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|Reviewed by stan nassano
|mark the day ..... Axilea, you do it so well thanks|
|Reviewed by D. Vegas
|Axilea, I throughly enjoy your poetry and
this one is no exception...
|Reviewed by Patrick Granfors
|Love extinguished though still warm like tears. Patrick|
|Reviewed by Christine Alwin
|"he cries where diamond dreams die" this alone tells a story...your poem is truly heartfelt...gets me in the gut~
|Reviewed by Charlie
|An enigmatic write, but beautiful all the same--the whole atmosphere of the poem is smoky, damp, and a tiny bit glowing. You get a sense of old, nastalgic sorrow giving up its ghost.
The poem has ten lines, and there is a definite rhyme-scheme, slightly slanted, but there you have it nevertheless: AABBCCDEDE The syllables per line range from 6 to 13, and there is no definite set cadence. Therefore, this is a free-stlye poem.
Archetypal elements play a large part in deciphering this mystery-write. We have the rain (dampening of spirits, yet life-giving, an element of spring (life, rebirth, youth), but with the smoky evening it's a bit dark too). We have "early summer" --there's that spring again, a bit later than that, but better late than never, right?. Then there's a candle with a failing flame (the flame could represent passion, love-- gone out). The candle left behind is still warm (comfort, friendly, security), the candle itself (comparisons, the holder of the flame) which leads me to believe the death of this flame is welcome to its holder, or at least friendly. That's reaffirmed in the next line, "a poem is born- a bird flown" So, we see that from those ashes, there is birth, a poem that marks the day, and pheonix-like, a bird flies from the ashes a well.
Axilea uses birds in many of her poems; the interpretation thereof is up for grabs. I mostly have equated flying birds with freedom, but from some of Axilea's poems I've come to view them as more than that. In many respects they are like our spirits: flighty,feather-winged almost-creatures with a variety of emotions and movements.
The lines that stick out to me (perhaps because I understand them least) are: "he cries where diamond dreams die,/ mutilating repression of the woman inside." I don't like him. I do, however, like that "where diamond dreams die" phrase (nice alliteration!), and I especially don't like the "repression of the woman inside". Let her out! Let Her Out! LET HER OUT!!! Perhaps she did come out in form of that bird (if it was white: peace, purified, redemption). I hope so.
On the whole, I liked it. It's a good atmospheric piece (peace?) and cleansing somehow, inspite of its abrupt and rather pointed ending.
(I feel like I'm back in school again :0)...) --Charlie
|Reviewed by Elizabeth Price
|Heartbreakingly haunting. Liz|
|Reviewed by Frank Stein (Reader)
|So many beautiful images in these words !|
|Reviewed by Christine Tsen
|A stunning poem, Axilea!
Woven so creatively with a different type of gestation, a remarkably conveyed pain and transformation.
|Reviewed by Felix Perry
|Exceptional write with so much said and unsaid to tantalize the reader's imagination
|Reviewed by Liana Margiva
|VERY NICE!!!!!!!!!! Liana Margiva|
|Reviewed by Gene Williamson
|Axilea, you have given birth to a marvelous poem,a heady poem.
I wish though it could have been born in happier circumstances.
But then, we would have missed these superb lines:
he cries where diamond dreams die,
mutilating repression of the woman inside.
|Reviewed by John Flanagan
|Birth as realisation, methinks,
suppressing 'feminine side' and/or
mourning a loss of lover and longtime mate;
from loss, 'the day of the harm done'
comes birth of expression.
Poignant work, Axilea.
|Reviewed by Regis Auffray
|I really like the way Jerry expressed his reaction to your poem because that is the way I feel as well, Axilea. As I read, it is as though my imagination sinks into what your verses describe and express. Thank you for sharing this gift. Love and best wishes to you,
|Reviewed by Jerry Bolton (Reader)
|Don't pretend to know exactly what this poem is about, although I have my thoughts. What I DO pretend to do, however, is to tell you that I love your style and your phrases sink into me like massaging oil
This line, "on a dark candle still warm like skin" is exquisite.