The Art of Mask-Making

Hey, poet!!! I love this poem. Frankly I used to be one of those people who believe that the art of poetry is in decline, but you proved me wrong. There is a certain poetic beauty in the work which really cannot be described, though here and there it was a little rough round the edges. My advice to you is not to try to use very big words, like mannerisms, unapologetic even independence, such words are good if you're writing a novel but in poetry they ruin the rhythm (and you have very good, more importantly, innate rhythm). For example what I would have done is write 'thankless apathy' instead of 'unapologetic' even though 'apologetic' and 'apathy' is a good alliteration 'thankless' gives it a little more flow. Hope to be reading more of your poetry soon!!!

David

Hey hun, I hope everything is well with you <3

You have an equisite piece of work here. I read the title and hardly dared to hope but it met my expectations in most part. I'd like to see you expand this and really delve into the beauty of masks. It's a great image to use but I want the colours to be vivid enough to see, description of textures so that you can almost feel. Masks are very symbolic. It's a big image to use and I'd like to see you do it justice.

Nameless faces - ornate and polished like masks [I'm not sure about polished. It makes me thing of smooth, shiny surfaces which masks sometimes have but... I think there are better words to desribe them and I'd like something double slated. That tells of both their beauty and what they hide. The peeling fabric, the little ruts and bumps of imperfection. There's something dark under this poem that you don't reveal enough of for my liking.]
painted in (silver and ebony) silence, by a man, master
at his craft with a diligent hand tracing out
pale, wintry lips - this mask has no eyes
at the artist's unapologetic apathy [This line threw me a little. It doesn't seem connected to the ones before or after.]
stiff yet psyche is surviving with stale words
on a tongue flecked with flaxen drops [Love this line and the next.]
(like interfering heralds)
Who spread word like an impending ailment [I'm not sure about your simile here. I think you could find something stronger. Maybe even bring the mask imagery in again.]
that rises over a patrician on Independence Day.
(This day of progress)
But this inventor can only laugh at his cunning mannerisms.
Progress cannot halt all the masks
that gather dust on his shelves. [Good ending.]