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2/7/2015 2:24:09 PM
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When I Am Gone
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The expression in this poem is lucid and strong, deftly honest. It was a bit of a challenge navigating through the lack of punctuation. A structural revision with attention to spelling may truly enhance the authentic rawness of emotion in this piece. Excellent start.
Lie is an intransitive verb (one that does not take an object), meaning "to recline." Its principal parts are lie (base form), lay (past tense), lain (past participal), and lying (present participle).
[Lie meaning "to tell an untruth" uses lied for both the past tense and past participle, with lying as the present participle.]
Lay is a transitive verb (one that takes an object), meaning "to put" or "to place." Its principal parts are lay (base form), laid (past tense), laid (past participle), and laying (present participle).
The two words have different meanings and are not interchangeable. Although lay also serves as the past tense of lie (to recline) – as in, "He lay down for a nap an hour ago" – lay (or laying) may not otherwise be used to denote reclining. It is not correct to say or write, "I will lay down for nap" or "He is laying down for a nap." The misuse of lay or laying in the sense of "to recline" (which requires lie or lying) is the most common error involving the confusion of these two words.
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2/7/2015 2:47:46 PM
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The First Kiss
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The First Kiss by Edmund Linton
Look deep with beckoned eyes.
The way a tandem flock
assembles to the gravity of warmth,
boldly cascading open sky,
veering only for nourishment,
or an unpredictable speck of dust.
A kiss was at first science, then art,
osculating geometric curves of the fit.
Once proper, a kiss became abstract to the senses,
discerned by taste and texture.
While we are nestlings in this season,
let us experiment,
perhaps rehearse with a pallet and brush.
edited by EdmundLinton on 2/7/2015
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2/7/2015 6:02:55 PM
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My Poetry Must Suck!
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I thoughtfully review poems that display thoughtful, revised, curious writing. I have posted 5 poems which have received over 250 views - only 2 reviews. My poetry really must suck!
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2/7/2015 6:31:38 PM
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The Grieving
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Excellent poetry - I can relate.
I'm surprised it has not been more reviewed based on the number of views. I think a lot of "poets" read poetry like they are reading the directions on a box of brownies.
Your work is very thoughtfully developed. There is, however, a bit of redundancy in several of the lines.
Maybe: "A frenzied celebration..." ???
I like "togetherness". It implies ritual without unity, but I think celebration also implies togetherness. Ritual, for me, can stand alone.
"Ritual imposed..." ???
I think a period is OK for pause.
"Respite and escape" may work better as one word...Maybe "No refuge from..."
"Connect/share" are a bit too synonymous.
I love this phrase:
"Grief is a mongrel here;
an agony of burden on
the righteous shoulders of joy"
However, an agony is always burdensome.
This is beautiful insight:
I can only run, crying out,
in frantic search of
This tree, this breeze that
gives me permission
gives me space
to breathe
to be
But the structure is a bit distracting.
I even think, "Its tapestry of grey sky" works with the ingenious line of, "shrouds me from expectation".
Again, excellent start. Run it through the crucible a few times and I think it will be gold.
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2/7/2015 10:32:32 PM
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Channeling creativity - with no re-writes
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Two thoughts here:
Beautiful insight on "getting out of the way" so that your perceptions can draw deep water.
And - an unfurled mind is an, honest, unpretentious, open mind who can stir the memory and perceptions of a reader, listener, viewer - as commiseration and consolation even when the attendee is afraid.
