A Poem for Critique

[axon]

hello all, below I'm including a poem I have written sometime ago. I would like to hear your thoughts on it, but especially what do you think it is about...

thanks in advance,

===========================
My First

She has captured me. My senses cornered,
The emotions confined by her unceasing bonds
Ready to leak out onto the white lamina of relief.

She has been there since the beginning, cunning and always
Aware. Never letting down her guard. Ready to counter
My every move on the infinite chess board of truth and false.

Incessant battles within the soul interrupted by
Brief moments of self-realization. . .self-fulfillment,
often plagued with untruthfull and beguiling
themes, ideas, morals. . .words.

She has captured me,
She, the Fear of creativity.

[earth]

I like it but I personally wouldn't have given away who "she" was at the end .

Always a pleasure to meet a fellow poet.

[Mogwai]

Thanks, axon, for the poem...good stuff!

[lerik]

I like it but I personally wouldn't have given away who "she" was at the end .

Always a pleasure to meet a fellow poet.

I agree with earth-you should have kept the identity of 'her' a secret,but after all,its ur poem,so u decide
I personally liked it very much.Write more!

[Worm]

I like it ..
.. but it's a bit weird for me to read because it's not in my native tongue, so it's more difficult for me to grasp well the fine details of the poem.

Is this the kind of stuff you'd like to write more in the future, if i may ask, or do you plan on taking it all in an entirely different direction?

[axon]

woah...that is a poem I wrote a very long time ago.... and as you can plainly see from some of my newer writing, I did take it in a different direction I havent read this particular poem in a very long time, but I still remember exactly when and how I wrote it.

[axon]

I wrote this one some months ago - its rather tragic, don't you think?

Latter Years

I knew an Old Man once
who at his old age had developed
prostate problems and several other
urinary tract complications.

At first,
he used to run to the bathroom
anywhere from three to ten times a
night.
When he no longer managed to hold
it for the few seconds since he opened his
old eyes
till he opened his pant fly
his wife (a lovely, caring woman indeed
      with problems of her own)
set a tin pot by the side of his bed before he
fell
asleep, and emptied it out in the morning
before the Old Man woke up. (he never pissed
       too much)

At around that time, she moved to
the guest room and slept
alone.

The Old Man's health worsened with
every day as he approached death.
Surgery is your only hope Mr. B---,
said his doctor, We'll need some samples,
go here and here and there...

The Old Man's wife took him by the
hand
and led him over there and there and
here where the flashy nurse took over.
His blood flowed strong and the sample
filled up quick. Oh, bitter
irony
the Old Man could not piss when he had to.
He tried and squeezed and drank water by the gallons;
nothing.

Weary, tired, and bloated the Old Man and his
wife left the clinic in silence. Barely reaching the
corner
the Old Man began to piss all over himself
uncontrollably
his bowels roared and he soiled his pants. His
wife laughed and laughed and laughed so
hard
that she pissed herself as well cursing life and
God and all.

That night, as she lay alone in the guestroom bed,
she wept and wept and wept so
bitterly
that she wept away her soul and died.

The Old Man awoke with a jerk and
upon getting up tripped over the tin pot
full of piss and fell down on the floor with a
thud. He yelled for help.
He yelled and yelled and yelled so
loud
that he ran out of breath and decided to
give up. He closed his eyes and, as it goes,
pissed no more.

[axon]

and another which I don't think I posted here before

She Controlled the Sun

Red signals begun to shine as
your train approached. Angry
clouds up above sending wetness
down below.

Busy-body people, covering from
the rain: black, gray, and tan
umbrellas spring and flood the
street. Yours – the solitary yellow
one
sprouts from the sea of dull.

Hey, is there room for me beneath
the shelter of your
sun?

[lerik]

I wrote this one some months ago - its rather tragic, don't you think?

Latter Years

I knew an Old Man once
who at his old age had developed
prostate problems and several other
urinary tract complications.

At first,
he used to run to the bathroom
anywhere from three to ten times a
night.
When he no longer managed to hold
it for the few seconds since he opened his
old eyes
till he opened his pant fly
his wife (a lovely, caring woman indeed
      with problems of her own)
set a tin pot by the side of his bed before he
fell
asleep, and emptied it out in the morning
before the Old Man woke up. (he never pissed
       too much)

At around that time, she moved to
the guest room and slept
alone.

The Old Man's health worsened with
every day as he approached death.
Surgery is your only hope Mr. B---,
said his doctor, We'll need some samples,
go here and here and there...

The Old Man's wife took him by the
hand
and led him over there and there and
here where the flashy nurse took over.
His blood flowed strong and the sample
filled up quick. Oh, bitter
irony
the Old Man could not piss when he had to.
He tried and squeezed and drank water by the gallons;
nothing.

Weary, tired, and bloated the Old Man and his
wife left the clinic in silence. Barely reaching the
corner
the Old Man began to piss all over himself
uncontrollably
his bowels roared and he soiled his pants. His
wife laughed and laughed and laughed so
hard
that she pissed herself as well cursing life and
God and all.

That night, as she lay alone in the guestroom bed,
she wept and wept and wept so
bitterly
that she wept away her soul and died.

The Old Man awoke with a jerk and
upon getting up tripped over the tin pot
full of piss and fell down on the floor with a
thud. He yelled for help.
He yelled and yelled and yelled so
loud
that he ran out of breath and decided to
give up. He closed his eyes and, as it goes,
pissed no more.

It is very tragic,but can you tell me why you chose such an illness?Sorry,if it seems too harsh,but the description of the  woman's death was a bit short and quite simple

[lerik]

and another which I don't think I posted here before

She Controlled the Sun

Red signals begun to shine as
your train approached. Angry
clouds up above sending wetness
down below.

