|Reviews for Ninth of January|
| vers le sud 5/23/04 . chapter 1
Oh, beautiful. Took my breath away, this one. Your writing is just...gorgeous. Ack. Can't think of anything to say, it's so perfect.
| Incubabe 1/24/04 . chapter 1
I'm gonna follow Crucified Sanctity's example and review each section too! Seems only right to do it that way.
"All subtle blues and a thousand Arabian Nights?"
Perfection, my dear. It's such a lovely line and it trickles off your tongue like honey from a warm spoon.
Why does this just remind me of me? I think it's the whole "taming" issue and a desperation to be free... Maybe I'm just reading too much into it? Hehe!
"Such a shame for the flowers..." marry me?
I love the image this creates - "watching you when I know that you aren't looking..." so beautiful yet so sad.
Weirdness abounds but in a good way. I love the essence of "you" - "days outside and warmth in winter" - it's just so... I don't know, I feel speechless and breathless all at the same time.
A wondrous attempt at experimentation... it's just so amazingly done. I feel in awe and just stunned into silence. Not that you would ever believe me.
| Crucified Sanctity 1/18/04 . chapter 1
wow :D I'm gonna review each section coz theres so much to say about each.
That line about burning flesh and clay eyes. It just brought about an immediate thought. With the clay, how its so cold and stuff. How when youre really really cold it feels as if its burning. Then finally, as i read the next lines the coldness of love.
The line about amore dripping from your tongue into a dark flower. Immediately you see a black rose in a hand, the thoughts of betrayal...
"is not there tomorrow" the line break between 'and' and 'is not there tomorrow' really bring the feling of isolation and loneliness the person would have.
"To paint those colors with the consistency of / Silence." It appears you have achieved mastery over line breaks :) silence is one word. Like an island in the middle of an ocean. Brilliant!
"T p" Like an engine cooling down .
Wow. Confusion :D Good for this poem. All of sudden this person is so much more real when you included them in the poem. Suddenly, they're hurting too and the world isn't just this one person's oyster!
Oh my. Was this poem about the change of seasons? Heehee . I stupid.
Reading this from the season's point of view i'm seeing winter here. The grim reaper leaning on the sofa, waiting for someone...
Escaping death by luck. The line "is not there tomorrow" just shows the futility of trying to escape death when hes on your sofa! Like saying 'tomorrow's a second chance...'
Verse about reincarnation :D The scene in europe was the person dead :D like the streets so grey and bleak
"watching you when i / know that you arent looking" looking down from above as a second theory instead of reincanration
The longing memories and wishes that they could go back!
Finally coming back and finding an empty bed. Maybe the memories being destroyed?
woah. this poem is so cool! so many interpretations! Definitely one of my favourites. This is probably the longest review ive ever posted . Sorry
- Crucified Sanctity -
| aleppine 1/11/04 . chapter 1
Oh, look. You're ALIVE! *raises eyebrow*
Zelle. This is MY kind of poetry. Personal, passionate, selfish.
I adore languages and Italian is my second favourite human language, tying with Spanish. You get points just for having 'amore' in there. You get points for presenting to me a texture that is alive with spice and Arabian nights and a mixing of different, unrelated senses.
If you don't mind, I want to treat myself here, have a bit of fun. I am going to analyse this as I personally interpret it, and let's see how my interpretations compare with the secret meanings only the writer knows for the same poetry.
'Clay-eyes'. I imemdiately thought of the colour, of course. But that's a subtle thing - clay can be soft reds and browns, or dried to terracotta colours, or baked pale pinks, or just a simple grey. But it's often cool, and wet and smooth-slick, and heavy in the hands. So I thought - earthy, living but not flaring eyes that know how to keep their secrets. Clay, after all, can be hard. You might have not even meant eyes in the literal sense.
I loved the moment captrued of leaning on sofas, black sweaters, etc - so very personal, reminded me instantly of my own little still-frames that I hold of certain people. Selfish, selfish. The best kind of poetry, as far as I'm concernned.
I already raved about the 'Amore' - but the type of matter you describe it as fascinated me. I also think amore is a darkling, liquid word, of a consistency somewhere between glycerine and water. Like runny honey. The dark flower suits it well. Being aleppine, 'Arabian ngihts' was going to open up a world in my mind, and what a world. No harm having that in a poem. It speaks of exotic enormity. Yum.
'Promise me with flowers and I will
cry when they are wilted.' - I read this and remembered asking someone not to do this to me before. Flowers dying, after a while - a promise fated to be broken. And a promise of the kind that you do NOT want to be broken. That's what it meant to me.
I know exactly what you mean by a silent, yellow world. Thank God for people who can still appreciate art these days, and not just restricted to the kind in a paint pot.
