|Reviews for A Hole in Heaven|
| Amaris chapter 1 . 12/24/2002
The third stanza is nice, I agree. But I like the fourth more. Or the first two lines of it. The connectin to the stars was nice because you brought it up again once more at the end. Many teenagers can probably relate to this poem in their rejection of society, hatred against people who just don't seem to understand, etc. The second to last stanza is nice too- the medication part.
| Commie chapter 1 . 12/24/2002
YAY! This poem was super! (well above average at least).
Corduroys is a really funny word sometimes, and I haven't seen it used since that picture book with the bear. That was a while ago. However, I did like the imagery of the radio regurgitating sounds, and particularly liked the fourth stanza with the stars.
Overall, damn good! YAY!
| peachykeen chapter 1 . 12/1/2002
I love this one! Like your poems are good and very enjoyable, but this one, I just love it! I think it's just because I understand ALL the words for a change, but we'll pretend otherwise. Eek! The similes and metaphors and analogies - they're great...
As much as I enjoy it, I honestly think that it's just because I understand all of the words; I'm sorry e-dog, I'm just impressed by myself. I'm so ashamed, yet so happy all at the same time. Why is this?
| the Queen of Jupiter chapter 1 . 12/1/2002
A bit different from what you normally write, I'd say. You usually don't directly say "I" or "you"...or maybe you do, and I've forgotten.
That was just another blatant *hint hint* and *nudge nudge* to you to post more poems. *squeezes your head in an attempt to leak out some creative juices for you*
And now, back to the review.
"You wrote those lyrics for me once,
you did the impossible
and expressed what you were feeling
instead of bottling them up
and hoping by the next Fourth of July
the bubbling demons would flatline.
(They usually burst in premature fireworks.)"
My favorite stanza, personally. It's just got so much imagery and metaphors in it, it's overflowing. In a good way, that is.
"I said good morning to the stars,
and hated them when they didn't respond."
Those lines make no sense whatsoever to me (could you explain? *puppy dog eyes*), but they strike me as very...deep, I'd say. Very meaningful. It's very pretty, anyway.
Sorry for the pathetic reviews. It's late and I'm sleepy, but I've just *got* to read all these new poems of yours!
| miss meaningeverythingtome chapter 1 . 12/1/2002
i love. (it)
i wish. (i could write a coherent poem about just one sensical topic, even if the so called sensical topic, was indeed, depression, and/or, god forbid insanity)
i like (the metaphors because they make me happy and i write about stars and the fourth of july too)
i love (your writing)
i need (to shut up).
the end is near
it's here. )
| Wu-Dog chapter 1 . 12/1/2002
Me likes them all. I think I liked the fourth more. Eh-heh. I'm tending to like your recent poems more than the earlier ones. Good? Bad? Oh well. That was one thing that I've noticed. Waha.
Me likes title, too. See youuuuuuu.
| frenchfries chapter 1 . 11/30/2002
i understand i hate it when i say hi to "our friends" and they run away.
| mike chapter 1 . 11/30/2002
Nice closing to the poem, but have you truly read it?
| A.J.Peart chapter 1 . 11/30/2002
A Hole in Heaven, eh? Sounds mighty interesting. I think I could easily rant and rave about the title itself, as to how it pertains to the poem, but I'll save that for later...in the review...of course. I'm probably not going to spare any expense with this one...just for kicks.
Here it suggests that the forgotten thoughts are actually just jumbled...from what I can tell. I mean, if you picture corduroy pants, they're very straigt forward. Stright lines travelling (generally, I would assume, if not always) in a downward direction, all raised and lowered in a repeating patern. There's order to corduroy.
These forgotten thoughts though, these lessons are like worn flat corduroy, so the patern is no longer there, and the lines are mixed together into a sort of jumble. This tells me that they were not actually forgotten, just jumbled and confused, which I can grant is probably a form of forgetfulness. I mean, if you have jumbled thoughts, speaking Yoda like are you, than you've probably forgotten something...like how to arrange words into the proper syntax of a sentance...unless you're reading Shakespeare or anything from the 14 hundreds, like Chaucer. Then it's not your fault at all.
