I wonder if there's any kind of imagery that should be "avoided," really, even those that you think have been used to death. That "dancing," for instance: just think of the way those mayflies dance in the Richard Wilbur poem! Who could wish he had avoided that? No, I think everything--even the commonest and most overused idea--will work in the hands of someone looking at it afresh, turning it over in a new way, applying it to something unexpected.

No offense to you. I wasn't aware that you had written the poem!

I've seen this poem before, commented on it (I believe in a consistent manner) on the workshop board. I think it is a poem that some folks find quite pleasing, quite sanitary.

I find it lifeless and cliche. Sorry to disagree with you.

I could be wrong and afterall, Steven is publishing it so it must be a winner. After all, no one publishes bad poems.

http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif

Maggie, I wasn't aware that you had entered one. Better luck next time. http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/wink.gif

Carol

Maggie:

A person doesn't have to have written a poem to want to defend it from rambling insanity. This is a good fucking poem. The author wants to save it for something better than the Muse, which I wholly support. (Specifics deleted at author's request.)

And some people publish bad poetry, but I don't.

------------------
Steve Schroeder

[This message has been edited by Steven Schroeder (edited December 06, 2004).]

What's all the sniping about?

Did I miss yet another contretemps?

Well.

Its vivid physicality is
terrific, with the flapjack image
turning the hissing-surf surface
of the ocean into a griddle. That
alone makes it terrific.

But... "great"
is weak, and the poem doesn't conclude
with any surprise or sense of finality;
it repeats, in effect, a label for
the creature, which is a real anticlimax.

No, I haven't the foggiest who wrote
this sonnet.

This is a fun poem with happy playful rays, and I like to read it the same way I like to look at a postcard: It's a pretty image from a place I'm unlikely to visit, and even if it's not more than that, so what? It's a really nice postcard.

I think this poem's a delight from start to finish.
The last line elevates it into something special.

I am not really sure what I'm supposed to do and I'm not really clear as to whether the Lariat is here to critique or revise. I have however digressed on the notion, this ill conceived notion of poetic censorship, on the Mastery thread. This is because there are two poems (I don't think I've reached the other few available) that use the word DANCE in this exercise. It requires justification and I've provided it for those interested.

I mean no disrespect to the Lariat or poet in this. None whatsoever. There will be people who think this is a great poem and others who will remain silent in light of the presence of such a fine and well known poet as Rhina (because they aren't open risk takers). Rhina has mentioned risk taking in the context of another ?critique and I think that this poem takes no risks, offers not much more than a pretty picture of a pretty scene using an extremely nice word "Hatteras" in the title to coax us along.

I was told to enter something here but felt that it would be inappropriate to do so in that I don't know Rhina nor have I spent enough time at the Able Muse to produce a "workshopped" effort. The few I've workshopped are not what I would call my best efforts and I'd rather burn my own fingers than offer this great poet something that wasn't exceptional in it's excellence.

[This message has been edited by Maggie Porter (edited December 06, 2004).]

Maggie,
For me this poem exudes vitality and energy and exists as a living poem. It's not what it says as much as the spirit of exuberance it is in its own right. I never confuse what a poem is "about" with what a poem "is".

That's true of all art.
Janet

[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited December 07, 2004).]

Good point, Janet, the delight itself is the esence of the poem. But David's right that the last line opens the poem in an unexpected direction, namely religious thought. Is the poet suggesting that the delight visible in the behavior of living things somehow negates disbelief? That it implies the existence of a Maker who is having one helluva good time creating--much as a poet has in writing--and that the delight is transmitted to the creature--or poem?