'Your hand is tame, seeking to subdue
And I am escapist; she who eludes collars and
Is not there tomorrow.'
- a person who wishes to subdue her, while she is of the kind who will break free and run away, escaping entrapment - the collar - and thus not there after. There. Was that so difficult? (Yes, I read the review. I'll get to that.)
'Bless me with secrets and my seat will still be empty.' - this sounds like it may be so personal to the writer, it is difficult for anyone to interpret. There's a risk of such lines, but that should just be a challenge, open to interpretation if the reader has the ABILITY *snarls* to do things like interpret. I won't try this one right now.
The length of section 2 was effective, after that long section I. I liked that.
And wow ...
'In a dream, we were in Europe and it was gray with
The mood of the concrete and the color of your sweater.'
You get points for mentioning Europe. Not 'cos am European, but just because again there is a world linked to that one word, for me, and a wonderful universe opens up inside it. 'gray with the mood of concrete' - have you been to Europe? This is so accurate. 'the mood of concrete' is a perfect, perfect description for the grey almost-halo, almost-presence that concrete has in this city, for one - it casts a certain half-light during the day, and pulls a silver veil over the world, given the chance - especially at this time of year, and at pre-twilight.
'It was not snowing here, though even if it did—
Even if the snow was soft and grey and
It would have been
Such a shame for the flowers.'
Again, I have no idea if I am way off the mark, but I liked this and to me it was very subtle, the kind of interpretation you can only half-grasp - I thought of flowers as in bright splodges of colour, but also of the 'dark flower' linked to dark amore, and a - and then wondered if you meant that non-grey (as in, pure white, a much harsher colour than a subtler grey) snow is a shame for the flowers, and white to me is associated with silence, and soft grey is associated (to me) with soft sound, so basically it is a shame to surround the flowers - whatever they symbollise - with soft sound; rather, surround them with vibrant, passionate sound that neither white not grey can offer, vibrant sound to match vibrant colours. That's a very personal intepretation. 'To paint those colors with the consistency of silence' - that helped. 'consistency of silence' is beautiful. It really is almost always consistent. It was this that gave me the impression that the poem might have been trying to say the flowers' wild colours (for some reason, I got the impression they were deep red and violets and other dark passionate colours like that, though it's unmentioned) shouldn't be surrounded by ... silence. I felt that loud masses of birdsong and summer laughter and bees buzzing and things were more fitting. I know much of the above may not have made sense. *sniggers*
'Sleep is always certain ...' etc - brilliant line. Also easy to interpret, even for the numbskull easy-ride ready. *snarls, furious*
Anyway, continuing ...
'... and the day that I wake up.' - that whole concept it beautiful. More so because I am currently living in a moment in time when those last 4 lines of section 3 are constantly running through my brain and poking at my dreams.
The way you spaced out 'to a stop' was v effective, Zelle. Clever addition. 'Like watching you when I know you aren't looking' - simple, common act; conceals within it so much philosophy and things.
'Made of days outside and warmth in winter' as a means of describing a person - I took this to mean a person as large and intricate as the endless sky-infinite outdoor world, and 'warmth in winter' to be that thing that you covet, seek, yearn for, need when in conditions that generally aren't granting the thing; something of comfort, relief, similar. 'Maybe that's why snow is so cold' - in comparison to this comfort? As in, in comparison everything else just dulls, or is harsher, or meaningless, or more difficult without it - hmm. Or perhaps meaning *tries to find the words* this warmth suddenly creates extremes with the winter's snow ... there are so many ways I an read that line, but it's 6 AM and it's probably a bad idea to keep trying.
'Without you smells like tea and
Hair on carpet.' This sounds like one of those totally personal moments a person experiences at a certain time/related to a certain person/related to a certain time in which a certain person was in your life. It's one of those selfish additions that are personal to the poet and don't have to make sense to the goddamn reader. *keeps snarling* *calms, L, calm* *Calms self for the moment* Just for the record, I have a thing about hair on carpet. I can sit on my hair. If I lie on a carpet, the smell of my carpet - the synthetic smell mixed with stray spices that fall out from my hair/powder from a dressing table - and the smell of hairscent all combine with the feeling of being so low to the ground, as though succumbing to gravity and feeling the pull on your body and the blood gathering in your head, and the contemplative mood that I am often in when doing stuff like lying on carpet with hair everywhere - yeah, I ave such a personal moment of this feeling, so I don't think it's unnatural or nonsensical for you to write this.
And the finale that is section 6. Yum. Dead-leaf echo - to me, consdiering how dry dead leaves are - that signifies the slightest of resonances. The flammable I would take to mean that even such a slight echo of him will set a universe of memory tumbling into motion. I think this is completely different to how you meant, but that's what it's telling me at 5:58 AM. There's more, but how long do you want this essay to be?
