poetry critical

online poetry workshop

4 a.m.

Are you listening?
Is your cell phone on?
I’m scanning the horizon,
an estimate of where you might be,
to know if you can see the moon.
Can you hear that, now?
Behind that silken silence
lies the burning pulse of all that breathes,
a pulse you forgot.
The bullfrogs have grown fat in our pond,
and bark at the moon, now,
the moon you can’t see –
or wouldn’t bother with if you could.
You always left the poetry to me.
You forget the sentimentality we had,
forehead to the window pane,
forgetful of any rusted pain,
and nursing your heart back to heath,
broken from whatever disappointment
I was for you.
I hope you are alone, now
and listening to the frogs,
how we used to – window raised,
only a screen keeping us from the deep night.
Summer haunts me,
taunting, hot breath in my face.
A static summer love
chases me, leaving my forehead to the window
pain. curls its fingers through my hair
and I am done with you,
lest you donate a second thought my way.
How dare you move on,
how dare you dry up
and forget the night,
and the lazy dawn,
and our breath against morning windows.

the awful rowing continues...

14 Nov 06

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THis poem has some really powerful imagery. I find that compared to the imagery in the resy of the poem, lines 13, 14 and 15 are lacking or don't fit, maybe a little to angsty or something. I really get the feeling of that heavy, humid summer though, I felt I knew these nights well.
 — Stellaella