And then there's the "inquisitive fingers" which I took as being kind of a sexual allusion in a sense, kind of like a foreplay thing. 'Cuse, frankly, I think there's only one place that could become worn quick enough on any kind of pants before having them replaced, and it sure is "the back of worn corduroys." Inquisitive anythings touching the worn back side of corduroy pants would suggest something sexual to pretty much anyone, I would assume. I suppose it just sort of leads on to what comes next in the poem.
Reminds me of a lot of the poetry on . All full of angst and whatnot. There's a lot of that comming out of the radio too, but from people who know what they're doing and it becomes a sort of bridged gap, where it appeals to all sorts of different ages; this while an angsty poem writen by a thirteen year old would probably only appeal to other kids (not the derogitory label I've applied to them, muahaha!) who fall into that general age group. For anyone else, it would simply be reflection and probably merely inspire rather than seem like anything worth their while. In any case, the thirteen year old's angsty poem would probably be more dribbled than my own dribbled writing...though that's just an opinion/generalization. The emotion would probably not be focused clearly. [now people are going to complain, damn it! Stupid opinions...]
Now what was I getting at? Oh yeah, the second stanza. I like music that sounds like an emotion. My favorite band, Left Pencey, has a lot of emotional guitar riffs and whatnot thrown into their music...it's actually kind of beautiful. They tell stories through the memories that they induce, since that's what a lot of emotion is based on I think.
Envy is like remembering a time when you had what the other has, or remembering previous times in the relationship that this particular thing had popped up and each time it had been practically (unintentionally?) rubbed in your face. Generally speaking of course. There are other ways for it to arise, but those are just a few.
Hate usually would come from remembering a past instance where something had occured involving you getting screwed over by someone else or a group of someone elses, like the government or an ex-boyfriend. You know, really having the insides of your whole life just yanked and twisted and tied in a not before being kicked in the ass for good measure. Something like that at least.
Love, joy, sadness...all sort of revolve around this memory or selection of memories that remind you ouf that thing or those things that make you feel that way. I suppose that's kind of far fetched, but it makes sense to me. I mean, I think there's only really one emotion, something without a name, and every other emotion is sort of a manifestation of that emotion through a certain light. I mean, you can go from happy to sad in no time flat just from changing the thought in your head, and really the feeling isn't that much different. It's only looked at differently. A sort of internal perspective, if you will.
But all that has absolutely nothing to do with your poem, so I'll attempt to de-digress myself.
Stanza two, that's right. Stories of our lives, sounds like a soap opera...but isn't, of course, though maybe a lot of songs can be considered such...especially pop music. Something like that. Hey, it's surprising how much I can say with so little to work with. The stanza is actually really straigt forward (like the corduroy...) and didn't really need a lot of analysis. In fact, I can probably sum it all up real easily right now:
Music, to the listener, tells a story that relates to the listener, as a perspective kind of thing. Therefore, the teenage raging on the radio coming from the songs is really the narrator's teenage raging being reflected back at him/her.
This stanza shows us that the music on the radio, though telling us the story of the narrator in a way, also tells us about the illusive "he/she" that "wrote those lyrics for [him/her] once."
The impossible...that seems kind of odd coming from you, though not technically coming from you. Lyrics, being a form of poetry, would be a lot like what you seem quite capable of doing yourself, so right there it seems to pretty much segregate you, as the author, from the narrator.
Bottling up the emotions. Yes, such a terrible thing to do. I should know. "By the Fourth of July" I don't think has anything to do with the particular day, being quite the American celebration, but more to do with simply hiding the emotions for a particular amount of time, hoping that by then maybe you'll have sorted things out. Of course, as you've stated, they blow up. I've been there, had this happen, and no, it's not a pretty sight. Frankly, I would have been much happier on the moon than anywhere near that fireworks display. But hey, what can you do? Emotions are emotions, and the blow up if you put too much preasure on them.
