The Green Candle

Phoebus rise in glory,
Let your sunshine glow.

The way it was,
The way it forever will be.

That blatant dusk
Without horizon.

The soothsayers dream
Without a dawn.

I feel you pulsating,
in the wilderness.

Lost in a frenetic dream,
Falling into oblivion.

The green candle still burns.

Comments & reviews · 4
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Wow...I'm not quite sure where to begin.

My biggest issue with this poem is that it feels so much like it lacks a real point. I just feel like you're talking in circles about nothing in particular.

I can't tell if you're trying for a rhyme scheme/rhythm or not, because both are inconsistant if you are.

Perhaps you should back off from these very abstract images and higher vocabulary for awhile and really focus on concrete detail and simply communicating your point to readers. It comes with practice.

I also have no idea where the green candle comes from, though that may be an allusion that I'm simply not getting.

User avatar
Incandescence
Review

parker-c-penne:


Parts of this, such as:

"I feel you pulsating,
in the wilderness.

Lost in a frenetic dream,
Falling into oblivion. "

make absolutely no sense at all. I suspect this is for the best in this case.

If you are hoping at some point to create work that might generate some level of "poetic" similarity, you first need to develop a feel for what effective poetry is. This means you should study line-breaks, narrative flow/structure, and metaphor. When you have adequately grappled with those topics, try again.


All the best,
Brad

User avatar
Twit
Review
Twit wrote a review · Tue Mar 13, 2007 10:44 pm

Forgive me for sounding stupid, but what is the green candle that is still burning? Have I missed the point? (I'm not that great at extracting meanings from things that arn't explained to me syllable by syllable :oops: )

The scheme of it went well; it sounded good when I read it out loud.

-ShadowTwit



I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
— Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights