Coming from a Poet whose: Coming from a Poet whose poems I supremely admire, this is one of the finest comments I have ever received here. I am humbled before the presence of your kind words, and I am very, very grateful for them.
Short, unvarnished, and wry;: Short, unvarnished, and wry; much like a quick word shared between coworkers at the end of a grueling shift.
It distills a working-class voice down to its bluntest truth: “Alls I wanna do... is / Crack open a couple-a / Cold ones.”
The poetic speaker owns their exhaustion and doesn’t dress it up. In fact, the closing line: “So pardon poor quality”
is a cheeky nod to the poem’s own rough edges, as if the poem apologizes for being a poem at all; that’s where the power lives.
This poem doesn't strive for perfection; it leans into the sweat, the slang, and the syntax of the shift floor.
It says, “Here I am, tired and tipsy, and this is still art.” There’s a subtle defiance in that simplicity.
The poetic speaker may be too beat down to wax lyrical, but the act of writing (even poorly) is a kind of claim to space, to voice, to survival.
Labourers of the world, Unite!
To say this made my breath: To say this made my breath hitch in my throat as I read it would be an understatement.
To say that your imagery and phrasing reach my soul through the visceral level of the gut would not be saying enough.
Thus, with the words of any comment from me proven impotent by the enormous verbal power of this stellar poem, I will simply rejoice in its presence with gladly awe-stricken silence.
Your poem, “Easter Sunday:
Your poem, “Easter Sunday Night, April 14th”, was a starlit coming-of-age, a moment gently torn between legacy and longing, tradition and selfhood. I responded with a poem titled “To the One Who Watches the Stars,” written in a quiet, affirming tone of. It speaks to choosing one’s path under the vast permission of the cosmos, of the night that feels wide open—for more poems like that one, more courage stitched into starlight, more quiet acts of truth spoken beneath traditions too heavy to carry. You’ve got something rare in the way you invite these voices from shadowed rooms and Easter skies alike.
Thanks for bringing attention..: Thanks for bringing attention to this sad occasion
We shouldn't be mourning, should have a celebration
We should celebrate his life, the rises and the falls
Many are overcome with grief, even the meat bawls
We must realize, when you're talking chefs, he's the master
Chef Boyardee, dead 40 years, that's all in the pasta
He worked to attain his dream, never gave up on his plan
To sell, God rest his soul, spaghetti & meatballs in a can
Thank you! My own: Thank you! My own interpretation of the character and his story is twofold: I think he either survived the apocalypse by shielding himself with his fire magic, or else he inadvertently caused it-- either way, he is alone and filled with terror and regret. I suppose, though, there is a third interpretation, too: that his baptism by fire is what made him a fire mage. In any case, he is a wretched creature-- my favorite kind!
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