IRONY

I am very tired today but I had to leave a comment on this one ... its truely an irony ... but a grand one lol (hugs) love Jayne x x

The poem is great. Why is it in quotation marks? Beauty of form is addictive to the eye. It even sells Uncle Ben's rice these days, via a woman reduced to a bra doing the stirring. But the occasions when function matches form disappear into thinness. Beauty has the bad habit of inducing a lazy, cater-to-me, approach in so many things, from love making with an unmoved pelvis (in the old series Doctor in the House, they called her "Rigger-mortis") to a mere collection of declared wants to the everywhere less geometric servant. Ian Fleming, the spy trained at Camp X in Ontario, wrote on the tendency, for those we deem to be desirable in appearance, toward what I will call slothy lovemaking. Those whose crutch of beauty is somewhat shorter simply try to jump higher, he said, if in his own words. Then for commercial reasons, he made James Bond's sexual partners beautiful and precocious. Yes, he statistically lied, which is not a literary offense. And because Jack Kennedy felt that the Bond proclivities validated the Presidential addiction to orgasm in diverse locales, Jack's enthusiasm for the books made the series a hit. Yet beauty of form is typically insufficient food for even the early life. Ask Roxanne Pulitzer. No, the seers were correct. It is the beauty in the brain, in the arts and in function, which fills life with enduring moments of sensual beauty. If the statistically modest occurs, and there is confluce of these beauties melded to a human visual beauty, I guess one must simply deal with it, and the retreat of the later with age. (Please, don't have your face pulled to that place where the eyes start at the temples, the temples of Delos, Greece.) All these things being as they are, your poem remains very very good. It measures a distance you have travelled as a poet. It tells you of your capacity, your endurance, your ability to reconcile habit and ambition into experimentation and skill. Congradulations! Brian

Yes, sometimes it is like journaling. Sometimes we want to write but there is no exclamatory idea slapping the inner walls of the cranium. I tend to think of those of my poems which are less than I like, as filler material for the creation or repair of some other poem. I think my comments, and such literacy as is attached to them, come from long years of others affirmations which give me a permission to be comfortable (from time to time). Others' affirmations, and the example of others, helped me reshape my own inner voices. Additionally, and keeping with your title, my dyslexia has made me oddly comfortable with going back and forth during the writing of a sentence because I have no choice if I am to write. For so many years, I struggled. The struggling had a lot to do with shame about crossing out words that were either outrageously misspelt or in the wrong order or simply too exuberant. In a world which seems to disgrace anarchy, any page of my writing was an advertisement for chaos. But uniformly and eventually, I get to the point where I will not put up with continued needless shame. So I chose to learn how to type and I chose to learn how to write. The choosing too seems to be quite important. You should certainly be pleased with your poem! Brian