Fine poem. I doubt a poet in her (or his) 20s could have written a poem like this. It takes a certain vintage, so to speak. Perfect line breaks and stanza breaks, musical when read aloud, unobtrusive and effective rhymes (unread, ded(icated), led), and after five or six readings I'm still delighted by its sounds. Plainspoken, heartfelt, and vivid. Bravo!
P.S. I wanted to also say something, but couldn't figure out how to say it, about how when I look at only the first two lines of the poem the poem could continue in a number of predictable ways and, instead, gets unpredictably personal (with that "you") and unpredictably specific ("the" rose, fresh, in "the dead of winter" (and "dead" is haunting here)). The rest of the poem, after the first two lines, does not (to my mind) address the issue of whether poems are unread or not (though of course the poet does read them, at least during their composition). I appreciate how there is a sort of illogic between what seems to be a straightforward intellectual, theoretical statement in the first two lines and then how the poem blossoms. And are roses read? Red and read? And do unread poems wither or, remaining fresh, wait for future readers? As for the unknown poet in the title, will she or he remain unknown? Is he or she truly unknown if eulogized in this poem?
Only you could read a poem so carefully, dissect it with such precision, and put it back together so that its many possible meanings are laid bare--thanks, brother.
Fine poem. I doubt a poet in her (or his) 20s could have written a poem like this. It takes a certain vintage, so to speak. Perfect line breaks and stanza breaks, musical when read aloud, unobtrusive and effective rhymes (unread, ded(icated), led), and after five or six readings I'm still delighted by its sounds. Plainspoken, heartfelt, and vivid. Bravo!
ReplyDeleteP.S. I wanted to also say something, but couldn't figure out how to say it, about how when I look at only the first two lines of the poem the poem could continue in a number of predictable ways and, instead, gets unpredictably personal (with that "you") and unpredictably specific ("the" rose, fresh, in "the dead of winter" (and "dead" is haunting here)). The rest of the poem, after the first two lines, does not (to my mind) address the issue of whether poems are unread or not (though of course the poet does read them, at least during their composition). I appreciate how there is a sort of illogic between what seems to be a straightforward intellectual, theoretical statement in the first two lines and then how the poem blossoms. And are roses read? Red and read? And do unread poems wither or, remaining fresh, wait for future readers? As for the unknown poet in the title, will she or he remain unknown? Is he or she truly unknown if eulogized in this poem?
ReplyDeleteOnly you could read a poem so carefully, dissect it with such precision, and put it back together so that its many possible meanings are laid bare--thanks, brother.
ReplyDelete