poetry critical

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Home is Where I Want To Be

Late Bank Holiday reached its close.
I did not believe he would come for I believed
the lure of a girl in red glasses
was greater than that of a barbecue
in a ho-hum, humdrum back yard.
Everyone had eaten their fill of ribs
grown cold, Chicken ignored had charred
and one miserable mackerel lay on a bed
of chopped fennel and wilted dill. Life was still.
Contemplated packing up but then, I heard
his voice grow louder as he wandered in.
He ate with relish, complimenting cold food.
I loved him for his aplomb, his politesse,
his being here among us on this sultry August night.
Then he played. He sang Johnny B. Goode.
Hey Ya, his repertoire. We clapped and sang.
His little brother played the air guitar.
I thought, ‘this feels like home,’ as we sat
on borrowed chairs and watched a shooting star.

13 Oct 08

Rated 8 (9.3) by 1 users.
Active (1):
Inactive (2): 8, 10, 10

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I hope you are happy.  Simple scenes are the best.
 — netskyIam

 — stout

Dear Opal,

I've read through this poem a number of times, and each time I get a real sense of the love you must feel towards the person this poem is about.

Although, I am envious, as I've never felt such compassion or felt as if I've received it in return.

Congratulations from a Disgruntled Spectator
 — unknown

i think like 2 is 'awkwardly written'? that there's a little bit of word more than the thought is worth, as though it's out of focus yet in the viewfinder. the opening line is maybe so heavy that you've had to balance it with the second, but the opening line seems heavy footed -- it reminded me immediately of Vachel Lindsay. possibly, your 'reached its close' actually obscures as poetry what is so clear face to face... here, i'm watching the holiday 'reach for something' because poetry is like string quartet space -- which means that every word reflects back the author and not to the 'plot'. that's the general feeling i had reading this poem, too, that it was trying to work by using 'familiar language', and i think that the only time that kind of talking works in a poem is in comic verse, where our words are being thrown back at us in fun. this poem isn't fun for me to read.
 — geckodrome

i'll have to weigh the allusions but i'm glad you read it.
 — opal