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2/9/2015 9:00:10 AM
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Looking-Back Smile
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We were chasing each other through the woods, behind the old neighborhood where your parents still live. I was heaving with bent-over laughter, trying to catch up to your looking-back smile, and then you disappeared into that opening where the sun used to break through during our childhood Summers, shimmering across strained mirrors and chrome plated bumpers of long forgotten broken down cars. When I saw you, leaning against the flaked hood of our old rusty green car, chin resting in the palm of your hand, beautiful shine written across your face, you were reaching through a missing windshield shaking that bent steering wheel, reminding me this was the place where we learned to drive. A place where the musty smell of rain-soaked vinyl and dried oil, doors fused shut by seasons of rust and stillness, and tireless dreams would take us anywhere we wanted to go. We drove a thousand miles and back on one tank of gas, leaning into curves so tight that I could smell the soap your mother used on shirts, and you would push me away with an elbow, never even taking your eyes off the road. I pressed the pedals and you changed the gears, because you said you were older, and I said ladies always go first. Except when we drove along the beaches, moving slowly in white, low tide sand, so you could toss breadcrumbs to the Seagulls, worrying over whether each one got a meal. I would say, let’s go see some city lights, where you could look out the window, and blow fake kisses to people standing on the sidewalk, and you would say, one more ride down the boulevard please, just one more. Then one day you turned and blew a kiss at me, knowing that I couldn’t tell if it was fake or real, so you pressed the palm of your hand to my cheek, and I felt dizzy because your lotion was so strong. That was close to the time we spent an entire afternoon, cruising the back-roads, searching for the cat you found that didn’t come home for three days. The one you cuddled and kissed, and wouldn’t let anyone hold. The one your father chased through every bedroom of the house, until its claws got tangled in a bedspread, and he tossed it right out the back door - blanket, pillows, and all. You snatched up the blanket, eyes puffy and red, throwing it over a low hanging limb like you were setting up a new home. You cried for a solid hour, until I got quiet, and you started a pillow fight under that homemade tent, feathers flying across the yard like a flock of white moths. Summers later, you finally let me drive first, so you could ride past your friends, waving with sunglasses, tossing your head back like a famous movie star. You always knew that when I changed gears fast, pressing the pedals hard to the floor, we were heading to open road, where you would lean out the window, turning your arms like airplane wings, glancing over at me with a playful grin, hoping that I would notice how beautiful you looked. And I would turn on the South road, where we would drive across long bridges, to islands that were lit by small flames, holding on to each other’s arm like we were never coming back. And when we did we made a promise, knowing that some turns in the road may take us on a different path, we would never forget the rides we took in that old green car.
Read more at: /poem/looking_back_smile_639439
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2/9/2015 11:40:52 AM
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New To Poetry Soup
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I am Edmund Linton. I enjoy reading well developed, revised, perceptive poetry. I also enjoy thoughtfully reviewing poetry, as well as receiving feedback on my poems - not to stroke my ego but to improve the development and process of constructing a poem.
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2/9/2015 7:49:18 PM
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Have fun and keep PoetrySoup a haven.
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Poetry Soup is a great cloud service for storing my poems, and I do write reviews.
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2/17/2015 5:38:37 PM
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Mystery Solved
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Mystery Solved by Edmund Linton (Draft 1)
Some are drawn to mystery,
when what we need is clear.
The stars - a trillion miles away,
and galaxies so near.
Ancient writing mixed with flaw
distract a curious few,
when the meaning we are parsing
lies just beneath the view.
We reach for heavens and heaven-sent
with ever brilliant minds,
and never turn our eyes to see
the ones we’ve left behind.
Distractions lurking everywhere,
technology and strife.
Perhaps the light we’re longing for
is at the center of all life.
So when we walk the sea shore
and gaze the skies above,
remember what we're searching for
was prompted by our love.
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2/22/2015 4:27:11 PM
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Cajoling Morning Mist
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Strands of time unleash the
ballast of a petal. Its radiant hue
drawn towards light, cajoling morning mist.
Dilation gravitates the reciprocation of life,
as if each were of the same species. There
is no fear or hope in this exchange. It is a trust,
innate to the keeper, and the giver. One in the same
to all seasons, until the axis
once again leans in the direction of love.
edited by EdmundLinton on 2/22/2015
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2/23/2015 8:32:06 PM
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Following Dreams
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Following Dreams by Edmund Linton
wrapped around ceramic dreams
I never knew would show
to afraid to break the mold
of what I’ve come to know
sifting darkness into dust
to find a ray of light
echoes shatter silence
in the middle of this night
i picture memories in my mind
as if these thoughts were true
where once forgotten snapshots
are images of you
standing in the background
is a painting focus clear
a mural lit with sunlight
of what I wish were near
i’ll hold on to this treasure
of what might come to be
in a season not so far away
where I can set it free
Read more at: /poem/following_dreams_643111
edited by EdmundLinton on 2/23/2015
edited by EdmundLinton on 2/23/2015
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3/8/2015 5:01:28 PM
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Magic Dusk (Draft 1)
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I watched --
dandelions waltz
with tips of yellow grain
blowing kisses
to the hum of a dragon fly,
rays of sun sprinkling their goodbyes
on darkening pond.
An amber glaze of misting dew
settled on this scene divine,
where past and present,
future rhyme,
to find a place outside of time.
As a cricket finely tuned his bow,
to a ribbon of cloud
blushing over the rising
crescent moon,
an evening stroke of the master’s brush
paused, as if to share
this magic dusk.
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3/18/2015 12:55:37 PM
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The First Kiss
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Thank you for the excellent feedback.
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