First thought (ver 3)

[LeoVictorBriones (poetremains)]

First thought

I am dangerous this morning,
not because I hold in my chest twenty tons
of bursting pyrotechnics that have
no regard for the evenings ennui;
not because I still feel your hand like water-to-water,
not because as I touch your chest you tell me
I am digging deep inside of you.

Please, do not misread these words,
For yes, it is true, I could worship all of you,
drop to my knees and praise the glory
of your rising thunder above the moist, dark air.

No, I am dangerous this morning
because there is a lantern,
which came to me as a boy,
forged in the crucible of my ancestors.
A lantern I held for so, so long—
until one day my beating light
was extinguished like a white dwarf.

Yes, I am dangerous,
because as I, once again,
lift my lantern
its wick melts,
its kerosene bubbles,
and its fire,
its fire

rises.

[Sherry Thrasher]

I am dangerous this morning,
not because I hold in my heart twenty tons
of splashing pyrotechnics that can tell the dreariest evening
that I have no regard for its ennui;
not because the raisin aftertaste of Italian wine lingers,
not because I feel still your hand like water to water,
not because when I touch your chest you tell me
I am digging deep inside of you.

But please do not misprint these words,
For yes, it is true, that I could worship all your senses ,
drop to my knees and praise the glory
of your frond blowing on the balmy breeze,
of your rising of thunder above the moist, dark air.

No, I am dangerous this morning
Because there is a lantern,
which came to me as an little boy,
forged of the umbilical cord of my ancestors.
A lantern I held for so long, so long—
until one day my steady light
was dipped into the into a the cold lake
of time and memory.

But today I am dangerous,
because its wick is melting,
its kerosene gently bubbling,
and I am beginning to feel its
warmth once again.

[LeoVictorBriones (poetremains)]

Made some changes, hoping for more comments. (I can always hope!!!)

[LynnDoiron]

I think evenings needs a possessive apostrophe -- evening's ennui

I think this one's got heat, Leo. An erotic heat.
Then, when the lamp or lantern of ancesters comes in as the way to read,
rather than misreading the poem as erotic, and I, as reader, am directed
to read what I found erotic as spiritual, as a Second Coming, my belief
in the poem falters. For me, I want the poem to go one way or the other;
to be a sexualized spiritual poem, or, a spiritualized sexual poem -- but not
a sexed-up Christ figure poem, which might not have been your intent, but is what
I'm reading into this. Let me know what your intent was, and I'll try to let
you know where my interpretation went astray . . . I know this sounds bloody
brutal, and I don't mean to be -- I think you are capable of amazing work as a poet.
Even this poem, amazes -- but not, for me, in the end, in a good way.

lynn

[Marion Poirier]

Leo, the poem is confusing. Verses 1 and 2 are a
poem by itself. Verses 3 and 4 seem like another poem.
I agree with Lynn the poem is going in two different
directions, and one of those poems that only the poet
knows what he means. It's not possible to critique
when you don't understand the intent of the poet.
Marion

[purplejacket]

I want to share a parable I know, which is related to how I interpret S3.
I also want to say that I interpret this as coming from a suicide bomber.


Some nights the king thought he heard crying - a child crying.

"Strange," he thought, "that there should be a child crying. There are no children in my castle."

When he would wake in the morning, the demands of the day served to distract him, and he would seldom think of the sounds that he had heard in the night.

One evening, in the silence of the well-run castle, the king thought he heard the crying. He put an ear toward the sound and listened. Echoing, he heard the cry. He put down his evening business, and padded off through the dim hallways to locate the sound.

You must understand that a castle is a tremendous thing. Even its king is not familiar with all of its turns and tunnels. Half finished constructions from generations of Kings have turned nearly every castle into a maze.

The king followed the cry until he feared to lose himself entirely in the unexplored depths. By now the cry was distinct - clearly the cry of a young child.

The king begin to see dancing shadows cast by candlelight, and he quickened his pace. He turned the corner and saw a hallway with a door of iron bars at its end. The flame of the candle shown between the bars.

The king nearly ran the length of the hallway and put his hands on the bars. Sitting in the cell was a child of not more than six. The king spoke reasurring words to the child until he stopped crying, and looked up at him with piercing, honest eyes.

The king listened, and the child spoke.

"I myself was king once - the child king. My rule was cut short, you could say overthrown. My family may even have turned against me, for reasons I don't understand. I was supressed, thrown in this dungeon."

"How long have you been here?"

"Nearly as long as you've been alive."

"But how can that be? You're just a child!"

The child looked at the king, silent tears beginning to form. The king looked into the child's eyes, somehow deeply familiar.

[LeoVictorBriones (poetremains)]

Purple...I can see why you might say that considering the metaphors but not what I meant at all.

[purplejacket]

But I'm right!!!! I am!!!!

OK, then, barring that, I come up with something like a "Born Again" mind set. I don't find the sexiness in it that Lynn was talking about. I get a birth, then a death of sorts and a rebirth.

[mfwilkie]

Leo,

I think there are many different ways to begin this piece without starting with 'I', and probably as many if not more ways to indicate 'feeling dangerous' in an interesting way like the following for one:

This morning,
my chest holds twenty tons of potential violence
that have no regard for last evening's ennui,
so please don't misconstrue the words I've written here

My V for sure, but the 5 'I's and the four negatives (not, no, not, not) almost stopped my read.

I did get the same erotic undertones Lynn experienced with her read, and I agree that you might re-think the direction of the poem.

Maggie














I am dangerous this morning,
not because I hold in my chest twenty tons
of bursting pyrotechnics that have
no regard for the evenings ennui;
not because I still feel your hand like water-to-water,
not because as I touch your chest you tell me
I am digging deep inside of you.

[LeoVictorBriones (poetremains)]

I like it when my poems are controversial.

[Sherry Thrasher]

Often after reading a paraphrase of a poem by it's author, I can interpret an entirely different meaning than the one intended. I think that makes good poetry. A poem that meets the reader where they stand and produces a connection. I can see Lynn's point as well as PJ's after a second or third read.

Personally, these words speak to me:

I still feel your hand like water-to-water

as well as:

and its fire,
its fire

rises.

much enjoyed as always,
Sherry

[Tina (Firefly)]

You like controversy Leo?? Isn't that redundant???

My take on this piece: brilliant.