|Reviews for Transcendentalism in the form of Jessica dying|
| amavian 5/2/09 . chapter 1
again with the short stuff. your work is either very short, and unfinished feeling, or very lengthy and over exposed.
it seems unfinished, but perhapse that has to do with the aspect of a 17 year old girl dying. i take it back, i like that it's unfinished feeling.
| Larrikin Jones 5/2/09 . chapter 1
"at first the kidney, then
the lungs fill with sullen
eagerly by the heart. In the
end, there was nothing left,
an empty body,
incredibly powerful and chilling end, the slow shutting down of the body ended by that last line "unworkable"... beautifully executed.
| Dale Christopher 5/1/09 . chapter 1
This was heart rendering to read. The whole poem seems to go in this downward spiral of decay, like you're watching it all happen. The line
“Don‘t worry mom,
it‘ll be okay.”
really struck me. I've always found that strength and compassion in sick people to be incredible. It's ironic that the person suffering is often the one looking after the people around him or her.
Unworkable was a very fine choice of word, it's so final and different.
I'm terribly sorry for your loss.
| Isca 5/1/09 . chapter 1
Oh, God, the pain in this poem is so honest and overwhelming, like the feeling of loss. The line, "Don't worry mom, it'll be okay," is so heart-breaking-showing the reader that Jess' strength is beautiful. The line, "At the hospital, she slowly leaves us," is emotionally devastating, like a wave of cold silence. I thank you for your words, and am sorry for your loss, Faithless Juliet.
| Ashelin 5/1/09 . chapter 1
I liked the very last line. There seem to be words we use for many things, and we limit them to appropriateness for either the human/animal/non-living. To say that someone is unworkable seems so disgusting, so against everything that is life. And yet, it is a true face of death, it is beyond us. We can't overcome it, we can not make it submit to our authority and institutions and morals of a life everlasting.
It probably seems silly, to pluck one word from a whole poem and take it like I have. As if it is a pebble on the beach that caught my eye, totally unintersted in by the rest of the world, but good enough for me to pick up and be intimate with, slipping into the pocket of my shorts. But that is what this is.
I am sorry for your loss. Believe me that I can't imagine what it is like, only that I truly wish it weren't true. Thank you for your kind words about my poetry.