped poppies split
into moron grins, and the tulips clop
like sheep's bells in the fog, you look at me
and we are strangers.

natural history

when everything was feathered, geodes
splitting open like mother's locket to display
a radio-full of crystals, tender
uterine wall of gem and quartz. I think of how
much pressure it took to squeeze this split rock
until its insides jeweled like the silence
of an obedient wife.

millions of years old, shedding carbon isotopes
like dead skin cells, I move on to the bones of
the first mammal, developing pouches and
milky glands. I imagine it burrowing in the chloroplastic
wetland of warm earth, cello-headed ferns rising like a death toll,
lilies venomous, papery as empresses. man incubates
eastward in eden. god makes appearances
like hitchcock.

the museum's pillars, austere as redwoods,
uphold the roof over a lobby with a set of glassed-in
cro-magnon bones, skull shrugging off the responsibility
of opposable thumbs. it is so small, it is named betty,
and it is a mystery how these fragments of marrow and tube
clothed in skin could have survived long enough
to pass down a human gene, like a favorite
family ghost story.

the pedigree blurs, the universe contracts –
it is hard for me to imagine that the fibonacci sequence,
the slumber of a nautilus shell, the hush of a bud
is as random as love, or godless.

Hey - I got a bit grouchy this morning since I wrote something here and the computer ate it...but I returned. ^^

talking of michelangelo

I can picture you having a lot of fun writing these. In 'talking of michelangelo' there is that recurrent flowery, birdy, galactic, religious, anatomical imagery that I daresay is your forte (or are they the things that you need to change?). I, well, actually forgot that you were writing about paintings at some point during the poem and got carried away by the scenes themselves - kind of like sitting at the painter's shoulder and then tipping headfirst into one of his creations. Had to look back at the title to remind myself. There was something wonderfully horrific and fascinating about 'gamete of a galaxy' - associating the small and insignificant with the vast and infinite is an intriguing idea. Not sure it stands up to much thought, but hey, it sounds good, so what the hell. But my favourite line was 'a chromatic proof / of godhood.' That got me laughing. So did 'he painted adam's ten first edition toes.'

peter

Overall, I didn't enjoy this one as much, the imagery being altogether too dense in the opening paragraph to prompt me to continue reading, but still, there were some fantastic lines. The dialogue was funny, too, and what I liked most about it was the lack of quotation marks. Sort of made it slot in perfectly with an otherwise prose-poem. 'Could move each of her toes on their own. Can you do that? I cannot,' being a favourite there, as was 'Get some good photos? Yes sir, thanks a million.' I guess what I liked here was the voice of the characters coming out, as opposed to your poeticism being on display, which tends to get very similar in its wondrousness. The stark interaction of the characters was a breath of fresh air. The ending felt like a cop-out, but I guess it's a short piece anyway, written for a bit of amusement, so I wouldn't worry too much.

Demeter to Persephone

Looks like this one begins with flowers too (the downside of reading them all in one go is that I tend to notice similarities) like 'talking of michelangelo' did, with the same abstraction in the beginning - by which I mean only the landscape has been introduced, not the characters. In contrast to 'talking of michelangelo,' I found the tone of writing much clearer, less showy, less overdone. Lines like: 'we embrace...but you know how we remember things...I tell myself I am not surprised at how you have changed...how you bruise easily now...this reunion is different than the ones before...you look at me and we are strangers' (that last one was amazing) - these lines are the characters speaking directly, with few Kylanisms clouding their dialogue, while still retaining the same softness and beauty of the rest of the writing. I like this mixture of both, actually, and I guess what I'm saying is that I enjoyed this more than the others simply because it had a focal point while still going on some tangential exposition. Good balancing.

natural history

Uh oh. I wonder if we're going to be introduced to any characters here or if it'll just be landscapey and hence...similar to the others. But oh ho! We not only have 'geodes splitting open like mother's locket' but also 'I think of how much pressure it took...' thus introducing a distinct character with, well, not as sharp a clarity of tone. Perhaps the only place where I felt the narrator was making a real confession to the reader was in the last lines: 'it is hard for me to imagine that the fibonacci sequence...is as random as love, or godless.' Everything else was characteristically pretty, especially the scientific languge - 'cholorplastic, incubates, cro-magnon, gene.'

Thank you much Navita!

opal

fission of an atom,
like the lobes of a brain,
and a universe distills, dew
on the upturned leaf
of a theory.

it warm and huge, this beginning,
like a precious stone worn
on the chest of a queen. picnic
stars spread – existence uncurls
like a sowbug in a still palm.

from what did we originate
but an eyewink, a flashpoint
of infinite density, a node
of chance. here, in this word
infinite, I find
solitude, and a prayer for god.

what is this human preoccupation
with size? white dwarf, plutoid,
big bang. self-conscious of our own
puniness, we measure, reassuring ourselves
with millimeters.

tonight, the new moon is a gaslight
the lamplighter forgot, and I can feel
everything unspooling around me,
moths munching on the closeted silk fabric
of spacetime, and the tickle of entropy
curling columns in my bones.

Alright, since there are quite a few to pick at, this'll be a little bit briefer then I'd like, but anywhoo.

