Description: I have written many poems, some of which are ordinary, some good and some in the opinion of some, outstandingly brilliant.
If I were asked which I thought was the best, it would be this one. Just read it out aloud to yourself slowly. The method of its composition was remarkable. It came to me as it was in the middle of the night and in the morning I hurried to write it down before it disappeared.
Ah the thought of such libation to me of ambrosia. The thoughts of which's contemplation can be so elusive. Perhaps it's because it's so inebriating, leading to wild and reckless abandon. In we all envision a manifest destiny with infiniteness, a sort of intrinsic affinity so to speak of things elysian. And so we anguish for it like a lost lover we hope to reconcile with.
Your artistry and technique are aesthetically pleasing. I like how you described this phenomenon.
PS: As for this being your best I reserve my opinion till later.
I've read some remarkable poems over the years from your esteemed self . . . and so I would be hard pressed to agree that this is the best of the best, though it is certainly worthy of your efforts. It does have a nice liquid feel throughout. As such, I can find nothing to criticize, nor offer up anything worthy for improvement. You know me well enough to know that this isn't a copout on my part. I'd leave you a novel if I could think of it . . .
It's fair to say that this poem struck a chord deep in me, or rather a loud and penetrating gong, similar to the shudder caused by a heavy drought of vinegar. How queer, the tricky ways of passing and thoughtful words, for they become so much like a haunt - that nudge and taunt us, ah - no, they do not openly play the tease, at first they sing openly and lovely like the sirens but in the course of our attempts to woo them to our page, devour and efface us. Hm.
Can you tell I was touched.
"What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music." --Søren Kierkegaard
You are so lucky you could remember this
i have had words form into lines as i'm falling to sleep and in the morning most of the lines are gone from my head....
words can be like a butterfly heart they are there for a second to capture the beauty and then flutter away....
it can be frustrating at times one almost needs to have a pen an paper on the bedside table and have the urge to get up an write them down....
or one of those mini tape recorders to record as the inspirtaion comes...I did what you said to do in your description to read it outloud and slow and it was a great read....
Your boast of this being the best interested me; and so, I read on. Indeed, I am forced to agree with you that this poem flows extremely well and has a natural sense of beauty to it. And, being short, has a pattern that is appealing and fresh.
Perhaps it is only that, to those who consider themselves poets, a poem about poetry itself seems all-so-appealing; there is that universal sympathy of the elusive muse, just waiting to be caught and jarred like fireflies (or butterflies, be it) on a summer night. I particularly enjoyed that imagery.
When I first read this through, I stumbled on the syllables of a few of the lines, but on second thought (and with more care to the meter) it flowed better. I'm not sure if you intend to create a pattern with the meter.
Again, very nice poem; it rings of true poetry, so lacking on this site often, and in the general public. Your last line intruiged me; does it refer to a specific thought, I wonder, or is it more broad?