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Faring For my wife, Maryann. It is our only hope. A metaphor from a past day: Eyes pore over the horizon, not knowing, but expecting a little dot, growing into white. It would be now, by all reasonable calculation. And so you wait . . . But more than wait, wait with a purpose, looking to sight. He whom you wait for, he did not know by any reasonable calculation, but went. What will you hear when he returns? Tales of the Anthropophagi, or news of Cathay? Or will he bring a little ball of twine, to which you play the cat's paw, to salvage what his return to waiting did not cure? At least he has returned. Take what he brings back from the fires of the night, the uncharted. The land is scorching to his feet, and he will off again. And you will earn our living while you wait. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2014-02-02 14:57:56
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
I have left this to last, after many readings. The quality of the verse is without question; it is the metaphor that escapes me.
Or maybe it is the inadequate knowledge of the relationship the colors my understanding of the metaphor.
The references I comprehend. There is an empathy that strings throughout the piece. The forlornness is as palpable as the respect and prospect. I don’t know.
What I can say, with understanding or without; it is a fine piece of writing, nevertheless.
I would tell you what the metaphors mean to me; but I think I would only sound as vacuous of mind as I usually do when trying to grasp your meanings.
Thank you for sharing.