Busy-body people, covering from
the rain: black, gray, and tan
umbrellas spring and flood the
street. Yours – the solitary yellow
one
sprouts from the sea of dull.

Hey, is there room for me beneath
the shelter of your
sun?

I like this poem alot! :)Post  poems as  you write them!

[Radio Saturday]

I liked the first poem you posted a lot; it reminded me of "The White Goddess."

However, I thought "Later Days" seemed cruel more than tragic. To be brutally honest (and please don't take it personally) it felt like focusing on that particular aspect of this person's life seemed kind of mean and sensationalistic. If the poem is supposed to be about how he was a good man, an upstanding man with a fine mind and that it wasn't fair or right for him to die that way, then that should have been made more clear. As it is... Like I said, it just seems cruel more than tragic.

I liked "She Controlled the Sun" a lot. It was sweet but to the point (something not many people can handle in poetry).

In terms of the overall style of the poems, I thought "Later Days" and "She Controlled the Sun" seemed more like prose-poems with funny spacing that actual "poems." Read as prose-poems, they're very nice, but as normal poems, they don't work for me. But poetry is pretty subjective, so what doesn't work for me might make some else's day.

Please remember, none of this criticism is aimed at you personally. But if asked for literary criticism, I kind of can't resist...

[axon]

I liked the first poem you posted a lot; it reminded me of "The White Goddess."

However, I thought "Later Days" seemed cruel more than tragic. To be brutally honest (and please don't take it personally) it felt like focusing on that particular aspect of this person's life seemed kind of mean and sensationalistic. If the poem is supposed to be about how he was a good man, an upstanding man with a fine mind and that it wasn't fair or right for him to die that way, then that should have been made more clear. As it is... Like I said, it just seems cruel more than tragic.

Not once in the poem do I mention or hint at either the notion of the old man being good or bad, intelligent or stupid, etc etc. The poem is not about the man or the woman per se, it is about old age, and how cruel and unforgiving IT is. But overall, since you did get the feeling of crualty, then the poem accomplished what it was intended to do

It is very tragic,but can you tell me why you chose such an illness?Sorry,if it seems too harsh,but the description of the  woman's death was a bit short and quite simple

I chose this illness because someone I know has it. The woman's death is just as drawn out as the man's because she has to help her helpless husban through it.
 

In terms of the overall style of the poems, I thought "Later Days" and "She Controlled the Sun" seemed more like prose-poems with funny spacing that actual "poems." Read as prose-poems, they're very nice, but as normal poems, they don't work for me. But poetry is pretty subjective, so what doesn't work for me might make some else's day

If you would not write that last sentence I would have a problem with your first statement. There is NO formula for poetry. Poetry does not have to rhyme. Poetry does not have to have a pattern. Poetry doesn't need a style. Poetry Is. Poetry is whatever the poet wants it to be.


But I'm glad you guys responded. If you would like to read some more you can visit my website www.amphoricdream.com it is a bit outdated, but there are plenty of poems and short stories there if anyone is interested. You can can either send me an email or we can talk about them here I would appreciate any and all feedback.

Here are two things I wrote sometime ago (they are also on the site)

Random Thoughts behind the “Sound Proof” Glass

Contemplating in an enduring reality, the monism
of Life with its problems, wonders, and faults. Why?
Asked silently as a profound thought comes
in to sight weaved through speckled handwriting
like Windy City’s weather Springs from word to
word from day to day. Is it me or this dense pen –
bleeding and staining my hands with its ink?

What does ‘I’ look like anyhow?
Is I – like a Doric column standing strong and tall
supporting the weight of the Western thought?
Or, is I – a straight vertical line: Up-down or bottom-top
lonely, confused and betrayed?
Or, is I – like “they’ve” thought you in school:
a small 'l' trapped on a boat battered by a furious sea?
I – is complex, of that, I am certain:

Isn’t this glass sound proof? I thought it was,
yet I can hear her listening to my pen
think as it scribbles and doodles and glides
on a page filled with hope, utter trash and
red colored ink.



-----

and this short short story (there is also a poem that goes along with it)


Acolyte of My Thought

Morning and afternoon, this five day a week train ride takes roughly forty-five minutes; during the twenty accelerations and the twenty stops my mind explores lifetimes that have never been nor will be. My seat, always the single one at the end of the car, facing the aisle – a perfect view of all that doesn’t happen to me.

You come in at the fourth stop; my Heart clenches when I first see you gently slip in through the metal door; unaware, your glance calls It a fool.

Remember? I’ve called you an "acolyte of my thought" before – but, what’s so great about you? I’ve thought about seeing you again, thousands of times before, and now that it happened I’m mad, frustrated …upset. Have I misjudged you? Why did I romanticize about you all those times, thinking, writing, thinking… You, you in your goofy black woven hat. Ha, couldn’t be!

Busy bodies coming, going – moving; my mind concentrates on the capture of the single impenetrable piece. You sit down a knight’s move away – alone as before – you’re falling asleep while my mind races through minutes, hours – days. Does this proximity affection plague only me? You? Us? I’m beginning to loath you, to hate you. Notice me! Let me see your dark green eyes yet again. Silly girl! Hold on! Where are you going? No, wait. This is only number fourteen; we have six more to go. I’m not done; we’re not done. Don’t leave, you hear!?

Only ten…only ten; I see you now and will see you incessantly, but will we meet again?
The match continues.

[Worm]

Keep on working.

The supreme judgement to obey firstly, is that of your own.
If YOU honestly think it's okay ... then it's okay.

[lerik]

I liked your poems really much. :)Sometimes when I read them,I want to write my own,lol

[TheFernando]

Very nice poem, and I think the ending is the best part