poetry critical

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No Thanks, We Are Just Going to Order Chinese

I am going to preserve the fruits of my life.
In the sad jars I will place all that is deep blue.
In my red jars all the anger I have known.
Then will come yellow and green and…
The last of my jarred fruits will be a worn, pale blue.
The pleasures I ran from because of guilt.
The ones I ran from because of responsibility.
Those I held at a distance I thought safe.
After all is jarred and placed in the cupboard
I will call the people I have known and unknown.
I will call them all to a great feast, a party, and
I will serve myself to them.
They will consume my life.
They will understand the darkened rooms,
the burnt candles puddled on the table,
the curtains torn from the windows.
Then, after everyone has had their fill of me,
some will see the value of pleasure unbridled.
Some will desire their own dark rooms, wasted candles.
Some, fingers down their throat, will only want to forget.

26 Jul 12

Rated 5.7 (5.7) by 5 users.
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A real menu of dark delights served up here
 — larrylark

The best way for me to battle melancholy is to get it out.
 — Pobob

certain peter greenaway feel to it


 — funes

This poem is great.  It sounds like the persona is in recovery and looking to categorize all their "ghosts", deal with them and then stick them away in the right closet to be accessed later if and ONLY IF it is absolutely necessary.  I get this poem and it's going to get a TEN from me.  Exceptional work.  I do have a bone to pick with the title, but I can only suggest:  "the canning of me" or... fall canning or something acknowledging the process being described here.  LOVE THIS!!!!
 — aforbing

wow! i effing luv this poet!
 — majan

funes - Thanks.

aforbing - Recovery… Hmm… I like to think of it as discovery. I am not an educated poet. I am simply a man that has been afraid of life and one day I came to understand that it wasn’t life that I feared… It was the past. I discovered a few years back, an epiphany I guess, that the past is not something I should be afraid of and the only way to lose my fear would be to acknowledge secrets I hid inside. I also thought, nobody hit me okay, that poetry was nothing more than cute little words that rhymed. My formal education regarding poetry came from public restrooms and usually included a phone number. One day I read “Leaves of Grass”, I was like fifty years old, even went to a school on Walt Whitman drive, had no idea the guy was famous, actually I didn’t know poets could be famous, and I found poetry was more than cute rhymes. I found that poetry was a means of exposure, a means of discovery. Anyway, blah, blah, blah… The poems name? Some things I write about could be disturbing and some of what I offer could be raw, by raw I mean like bloody meat not sushi, so if one has a weak stomach… Just saying.

majan - You made me blush… It has been a long time since that has happened, thanks.
 — Pobob

what a load of shit
 — unknown

Thanks unk... Hope you enjoyed the taste.
 — Pobob