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My friend sent me this thinking I would like it. She thought right. I got a great kick out of reading some of the comments by people that can't get enough of hearing themselves talk.Anyway, thank-you for this I enjoyed it immensley. mikey
Just beautiful, killer final line.
I really loved this poem of yours, well put together and nicely written.
An exquisite poem by all means!
Is Mary suggesting in her subtle yet poignant way the mediocrity of artistic expression-the intellectual and emotional lethargy of poets that restricts the literary
piece from reaching its full potential? The use of the word 'homesick' suggests the
compelling lethargy plaguing the poets almost like an obsession.
This is an interesting poem for Mary does so often make music of a mild day, of days with no political or social import save that of knowing and owning our place within the breathing earth. And that of course is ultimately more important than all. It has been tempting to think she has found a way to live in that place of wildness where the sun is the only king so we can vicariously dabble at its edges. But here there is a balance, a foil to that indulgence or innocence, a need to feel and respond to the wounds of our time.
There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.
great poetic expression-
There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.
I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?
Who is reading this Too robotically
We all must win the battle we face with accepting our mortality. It is ironically what sets us free. At a certain point we realize we are not invincible. As nice as it would be to live freely as if we were, we know that in the back of our minds denial is eating away at us, eventually giving way to reveal the truth. What we decide to do with our own truth is ultimately our own decision, but the effects of the decision we make means the difference between a truly fufuilling life and a life of desolate meaninglessness.
This is a really beautiful poem and has a lovely flow to it. Andrew 10!
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9/22/2021 4:07:20 AM # 18.104.22.1689