[Jim Moonan]

.

Dammit! Tricked into liking another sonnet. (I love to hate sonnets.)

Putting aside my (partial) failure to understand the symbolism (Munch and Ibsen) that threads the poem, I am dazzled by the hallucinogenic quality of the imagery. I can't help but suspect the sapling as being something/someone other than a tree but I get nowhere by thinking that.

.
I wonder if hell should be capitalized?

I also wonder if you need to mention Munch and Ibsen specifically. Sometimes it seems like too easy a way of invoking something. Unless it's intrinsic to the poem's intent it could be construed as an easy way to convey something without having to say it in your own words. I'd like L12 to be the opening line.

L9-11 are the transforming part for me.

As for the mechanics/metrics/form of the poem, it's all invisible to me, which is the way it should be, imo — Although in my case the invisibility is due to my relative ignorance of such things. This poem flows. That's all I knows : )

The poem expresses the mindset of a painter who is searching for a vision to render something unique from something ordinary. It conjures atmosphere in order to transform the subject to be worthy of painting. But the poem is not written. The painting remains blank. The commission unearned. Instead, the poem stands on its own as an interior view of a painter's dilemma: how to deliver something of artistic value in order to earn a commission. It's an interesting dilemma.

It's a weird poem in all the ways a poem should be: phrasing, imagery, atmospherics. It always depends largely on my mood when coming to read a poem. Mornings are almost always best for me, but evenings can surprise me, too. This morning I woke up to the news that one of my grandkids was taken to the emergency room for trouble breathing. I waited in suspense for an update. It turned out to be croup and he got a steroid shot to help him recover. He's fine. I breathed easy. That's the way I came to this poem. It's something that all poems are subject to: where is the reader coming from at the moment they read the poem? Will they take the time to squeeze the juice from it? I don't know if I'm the perfect reader for this poem, but I get enough to quench my thirst for visions. And it was tonic for my tense heart.

.