~Moonbeams

I guess most of us go through a spell at some point. I'll just keep throwing the line out, we eventually catch something.

She rubs her thumbs across an old polaroid
and asks where she's gone.
He points to the sky--
for years
an alabaster portal to a promised world.

She prays and prepares,
until questions arise--
Fossils and doubts,
unearthed.
"You should open your mind"
is what the teacher says,
and then mother becomes the grass;

the cool, crisp blades that tickle
her toes,
as she runs and rests
and shapes the clouds
in what is now just any old sky.

But the season passes,
and death ensues once more.
And mother is recycled yet again.

But What happened to the synapse that
seeped into the soil
that promised to remember?
The much needed watchful eyes
that carried her away from trouble,
with the tender smile on the apparition
of a fading face?
Where was the soft embrace
when the wind tore down from the north
and snatched the seed she'd planted
at her feet?
Perhaps death is amnesia
as the strands of life recode themselves,
like the swoosh of burlesque beads settling in a doorway,
and the mood shifts like a lava lamp from season to place
and love was just an oversight.
She lied in the silk sheets in her silk robe
and looked to the mirror that replaced the sky,
and wondered if the sun itself would ever forget to rise.

Another poem that's getting ready for the slaughter house.

We've long past our destination my love,
and we have settled back into routines that
we had set aside for the sake of loneliness.
I don't have the heart to tell you I used you,
or that I've been needing a cigarrette,
after a year of trying you instead.
Your hand has become a criticism
against my sagging skin,
your presence too much of a nagging
voice against my lack of
homemaking skills.
Too many bare walls and empty sills,
that suffer the absense of a motherly hand.
I should have feasts for you with all you do.
Instead my appetite is still on the go.

My Love is a cumpulsion anyway,
and would be done better from a distance,
as I sick and sob over your absence
and mourn you over a pack a day-
smoke this full figured form away
and become that girl again
that arched herself and swam in your
arms,
like the cover of a Harlequin-
a fantasy that was never meant to live
beyond the horizons of a tray.

As we go through life, our vision of it becomes more detail oriented, and we learn to see things that we didn't before. Why would this be any different when learning to read and interpret poetry, especially when we learn about the many different ways of utilizing metaphor and other literary devices?

I know, as with any institution, there are certain rules of etiquette regarding critique in a forum, workshop, whether online or offline. But one thing I have always been concerned about is being wrong in my critique. Whether this is a wrong interpretation of the poem, being wrong about technical aspects of it, or just being way off as far as what they were trying to achieve with the poem. I think it is safe to say, this is what holds most people back from critiquing, beginners anyway. That, and time, of course.

So, I have to ask this: When someone critiques your poem, and completely misses the obvious in it, or simply says: “I don’t get it”, how do you react? And what do you attribute their lack of insight or faulty interpretation to? Is interpretation something that is learned, or something innate, relating to intuition? I know that proper grammar and technique is learned, and confidence is something that must follow, especially when offering a critique, yet interpreting, and seeing where the poet/writer is trying to go with their piece, receiving their message, is also quite important, I would think. So is this learned through technique as well? I would say, through reading, (lots of reading of different styles of writing), this could be learned. The eye and mind could be trained on how to interpret writing. Just as looking at an abstract painting.

However, does this mean that individuals who are at different levels in their writing, should only critique those who are at their same level? If, say, someone who is not familiar with a certain style or technique of writing, tries to critique it, what can they offer? Or what can they learn? Would their critique be beneficial? Would they be insulting the writer by not understanding their writing? Is it necessary in the process of learning? What do you think?

I was playing around because I was bored and this poem got me banned from a certain forum.

he sippy wippy
suck pucks
my vippy vappy
husk.
husk of fruit,
dripping fruit,
wet
and sticky stuck.
plucked! my puresome
wholesome state.
and Mom will wake
and see we ate
and kill my one time date.
She'll sew me up
and lock me up
till man can prove he'll wait