ICARUS REBORN Such eloquence and proclivity The greater poets use To astound the minds of the educated, Even gifted Muses that may or maynot Glean from their writings some semblance Of genius thought, wrought through and through With allusion and intrusions That fail to acknowledge the common man. But then again, pedantic poets Have little need to touch the masses Bringing them to higher level. They simply verbalize their academic expertise Leaving the groveler to grovel where he will In ignorance and bliss of his own arrogance. Poverty of ponderings be the sentence passed Upon the dreary life of those who have no life. Wings carved of dreamdust are little better Than those of Icarus, dear melty blunder that he made. Thoughts of the gods do not belong In minds of those without degree on paper pounded. Sealed with the wax of other substances That declare the fulfillment of satisfactorily completing Some attainment of prestige and dignity The greater poets find their glory in other's eye. What then becomes of this misbegotten, "Whoa is me" soul uneducated in the lap of luxury? Shriveling beneath the heated passions Stirred up by one's awe at the allusionist's twisting? Why , nothing then becomes of her. She tends her goats and sheep words As the shepherdess she is, Or like Diana, goes a hunting. Hunting to find some phraseology To entangle his mind again, Unearthly fear trembles her soul. To gates of Hades she would dare to tread, To Heaven's door , race breathlessly If he would but hold her words so tenderly. But Goethe has not written her She is a simple creation of her God. No textbooks sit upon her lap. All symbols from her general knowledge, Though not quite of the caliber he sought. She knows the might contained in word, But choses more oft the lessons of her heart. Once thoughts flashed out as mighty Zeus's lightning. She sizzled them still with Poisiedon's realm As she slipped beneath his waves. So now, my dear Ill- tempered one, Before you expound upon the wonder Of some other fairer poet, Taste this the mirth of Niad In ink and ice. Compare the two at leisure. Which one contains diversity? Which one devours your identity?
Celeste A. Cafasso's Questions:
Is the allusion in the title too insignificantly handled in the poem?
Are there too many unrelated images within the poem , and does it, therefore confuse the reader as to what is being said?
Jealousy Eating away the sanity found In long worked for , never won, Secure self - esteem, A whory monster, Reeking of cheap perfume, Stands there, Before me laughing. Trampling down the walls Meant to seclude the softer me, The monster, in his nonchalance, Walks solidly over my identity Like worn down cobblestones Beneath his broad feet, Destroying half a life begun. Taking up residence, Picking at this one's voice, And that one's written word, The rearrangement of my soul Becomes the monster's task, In flagrant disregard of Any wishes I might possess. His breath is steamy. His stare, debilitating As I become less than The clay from whence I came. Melted down to merest mud, With threat of becoming Primordial slime. How can he so reduce me? Why is it so impossible To shoo the beast away? How can I allow such destruction Of the elements of goodness. The particles of wonderment dissolve Instead of growing crystal beauty. All just because another climbs To greater glory in the eyes of those Whose admiration I did crave. Less profound, or more complex, Whatever be the reason there, Upon the pedestal, the other gloats While I entertain this monster here.
Celeste A. Cafasso's Questions:
Is the spirit of the poem expressive enough of an angry jealousy....like a
Is the understanding clear the the writer feels "good enough" but find themselves NOT good enough in others' eyes?