I always kind of pictured a sort of box; it's just an empty box within ourselves that you use to store the emotions that you don't want to display. Granted, the box does open when you want it too, letting out the emotions that have been hiding there, usually done by talking to someone about it...that's what thearpy is for. But sometimes, if you fill that box too full, any amount of talking about it wont help. It'll let a little out, but all that does is leave a hollow space that hurts, demanding more to be filled in on top. Something like that. It's a very delicate box that can only take so much preasure. I also think it's inside our heads, since if it's being put under too much preasure it starts to affect you mentally. It gets inside you, almost like the emotions are leaking but not to anywhere in particular. They act like a built up fat that sort of clogs arteries and blocks impulses, currupting other thoughts and wants and needs. Causing, in effect, a sort of insanity.
This, sadly, is why I constantly think I'm insane. Wow...such an eye opener... nope, no affect on the box. Damn!
Ah ha! The stars! A very important image in this poem, I think. And, as I just said, I think this is probably my favorite stanza of the poem. I just like the image and its pertenece towards life...my life maybe, or people I know, close friends and whomsoever happens to come along. Something like that...maybe it has to do with my box...I don't know... nope, still no change in the box. Damn!
But before I go any further, I feel I must mention the title now, as I think I said I would be getting to at some point in this review... well, here's that point. Stars, little pinpricks in the sky, shining down on us from above with little twinkling glitters that announce the coming of night. I was saying earlier tonight to a friend of mine as we were walking along a forest path from the outlet-typed store at the edge of town, I said, "I think I just found my new favorite spot." Looking up there were stars so clear that it was more than almost astonishing. It was like being in the middle of nowhere, but being able to look to the horizon and be able to see the lights of the university shining on the other side of the river far up the shoreline. It's actually better out on the Drumline, being the big hill behind my old residance, since you can't hear the river passing through a dam, but it was still so damn nice.
As I was saying about the title, it kind of reminds me of the music video for Sarah Mcglauchlin's "Building a Mystery," that is, if you've seen it/like it. It sort of makes me think of a big black blanket cast over a little fort made of empty boxes, and then hiding under it with a pair of scissors. Then I'd cut little holes in the blanket to created stars shining down from the sky, or, as it is often refered to,
Heaven (and, in fact uses the same word in Latin for both: caelum. Funny, it's also air, climate, weather. universe, world, and an engraver's chisel...)
The fact that the stars didn't respond is like preying or simply talking to the gods and having them not respond. It would probably more apply to a simply era of mankind, BC styles and whatnot, but there's still the whole talking to God typed thing that could make a difference. I mean, if I believed in the old guy and looked up at the stars and said, "Yo, God! What's up with the whole poor thing? I could go for a few more bucks sliding my way. So what'dyou say big guy? How 'bout a little assistance for the little guy?" Frankly, I wouldn't expect a response. Now, if I'd been asking something serious, as opposed to my smartass remarks, than I still wouldn't get anything, and that would probably piss me off a bit.
The hair image I like quite a bit, and that's probably why I like the stanza a lot. It shares the idea of this person so disjointed with thier emotions, with their forgotten lessons, that every hair on their head is expressing a different emotion - every hair has a different story to tell. It's almost like breaking it down to the individual what affects society as a whole.
There are thousands and millions of people in society, just as there are hairs on the head (for most people, mostly the younge). Each person, at any one time, is feeling something different, and to different degrees. On the one side there are the suicidals and on the other there are all the disgustingly happy people - carefree and livin' it up. And each one is singing a different song, and therefore there's a different note being played by each hair. The result would sound very much so out of tune.
