I enjoyed this very much. I find it compelling for a number of reasons; firstly the images your words evoke with lines like 'perfection in a pool of stars', 'pressed against the belly of the earth' and 'I am the dementia that spit upon God's hand' are wondrous and vivid. Secondly, the childlike demanding of it, asking for something monumental, though making a further demand of 'no strings attached'. The theme of the poem could be a filtered expression of the id, which is not common because of the nature of the concept and, therefore, stands stark and inviting. Thirdly, I imagined it a microcosm of mankindísí history, though it observes rather than judges, and offers no apology. It seems a statement on humanity, by our very nature we are doomed to repeat history, simply because we must.
Perhaps I have missed your intent, but again, I enjoyed this very much! Thanks.
This is not your average poem, Bill. And I admit I've read it several times and each time I see something different. I think your intro makes the meaning of the poem confusing. And this is what I see regarding intro from my perspective.
Those of us who are imperfect didn't choose to feel fire and ecstacy at the same time. It's just there, and we have to deal with it. There are those here who will second that emotion. One feeds the other, and we struggle with the intensity every day. However it is that we write really is no matter. That we do is the point. The writers I know here in town never ask "how are you?" They say, "Have you been writing?" and it is a most appropriate way to inquire as to one's well being.
But your poem, there is an anger and a simplistic way of finding solace in that we've created all of it. But this what I see also and that is how we take the gifts and never say thank you for them. Our society teaches us to never have enough or be satisfied and as greedy ways of life cover the earth the idea o just being happy without wanting something else is dying off. We've got to do something and writing like is is exactly how it's done.
I have to fave this Bill, it's priceless and perfect in every way! I knew your breakthrough was coming and I see you have another post!
A real Eden/Utopia or a false one whored out every day for your eyes and mine ie the propaganda of "buy buy, sell your soul for a piece of real estate" and advertising?
Makes me wonder if we shouldn't just blow the earth up and send all the presidents and dictators to the sun. It would make life easier in some ways. But then, anarchy to some would be a form of Utopia.
The real Eden is Consciousness to me, a refusal to put the blindfolds back on, a backhand slap to all types of classification meant to humble and separate you from others of like-minded ilk.
That's the whole point... to separate people with a vision. And even then, our/their vision isn't necessarily the pure or right way.
I really enjoyed reading your poem. I felt a surge of power, of revolt, a claim for independence. The imagery is wonderful "I am the quivering // dementia that spit // upon God's hand" And I want to live that out as far as I can, on my own Eden/island. I am impressed. No specific comments to make. I think it's wonderful as it stands.