I really like this, simple, elegantly put, and poignant. My only real critique is that when I read this aloud I tend to stumble over some of the syllables in the first and third stanzas, whereas the 2nd and 4th flow very easily,
I think the problem words I'm coming across are 'that they're invisible' - the use of the contraction for 'they are' I understand was likely done to keep the line length down but it just seems...crude almost, inappropriate and too informal. I read this almost as I would an adage or proverb, and 'they're' just seems, too colloquial? I don't have a better suggestion this is just feedback on the sorts of impressions I'm getting. "Invisible" due to the stresses on certain syllables when I pronounce it out loud seems to throw the rhythm off...I don't know.
I get this to a lesser extent with the 'in an unformed state' - it just doesn't seem to fit with the tone of the piece, it seems almost...clinical? When its about angels and wings and the images are very 'classical' and then we get hit with that...I wonder if there wouldn't be a more, "artsy" way of giving the same image?
I would have expected this to have been written by a woman , but no . It makes me wonder if I got the meaning right . It seems to speak of the sacrosanct nature of the womb , And how the angels silent singing keeps the fetus from suffering the intrusions of the debauchery we call civilization . Even if it's not true I like to think the poor little fetus doesn't suffer from placenta plagiarism or the infamies of its fore bearers . Maybe I'm way out if left field , but I enjoyed what I got out of this write . A thought I don't often see , expressed so succinctly . "Can hear their silence when they sing" . Great imagery concisely stated .
My response to this is to think of the Northern Lights Trilogy, in particular about the Dust being angels and how dependent they were on love, and how wisdom, and how we have to know something in order to cherish it- is this a modern affliction? Because way back in the when the whole world managed to have some kind of faith in an unknowable, unprovable god, but now no one believes anything, really, at least no one I know, and that is my world, so it as well be the whole world.
Breath can't even scrape- the fragility that line expresses, so I see these angels like moths, because if you touch a moth it burns (or is that a myth? I've always wondered) or something so insubstantial it cannot even really be, the world is too much for it, and that kind of cycles round in my head back to the things we cherish needing to be tangible, and how this poem makes me want to cherish something unknowable, and the silence -- I have days when I just dissolve into silence and become mute, and this recalls that for me, makes me think how silence is so much more powerful and tangible than I want it to be, but the angels, if they're silent then why should I not be?
Unformed state. I think too much about being versus unbeing, but that unformed state sounds like some kind of nirvana, makes me think of dissolving (again) but in a pure and perfect way.
Do they have to say it because no one could see them it or know otherwise? That leaves me wondering.
I have a lot of responses to this. You've put an awful lot into these few lines.
you know, when i first read this, i somehow found myself choking back an almost sob. it is sad and lovely all at once. and still, i found myself tear filled. because there is a tenderness.
i wonder sometimes, if i seem/appear to be beyond repair. i don't feel it. but do i seem it?
God, there are so many aspects of life that are truly satisfying. truly and honestly satisfying.
like watching what appeared to be something else turn into a butterfly and make a moment land long enough to capture. of course there are other aspects... but they are getting better as the days progress.
and i am making this about me, well, because you left it on my words, so...
My idea of angels are violent, fanged and not at all beautiful... shocking things, really, but I do love the softness they inspire in writings. The Hope of Mankind that the celestial is gentle and tolerant of our fleshly limitations. Hanging over cribs, protecting small things that they are recorded as slaying brutally in our past accounts of them... May angels circle you, my love... and keep you through the night, lay their swords down in the darkness and keep their rage bound tight...