Lighthouse Keeper

Hi Florin Lacatus, thank you for your feedback. I am still on my L plates as far as poetry is concerned. Your wording shows a magnificent way with descriptions, I really enjoyed reading your reply several times. Jeanette Swan, thank you for your reply to my poem. Michael Maul, thank you for your reply and feelings as to what was intended with my poem.

John, I read your poem three times. And each time, I felt like I was standing at the edge of a cliff, watching a story unfold through a clean glass window. But I wanted to open that window and feel the salt hit my face. Your narrative is there, solid, like a lighthouse blueprint, but poetry isn’t built from blueprints, Sir. It’s built from the rust on the rails, from the breath of the man who climbs the steps alone at night, from the shiver you feel when the sea whispers things you’re not ready to hear. When you wrote: “Envelope delivered; contents read aloud” I saw it happening, but I wanted to hear the crackle of the paper, to smell the dust from a drawer that’s been closed for years. Moments like these aren’t just actions; they’re rituals, and poetry is made from the tiny, invisible threads of those rituals. The old man: You drew him well, but you made him too human, too soon. He should not simply “stride into the room” he should arrive like a memory, or like a prophecy disguised as a man with a smile. He’s not just a character, John, he’s a foreshadowing, and in your poem, foreshadowing is a sacred tool that you must use slowly, like a candle burning in a dark hallway. The middle part of the poem: the steps, the light, the nights of training, these are important scenes, but they read like a report. You move too fast. Let the reader feel the weight of every step, the ache in the keeper’s knees, the sour smell of lamp oil, the sound of silence when the ocean holds its breath before a storm. You don’t need more words, you need to let the existing ones breathe deeper. Now, when the voices come, I felt the tension rise. But you wrote it in a tone that’s still controlled, when it should have cracked open. When he hears voices, that’s when you, as the poet, should let go of the steering wheel. The lines should stagger, like a man running down slippery lighthouse steps, half-certain he’s chasing a ghost, half-afraid he’s chasing himself. And John, dear gentleman, that final line: “Never ever let go.” You found gold here. But gold shines brighter in darkness. The sentence should feel like it’s floating in fog, as if the wind is carrying it across generations of lighthouse keepers who’ve all held onto that rail with knuckles white from fear and love. Your poem is so close to being something haunting, but right now, it’s still a little too polite. Don’t be afraid to let the lighthouse shake. Don’t be afraid to let the protagonist break. Poetry is not a perfect photograph, it’s a cracked mirror where we see not what happened, but how it hurt. This poem can become a song of those who keep the light burning, even when they’re drowning inside. John, you’re almost there. Now let the storm in. With deep respect and hope, Florin Lacatus

I can feel a bit of sadness in the main character. Maybe I didn't fully comprehend the writing, but I sensed that he never achieved his goals while putting in the effort.

I can feel a bit of sadness in the main character. Maybe I didn't fully comprehend the writing, but I sensed that he never achieved his goals while putting in the effort.