Yay insanity. I like this metaphor of limbo to real life. I mean, it really is like that, isn't it? As I said, I often feel like I'm insane (the box thing way back there, remember?) but really I'm not... wow, another eye opener... nope, no affect on the box. Damn!
It really does kind of catch you too. I mean, here we are, we've just been born, making our way along this long road to death, or Hell if you will, and then along comes this diabolically dasterdly thing called Life. Capital L. It really does beat us down sometimes, sometimes not even letting us back up. It's down right pittifully annoying, and there's nothing that can be done about it except either "shoot up" or just take it as it comes. I like to slide towards the latter myself.
This stanza seems to paint this somebody as someone who isn't actually a someone at all, but rather a something...hehe, gotta like that twist. What I mean is that the someone being spoken to is actually something like Life. Life is always there, at every turning point in our lives. In fact, Life is a lot like God, only Life is undoubtedly real...at least, more so than God.
Life is there, always, watching as we life our part of it as we do, watching through our eyes, for Life is but a perception of itself. (I think I might have to use that in a poem some time) It is a silent observer of our actions offering, yes, only supposed pity for our downfall. It's also a very common thing to blame Life for doing so, much like our discussion of Homeless people earlier. It's like, why is this all Life has to offer to "medicate" this suffering? Why does Life feel it easy to just hand this pity away and not something more useful - something that will make me feel better about myself? SLT. (did it again)
Finally, the last stanza, and the shortest too so deserving of a short paragraph-like analysis... yeah, that's a shame. Again, the title comes into this. This someone or something, perhaps Life as I've suggested, is a star in the sky, a hole in Heaven. Also, from another possible point of view, it could be suggesting that this person or thing (or philisophical concept) considers him/her/itself to be better than everything else, a star, a famous bastard with nothing better to do but flaunt his/her/its success. That's the first line of the two.
"And the night air penetrates again."
Such a climactic ending to the poem! Repetition, sadness, coldness, pointlessness... all seem to be relatively clear all within this one tiny sentance.
The word, "again," is what tips off the repetition.
The night is symbolic of being dark and dreary, frieghtening even, and thus a very sad part of the day; I mean, all your friends have to go home to go to bed, you have to go to bed, and all in all, you have to say goodbye to the day, which might have been really amazing - sadness, there you go.
The night is also representative of being cold, since the sun isn't up anymore to warm to place up; the summer is a little different, though not as much so in Canada, but still - therefore, coldness, which could tie then into sadness.
The pointlessness is sort of a feeling that I get from it. The night air, this cold night air that is like a sickness (and often can cause a sickness...), seems to crawl in through whatever protective layer that is trying to keep the narrator safe, and it is doing so again, as if everything that the narrator is trying to do to protect him/herself is failing miserable...so why bother trying, right? I suppose that's just the nature of life. Life, yes, on to the next paragraph! -
Life, yes, the perpetrator of this whole thing. Perhaps it's Life that is the coldness, the causer of the sadness, constantly throwing the same things at you, the same problems, and each time there is little you can do to prevent the shit from hitting the fan...oops, I've just befouled your review page... meh!
Therefore, the poem itself is about Life being a bitch (there I go again, more soilage) and how you make do with it in a world that seems mad yet sane at the same time...a paradox of life and death, past and future...SLT.
Anyway, I think that should be MORE than enough ranting for now, plus I just told you I was almost done, so I'll just finish it here.
I'm not sure how many of these I should give you, so I'll just give you a slew of both the top rated symbols...maybe I can make them look like upward turned thumbs...
! (nope) !
I think that's enough for now; I should put more but then I'd be taking up needless space with useless information... oh wait, that's practically the wole review... hehe
That's it for this review, I'll rant again in the next. Ta Tah!
| DarkWings of Faith chapter 1 . 11/29/2002
Wow great poem! Whaaaaa why can't I do poems like that!
| michelangela chapter 1 . 11/29/2002
i like the comparisons in the first 2 stanzas. good analagies. the rest is good 2. keep it up.