Friday, September 11, 2009

Blind Review Friday

Blind Review Friday.

The author shall remain anonymous (unless they chose to divulge themselves in the comments.)

Those commenting are also welcome to remain anonymous if they wish.

Incendiary comments will be removed.

If you would like your piece thrown to the wolves send it to with "Workshop the hell out of this poem" as the subject line.

(if you had work submitted and it has not yet appeared in BRF please resubmit - we unfortunately lost our backlog due to an e-mail accident.)

Last review's offering of "September Song" is written by Geoffrey Hill - this weeks selection is from a Clevelandpoetics - the Blog reader:

The Rise

The gush of the morning wind awakened my still into the freshness of the day.
A green pasture that was my bed, damp with dew tickled my rested body
And as I rose the fragrance of pine danced across my nostrils as the trickling
Creekwater massaged my ears.
My feet moist with nature’s damp essence, moved across the grass in jubilation
Whilst the gentle breeze stroked my face to awaken it with it cool kiss.
As I walked the trees waved to greet as the sun glanced at me with calm rays of light.
It was a good day to rise.


Geoffrey A. Landis said...

I'm having a little problem reading that first line-- "...morning wind awakened my still." A still is not usually something that you think of as awakening, and I'm not sure how a gust of wind awakens a still, but I'll go with that... so I'm reading the rest of the poem as being a metaphor about distillation, and the dew and water references sort of feed into that, but I'm not sure how the last few lines fit in-- rise? Is this somehow about the alcohol rising through the still's tubing before condensing?

Shelley Chernin said...

I read the poem literally -- as a description of waking up outdoors on a beautiful day. I could certainly feel the joy in that experience.

I, too, stumbled on the first line. Based on personal experience, a morning "gush" takes me to someplace menstrual (a distant memory). I got past that quickly. It may be my own quirky association.

I'm guessing that there's a word missing after "still." Perhaps "body"?


The poet doesn't invent. He listens. ~Jean Cocteau