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Venus in Abalone

Venus in Abolone

At sunrise strolling whitecapped beach
all thoughts stray as seagull fly
mind pulled full from human reach
by mother ocean's lullaby

un-thoughts buried deep enough
that a flash bold caught the eye
pointed path on a different bluff
to see the flare under the sky

Imbedded, buried in tide's cruel rut
I pulled and it stubbornly, finally gave
slipped wet sand from it, I saw a form jut
from a shell iridescent, a motionless slave

I drove quickly home, entranced as it shined
cleaned it and washed it, a treasure in white
the gentle brush strokes loving tribute in kind
I saw subtle motion and dropped it in fright

I picked it unharmed from the top of my bed
and gazed deeply into abolone shine
assured for the moment that I'd lost my head
except for the eyes of the angel, the sign

I said can you hear me, blink once if you can
she blinked once and I ran to the kitchen with glee
I told her release was my passion and plan
she blinked fifteen times each one just for me

With a razor knife and feigned surgical care
I etched 'round her figure, I must set her free
prism chips scattered as if already there
at last with scared effort she stood looking at me

She flew to my face and found purchase in hair
she hugged me and trembled in her fresh cold release
I smiled speechless that I'd had a grand care
in allowing her freedom and loving surcease

She smiled pointing upward, which I didn't get
gliding poised to my window she said "open up"
I did so with haste though we'd only met
she flew out so swiftly but returned with a cup

I took her small offering and felt it expand
I smiled in thanks of the rapture I felt
The cup grew full sized as it stood shiny grand
she sat on my shoulder and playfully knelt

"I fear I must go, I have a function to share
but you were my saviour, my giant so kind
I must travel far distance and remain always there
but I'll see you below and send out light behind

"You will know it is me when you see the night flash
my eyes focused on you and showing rare fun
she giggled and hugged my face, this time brash
In a world full of angels, you are my one"

Sometimes I see her on clear winter nights
away from the city urban noises beguiling
she looks the same as she did in the shell
from her nebula she's blowing kisses and smiling.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
A playful poem, perhaps imperfect but it gives me joy. My point I guess is the magic in life and how compassion spreads broad ripples among us.
Editing stage: 

Comments

I wasn't consciously trying for a specific form but I would consider this a loose iambic tetrameter meter-wise. Quatrains with an abab cdcd efef ghgh etc. rhyme scheme. Often in narrative poetry, my concentration is on the facilitation of the story. It's a child's dream, a lullaby without teeth. It's so different from what I grew up with, tales of jilted brides who still walked by my grandma's rural home in their glowing white dresses. Unplugged fans starting by themselves. I wrote this when I was being courted by CALLY and didn't want to disrespect her by showing graphic work. It's been through three revisions to become what it is, and still is far from perfect. There is something I like about it, a naivete, a softness, that isn't easily found in most of my writing. I find it a great opportunity to give a little bit of light and softness sometimes in my writing. Then again, I am writing a book of poetry based on the pulp novels of the 40s and 50s so it's back to the two fisted, fedora wearing, cold steel man of the street for a little while. Then again, I never really know what's going to come out.

Ron
BlueDemon77

Blue Demon77

"What I want is to be what I was before the knife,
before the brooch pin, before the salve, fixed me in this parenthesis:
Horses fluent in the wind. A place, a time gone out of mind."

The Eye Mote-Sylvia Plath

author comment

"poetry is the ruthless elimination of the inessential"

Yet once again you haven't used enough conjunctions to lead your reader though the narrative. Also 'she' sometimes refers to the shell and your 'significant other', this makes it unclear.

That's the crit.

I loved reading it.

cheers,
Jess
Neopoet Directors

I can see your crit about the use of she, but I think it's clear enough that "she" becomes the being as soon as she's cut from the shell. and remains the she until the end, possibility of a demerit, but easily fixable. The conjuction thing has me baffled. Am I channelling the Cut UP technique of Burroughs and Gysin and am not aware of it. I'm not trying to make things staccato or even percussive. Please let me know what you mean with examples. You very much may be onto something here that I can't see in my own work.

Ron
BlueDemon77

Blue Demon77

"What I want is to be what I was before the knife,
before the brooch pin, before the salve, fixed me in this parenthesis:
Horses fluent in the wind. A place, a time gone out of mind."

The Eye Mote-Sylvia Plath

author comment

I too had a little trouble "understanding" where it was traveling. The story unfolds without difficulty, but some of it must "read between the... syntax". Both Jess and Beau have good thoughts and I would add that (seeming) bane of many modern poets- punctuation. A little more judicial use of it could work wonders. The language is fun and whimsical, it simply becomes hard to understand from time to time.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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I had a read yet it left a little strange uneven taste I think the poetic ones will let you know where the easy read has gone..
The first Stanza to me seemed a contradiction of images, there you have,
At sunrise strolling white capped beach
all thoughts stray as seagull fly
mind pulled full from human reach
by mother ocean's lullaby.
It to me that the white capped anything is a storm not the beech though that is strong..
Yet you then go on to end the Stanza with a Mother Ocean's lullaby,
I became lost then, though I read all of the piece, but it seemed to fall to pieces..
I shall wait for further comments , Yours Ian.T

.
There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

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