Comments on: Intersection

By: Big Tent/WWP Poem #42: The Way Back Home « Raven's Wing Poetry

Big Tent/WWP Poem #42: The Way Back Home « Raven's Wing Poetry — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 14:06:49 +0000

[...] is nothing sacred and safe from being stolen from walls, from projector screens, or from the air. Everything is carried home, purloined beneath the archway of my arm, slumbering against ribs cradled with adipose and skin, [...]

By: Stephen Zanichkowsky

Stephen Zanichkowsky — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 17:09:27 +0000

Thank you, Nicole… May I cluck you an egg sometime?

By: Deb

Deb — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 21:28:10 +0000

“At least your hunger had a name.”

Provoking images and stories, starting with that great artwork, and the quote from the book, then fleshed out and flayed. All at once.

By: davidmoolten

davidmoolten — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 16:37:07 +0000

I like the integration in this, of families, the narrator’s and Zanichkowksy’s, of alienating experience, and how the primal fear in a child of being interchangeable and thus unimportant, dispensable, is made tangible by the intimate things in her or his environment, ironically by things that are the most personal, a doll, the sandwich one eats, absorbs into one’s body. But also, you do a great job of weaving the culture at large into this web, the mass production culture of late 20th century America, with its soul-less wandering and “future shock” change, dispensable relationships and alienation on a mass scale. That you find connection with an utter stranger after everything that has passed, is a subtle but redemptive stroke, and one that adds much dimension to the poem.

By: Julie Jordan Scott

Julie Jordan Scott — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 15:44:27 +0000

I never thought I would have something in common with Tim Burton, but I love this poem. Grateful to have taken the time to read it and grateful you posted it.

Here are my favorite lines:

slapping
sticky, beige peanut oceans and tsunamis of sweet grape goo
onto the backs of stiff white bread.

chalkboard-and-nail invectives,
scorched-earth diatribes sometimes delivered with a belt,
and relentless, shore-pounding surfs of her demand that I
align my mind and soul with hers

My realm became
an eccentric, stygian mess of tangled and rotting shadows,
a phantasm that only Tim Burton could love.