I’m always leery of the lone classical allusion. But I always like the ordinary. The problem I suspect may be that I’m in the middle of something and can’t get out. Nevertheless, the hits keep coming. And the birding play is dangerous fun indeed. Looking forward to Tuesday.
Winter Field by Joanna Klink
This is not a soft poem despite the gentle drift of words towards some disconcerting sentiment. It’s the slow soft mounting of desolation snow. A cursory glance will see something insubstantial, sentimental, and trite. But it’s not. Yes, it’s compassionate. But it’s not lacking its own certain passion either, its own “steady blind quiet, its eventual / completeness” where the last two lines drive a cold wind hardening the poem into bluesy ice.
Deep Sea Dantesca by Carol Quinn
It's a cute conceit. I’m not sure if the problem here is one of shoe-horning meaning into rhythm and (slant) rhyme, or whether it’s just completely slack. The warning sign is that first ‘thing’ in the second line. Then they keep on limping. The fragile language always tries. Always close but no cigar. Ending with a really lame last line.
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