[John Riley]

I read this very much as Mark does. An aging father who is aware of mortality in dialogue with a daughter with whom he has had an uneven relationship. (How could I not see that, though? Me with the turbulent daughter?) Now there is a granddaughter who will have visions "I shall never see." It's almost too much for me, me with the granddaughters I can't get enough of. (I'm putting in the disclaimers in case they're blinding me.)

There is so much to like--"the haunting queerness of not-here-ness" is perfect. It manifests so well always mystifying time. How, regardless of how simple it seems on top, it is the underlying mystery of all being. I decided a long time ago that wisdom is awareness of time and this states that beautifully.

There isn't much more to say. The dialogue continues and paints a concise picture of their relationship, which is universal and uniquely theirs. It's a really strong poem, Nemo. I don't know where it came from but I hope it is or will soon be published somewhere.

[David Callin]

I needed Mark to steer me through my reading of this, but now he's done that I can appreciate the poem properly. It seems wise and touching. (Assuming his reading is right, of course.)

David

[R. Nemo Hill]

I think any reading is right, especially as the mood evoked seems the same in every case; but Mark's interpretation is not quite the one it was written with.

Nemo

[John Riley]

As I said Nemo, I’m probably swayed by my experiences as dad and granddad.

I’ll think.

[R. Nemo Hill]

Perfectly understandable, John. As I said, I feel like poem is leaving the same taste-in-the-mouth for most readers, regardless of how they cast it. When I wrote it, the indented parts were spoken by myself, a friend of the woman who speaks at the opening. In fact substantial parts of the grandmother's text is lifted and then adapted from her emails. I didn't know how opaque the circumstances of the two interlocutors were until I shared the poem, and I am gratified to learn that the characters can be rearranged and superimposed without the core of the poem being damaged.

It is a different kind of poem than those I usually write, and I was not at all certain that it was successful when I posted it, though I am coming to believe that it is.

Nemo

[W T Clark]

My first gasp was that it was a kind of response to Cally's own songs to childhood in the form of her granddaughter. But that is gossip gleaned by the hearsay of my mind from my tiny knowledge (that is: only, Cally) of your friends. It does not matter, really; the poem is a wonderful script for every reader to cast. I will be back when words to speak about this occur to me. It is a strange lexicon we have: "strong" poems, "successes". As if the poems were sweating wrestlers sporting for victory in an Athenian crater. It certainly is a "success" in that it says things at such a pitch and with such a resonance that I am caught up in its vortex: listening.

[Mark McDonnell]

Ah, I see it now. The beauty of the poem is that, while the concerns of the first voice are clear enough, all that really matters about the indented voice is that it is responding to these concerns with a clear-eyed honesty and love.

[Carl Copeland]

Originally Posted by W T Clark

As if the poems were sweating wrestlers sporting for victory in an Athenian crater.

I think of it as sumo wrestling.

[Cally Conan-Davies]

The layout is exquisitely apposite to the relationship between the two voices, how they touch at the centre, then each text moves apart from the other.

It is a dance. A dance is a profound kind of relationship. It's like a mirror dancing with its reflection.

The poem looks beautiful, sounds beautiful, is moving, moves.

Quite something you've done here, Nemo!

YES

Cally

p.s. Cameron, I was thinking about what you said about how we think about poems. I realise I always ask myself 'is it working?' Is the poem working, like...as if the poem has a job to do. A function to fulfil. The poem has to work. Like a tree works, or a heart works, or a clock works.

[Glenn Wright]

Hi, Nemo—

A haunting, impressive poem. You bravely, even heroically embrace the tragic impermanence of all conscious existence. The hardest thing is to accept the transitoriness of the people we love, but you not only accept it, you celebrate it. Fine work.

Glenn