Twelve

I don't see much of a driving point behind this poem. It's rather scenic, which we all know you're terribly good at.
The descriptions are sweet, and summery which fits perfectly with my mood at the moment. You've got some really interesting lines in here, but they seem to lose potency because of the lack of point in this poem.

Lines like:

I close my eyes to keep out the gnats and
blowing seed husks of hay from the floor of the truck bed.

stars rattle in the tin begging cup
of the night, and oberon plays with our earlobes.

Both are really lovely lines. But again they don't have the driving force to run home with us. So they kind of melt away, with the rest of your poem. And when I'm done, I haven't retained all that much.

So purpose is your main issue. Another thing I noticed, that isn't all that bad is the biblical references. You seem to like to do this in the poems that give us more of a country side feel. But again, you don't take that anywhere. It's just pretty words sitting in a pretty form, that sound pretty on our tongues.

talking of michelangelo

Hm. I quite liked this one. It's got more of a point, a message/story to get across. So what you say is more powerful. Which is great. But the issue that arises, is that your imagery isn't as graspable. It works in the context of the story, but through the 4th stanza the entire thing starts to get really complex. And it kind of winds down again at the end. So there's this random peak in complexity in the middle so it's kind of awkward. Remember, you do want to keep your reader on their toes, but you want to keep it as constant and smooth sailing as possible. What I really enjoyed was your ability to weave all of the things we know you're good at talking about together into something solid and linked neatly.

I don't have all that much to say unfortunately.

peter

Hmmm. I enjoyed this one a lot, though I don't think it qualifies as poetry to be exact. You described something simple, and used the imagery to tell the story. You're good at that ;D It's just complicated enough to grab at our attention and make us think, and simple, descriptively, which allows us to sort of immerse ourselves in this piece. It's lovely. (Not to mention my love affair with any reference to Greece <3). It doesn't exactly scream seriously worked short piece, but it's still enjoyable.

Demeter to Persephone

Now this is lovely. I personally adore the story of Persephone, and here, you seem to stray slightly from your typical beat around the bush way with words. It's a lot more direct then usual.

Things like:

I tell myself that I am not surprised at
how you have changed, how you wear your clothes,
hopechest of your heart filled with broken, household china,
how the darkness clasps where he has touched,
how you bruise
easily now.

are curt, direct and full of punch. It's great and refreshing, because you've intertwined just enough imagery through the curtness to keep it poetic and sweet with your signature. You spoke of having a little more exposition in my poems, I shall use this as a reference.

Natural History

Ah, so this one is a bit of a powerball. It keeps your typical style of writing, while straying from your typical imagery focuses and has some power in it's bite. The images are fresh and insightful, but overall it's kind of boring. Dusty and overviewed, like museums. But I guess that's a personal taste. Otherwise, definitely keep working with these imagery concepts., they're really interesting to read. But do watch out for overusing more academic terms, you don't want your reader having to turn to google every few lines. It works in the case of this poem, but it's borderline. And I'm pretty sure not everyone knows what
things like "fibonacci, cro-magnon" are/mean.

opal

Last one, gave me shivers. You did something similar to what you did in the one about Persephone and Demeter. You were more forward with your words then typically so. Except this one is kind of like a child peeking from behind their hiding spot. you know what's there, but you can't see it. It's really a lovely sense of mystery. But the message you get across is almost somber. Your ability to describe space in such a simple but effective manner is quite admirable.

self-conscious of our own
puniness, we measure, reassuring ourselves
with millimeters.

I love these lines. They're slightly degrading and slightly ironic too.

But these:

tonight, the new moon is a gaslight
the lamplighter forgot

aren't so effective. They don't really support all that much, specifically the second part of that line.


Anyways. I shouldn't be reviewing at these hours.

Great job (and thanks for the review)

Kamas

Many thanks Kamas!

Semyonova

years of swan lake now resonate in her
fluted bones, piccolo of osteoporosis, mother-of-pearl
joints releasing the low note of an unplugged sigh.

and when she dreams, it is inevitably
of curtains, the great coma of stage curtains,
rising to a barren stage, the bows of the pit
orchestra steadied all at once, like the sudden
summer silence of field-crickets. curtains
at the end of act three, deepening purple velvet,
like the darkness that surrounds the mute
throat of a candleflame.

she sits in the ballet room, mirrors showing
every angle, every vertex, every degree
of beauty – carnival-esque, as beauty always is.
she sits and regards the girls, their flats laced,
hair pulled back to reveal the smooth dune of the forehead,
wrists palely upturned in breathless suffering –
they are soundless as onomatopoeia,
but imitate bodily the trill of water through stone.

it seems that it is only in a garden
can she reclaim inner grace. the third
movement of a fountain's babel, the lily of the valley
ringing like pavlov's bells, causing dew
on the tongues of the dogwood blossoms.
she watches the seedlings for signs of gesture,
she watches the threshes for signs of stillness.
she choreographs the flora, the braid
of water, the bend of stem.

on a warm pillow,
she lies at night, and she can hear
the applause at bolshoi in her cupped palm,
deafening as the sound of the sea in
the phonograph of a shell.