Okay. I thought that was brilliant, Zelle. If this is you experimenting, then I say experiment away. I readily agree that - if you wanted this poem to be an easier read - a few lines could be tweaked here and there to offer more explanation. However, I am of the school of thought that free verse poetry is NOT written to match a set of rules, eg like a haiku, which means it DOESN'T have to make bloody sense to every bloody reader, and is an art form ANYWAY, so the poet can do what the hell they like - just get spellings and grammaer right. The metaphors, meanings, philosophies - they are PERSONAL. The world is often AWED by SELFISH writing, because it doesn't FUCKING CONFORM! *goes into full rant* Which leads me to my outburst, the one I've been dying to have on reading the first review, and a sliver of the second review you got.
This isn't 'hopelessly romantic', and doesn't feel as though it's trying to be. Rarely does it seem to be struggling for words. In fact, it feels as though it is so assured of its content, its secret meanings, that the rest of the world has just been left behind, and the rest of the world can either try catch up or face that it's too shut out to solve the riddle. The thing that annoyed me most is that the reviewer even chose some of the most easily-interpreted lines in the poem, Mr. I Have A Fucking PhD In English Lang. When will people learn that poetry is art, and art is organic? Non-conformist? Free your minds. *wishes to scream and claw people's eyes out*
But don't worry, I read the 'peace out' and realised what sot of - *gags self*
ANYWAY, Zelle. I'm sorry I left such a rant on your poem, containing various profanities and insults, but this is something that has been pestering me lately - this mindless attitude - and I suppose reading that review was the last straw. Keep being as selfish as you like with your poetry. It's yours, you can do what you like with it, it's self-expression and that IS selfish, and it doesn't have to conform to ANY rules - not like physics or something. I actually read the retaliatory review you left that writer and thought you were far too nice. This isn't about people having a different style to you and thus not appreciating your work (though basic manners and maturity help, as you mentioned to them). This is about the world being full of too many easy-readers who, if a piece is slightly unsusual or new or challenging or requires BRAIN CELLS in order to be understood, give up immediately and call it 'retarded' just because they can't fucking understand. And it's not just writers either, it's society in general - 'Oh, look, I don't get it' or 'Oh, it's different to what I'm used to/like' - 'Okay, that means it's rubbish.'
WHAT IS HAPPENING TO OUR WORLD? FUCKING CONFORMISM! ART IS DYING!
*screams long and loud and bloody*
Sorry, sorry, sorry ... bad timing to have come here today ... might as well conclude in manner of essay, so - I thought this was brilliant, if you weren't already on my fav auths list I'd add you now, I hope you continue to write like this, and, dear monochrome trench of modern society -
SHED YOUR BARCODES
*is very tired suddenly, and depressed*
*apologises to Zelle one last time*
*scuttles away, still very irate*
| Naamela 1/11/04 . chapter 1
Love-and-sap spree indeed.
Will try and keep this review short.
First order of business: that other reviewer is full of crap and himself. In that order. -
Actually, I do agree with him sometimes: some lines don't work so well, but not very many. I mean, "hair on carpet?" *blinks stupidly* I have never smelled hair on a carpet. And I don't quite understand what it has to do with anything. Well, now that I think of it, that was the ONLY line I didn't like so well. Didn't get: "maybe that's why snow's so cold," and "it was not snowing here, though even if it did...it would have been such a shame for the flowers" ("though even if it did" means that it's a shame for the flowers even though it's not snowing? meh!). LOVE the opening lines. I shall steal this poem and keep it all to myself. It's so good...-
I'd like to point out that someone who uses "u" for "you;" forgets to add apostrophes, commas, and other nice punctuation marks that we all learned in grade school; thinks that "thats really retarted" and "thats dumb it makes no sense" constitute constructive criticism; and tells poets to "stop trying to be so poetic" has a 99% probability of not having the slightest idea what the hell he's talking about. (Of course, there's the 1% chance that I'm completely wrong, but...)
Don'tcha hate reviewers like that? The moral support brigade is here for ya!
Peace out. (hehe)
| recalcitrant 1/11/04 . chapter 1
blah blah is right. your tryig way to hard to be this poetic hopeless romantic and i dont know if i m the only one who thinks so but i think this poem has a lot it can improve on. stop trying to be so poetic. And the world is silent, yellow. ? that dumb. she who eludes collars and Is not there tomorrow. thats dumb it makes no sense. "it was gray with the mood of concrete" dumb. Without you smells like tea and
Hair on carpet.
thats really retarded.
one line i did really like tho Sleep is always certain, Waking up is not.
well i hope u learn from this and improve. peace out