[RCrawford]

FROM THE TOP

on a Maine mountain

Here, my mind can cross the thoughts of birds;
land on a summit’s fingertip or drift
into clear blue until it's out of words.

Nerves flutter in a teasing gust so soft
I fall into the arms of starry spaces,
my heart takes in the universe undwarfed.

Blank as these dreamless, purple-mountain faces,
beyond the perfect coil of clay God made
(which I have tangled up and kinked in places),

I bathe in inklings’ freshening cascade,
attempt to sponge the feeling’s sparkling flow
with paper; a few drops that do not fade

from me as these high reaches pale below,
that are not lost to hollows deep in Stow.

[RCrawford]

I will make a brief comment on each “finalist” as I post it but I will keep the comment limited to the positive aspects of the selection and save any critique for later.

I chose this sonnet because of its sound and its willingness to try and describe a heightened emotion. I suspect that it will be criticized for being “over the top,” but I give the poet credit for riding right along the cliff of cliché. How can we write, without excitement, about the moments when we feel a part of what we see? At first I thought the final word was a typo—that it should have been “snow”—but Stow is actually a small town in Maine and looking at a town from above (at sunrise?), I can see the shadows as hollows lengthening among the buildings. I am looking forward to what you have to say about this sonnet.

[Catherine Chandler]

Yes, it's so difficult to write a detached description of an encounter with such beauty -- at best, an approximation is the usual outcome. I know what I saw and felt last fall as I drove up the CA coast through Big Sur will have to simmer for a very long time before I can even begin to put the experience into words.

This sonnet makes a valiant attempt to do so, but, to me at least, the language needs some ratcheting up. The rhyme scheme, while interesting and somewhat unusual, uses some tired pairs (e.g., faces/places, birds/words).

Love the word "inkling" and the Wordsworth allusion in L12 .

[Susan McLean]

There is talent in the way this is put together. I personally don't have a lot of interest in landscape or the challenges of writing about it, so the content leaves me cold. But individual tastes will always vary about content, and the beauty of nature is one of the time-honored subjects of poetry.

Susan

[R. S. Gwynn]

Not "Stowe"? Straightforward but no turn.

[Sharon Fish Mooney]

This poem does move me to think of my own mountain experiences --more so each time I read. I do think the Stow may detract though and snow seems to fit. When I hit that line my thoughts immediately go to Stowe, Vermont (well known for mountains/skiing) -- think I'd always be wondering --is this a typo? given the abstractness of the title

[Mary Meriam]

The voice seems to be a mix of patriotism (purple mountain majesties), evangelism (perfect coil of clay God made), and romance novels (nerves flutter, teasing gust). The sounds are ok but marred by an unoriginal "sonnet" voice. Btw, I noticed when I "quoted" the sonnet to start my post, five lines are indented.

[Douglas G. Brown]

There is a town of Stow in Maine, in the western mountains; but I had to Google it to make sure.

The Stowe in Vermont is much better known, which I feel would tend to confuse the general reader (perhaps change the epigraph state from Maine to Vermont?).

Otherwise, a nice breath of mountain air is in this poem.

[Julie Steiner]

Seriously, people? No one can write a poem about Stow, Maine, because it might be confused with Stowe, Vermont? Even if the epigraph clearly says "Maine," your first instinct is still to assume that the poet misspelled the name of a city in Vermont?

Poor Stow, neglected in story and song until now...and even now, it still can't get any respect. Gosh, that's sad.

[Mary McLean]

I like Mary Meriam's analysis of the different aspects here. It all blends and works together but ends up feeling almost painted by numbers -- missing some raw elemental part of the experience that might let us really feel we're there. But I'm sure we've all felt that inadequacy in our own work: it's a nearly impossible task to write this sort of poem about nature with the weight of history of previous similar work. This is another enjoyable read that won't really stick in my memory.