Grace and Resurrection

[jisbell00]

Grace and Resurrection


Beneath my outstretched arm, a crop. And when
will the seed ripen? Will there come a day
to harvest from the black soil? In the East,
the sun is rising, thin and pale. Can it
warm the dead seed and spark its resurrection?

I don’t believe it. There’s no common ground
between what is and what must be. I put
no faith in mere duration; what we need
is for epiphany to find its way
through sun and rain to Earth. And then we might

behold a harvest. This is not the work
of one day, of one spinning planet. Grace
descends from the sky’s balconies upon
a dead thing and renews it. And that crop
comes to October, and the harvest’s in.
 

[CalebPerry]

John, I'll have some comments in a day or two. I just had cataract surgery, and now I have orders for my home-based business, so I'm busy.

[jisbell00]

Thank you, Caleb! I hope the surgery went well!

We'll have no internet at home for the next week or so, so I'll just pop in sometimes on my phone.

Cheers,
John

[CalebPerry]

This is another poem with somewhat grand language. Not the language, but some of the ideas strike me as a little clichéd. I like the ending (a compelling ending is always good); but basically, I feel that the poem doesn't bring a great deal that's new to the existential ideas you are writing about.

Having said that, I believe that every poet has a right to tackle the big topics. History will sort out which poems are best. If I had just had similar insights, your poem might be an epiphany for me, so I don't want to be too negative.

The struggle for poets who want to be remembered is to come up with something new, new new. At the very least, this is a competent poem, but it seems like I've heard some of it before.

Grace and Resurrection

Beneath my outstretched arm, a crop. And when
will the seed ripen? Will there come a day
to harvest from the black soil? In the East,
the sun is rising, thin and pale. Can it
warm the dead seed and spark its resurrection?

I don’t believe it. There’s no common ground
between what is and what must be. I put
no faith in mere duration; what we need
is for epiphany to find its way
through sun and rain to Earth. And then we might

behold a harvest. This is not the work
of one day, of one spinning planet. Grace
descends from the sky’s balconies upon
a dead thing and renews it. And that crop
comes to October, and the harvest’s in.
 

[jisbell00]

Thank you for the comment, Caleb! I actually feel that the problem with this poem is its being a little far-fetched! I think it executes its premise pretty consistently, but I don’t entirely buy the premise and I don’t think I’ve sold it to the reader. The grain after all is not dead but asleep.

I think the poem is OK in a collection, maybe, but not definitional. OTOH, I quite like the grand style, which seems to me a perfectly reasonable one: I am sick of the demotic, which is a fashion like any other and as such, both tedious and perishable. That I think may be this poem’s redemption.

Cheers,
John

[CalebPerry]

You should, of course, like your own poetry. I'll keep reading it to see if it grows on me.

I wasn't saying that it wasn't good, just not quite as superb as much of your writing is.

I posted a poem the other day in a style somewhat similar to yours, but then realized it needed more work, so I deleted. I'll post it again soon.