Terence George Craddock (Spectral Images and Images Of Light)

Circles Of Life - Poem by Terence George Craddock (Spectral Images and Images Of Light)

bouncing baby
sang briskly
laughing chuckling
joyous spontaneous

as sleek
silver waters
giggled gleamed
over mossy
creek bed

bubbling glittering
down alpine hillside
dainty fragrant flower
summer meadows

leap waters dance lively
luxuriant greener grass
banks magical margin

tune timing defining life
throughout dusty
day’s heat;
throughout circular
simmering summer night

past winter’s
ice lined lips
through suffocating snow
fish frolic not
frozen stunned dip

ice sheets melt crisply
as spring seasons hot
stagnant wastes
awaken pervade
sluggish lowland bog

final descent
out beyond
sleepy seashore

where is first found
wide running road
far spread fame fed
distant dream shore

Copyright © Terence George Craddock

Comments about Circles Of Life by Terence George Craddock (Spectral Images and Images Of Light)

  • (7/25/2010 5:43:00 PM)

    It seems to me that what is accomplished very well in 'Circles of Life' may be a clue to the kind of thing you were attempting in 'Autumn Squalls'. I find that what a prolific writer does best becomes almost automatically his biggest problem. There's a lot of good work in these 600 plus, and when there's this much product any reader can be overwhelmed before even trying.

    If the poem is recognized as a living thing, alive first for its writer, and then again for each reader (we all hope) , before it takes on language it was a life form trying to do something. Both poems (in this comment I've read only these two) are gardens of language and bouquets of sound, but the Autumn-being kept leaving me for trips to the restroom. Came back with each time with a little different look and a different agenda, Each new appearance reminds me of the others before, lets me adjust, gives me reason to try, usually. But it comes to me that I'm reading it because its writer asked me to. That's big for me, even though the reader is the poem... (the writer being the first reader) . Trying to be creative is I believe the biggest mistake. You know this I'm sure, and if you do it makes you angry to hear it. We must find out exactly what stopped us. Name each of its elements in words precisely. Make the phrases. Massage the images and sounds. What stopped you stopped only you, and wants to use you to stop someone else the same way. Bob Dylan claims he never wrote a song. He found each one and put it down.

    The circle-being comes through a language with the same richness. Your enormous success in this one gives me the courage to criticize the other. With Circle the being-hood moves around as much, but it's still there every time it leaves and when its voice says 'far spread fame fed/ distant dream shore' my ear says, 'lets read it again'. For me that's when a poem works.

    Even though I took a degree in literature, I'm a lazy reader, and I think everyone is. My experience of audience is that it works for a poet as it does for a jazz musician. You only get applause when enough people realize you've stopped playing. But applause is not what we're after. We're after a flavor so good that the conversation all around the table stops, the way we were stopped when the poem first showed up.

    I'm going to read more of this work, and I hope you'll read more of mine. Please tell me if you think I'm a jerk. That's not necessarily a bad thing.
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Poem Submitted: Saturday, May 1, 2010

Poem Edited: Wednesday, April 13, 2011

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