Bams

• Last seen on May 12 5:24 PM 2008. Member since February 21, 2008.
• I am a 40 year old woman (United States)
• When I'm not writing, I'm transversing for it.
• Visit my homepage at options hopping sprains bandage
• I have 4 comments, 290 poems

My other items

• picture within body at allpoetry
  getting up for editing feel
• growing out of last trimester at allpoetry
  prompt = The touch of April
• roman nine months at allpoetry
  '.'
  
  

Guest Book

Comments

• on Sonnet XVII: I do not love you as if you were brine-rose, topaz by Pablo Neruda, on March 5, 2008

  not just immediately...

  the second stanza had the essence of no shaped or stamped reaction of appearance per se as the finality looked upon but potential. It does reflect an aim to make things seen well, listing one's for flourishing fullness with nurture as cultivated celebration yet to be; like spoken of saffron in Isaiah 35 that can be cared for more conducively soon of spread ease.
  
  the latter half of the write is our unprofessional parallel I feel but in peronality by complex tugs and tags, together as goals and legitimate now. concern for one rolls into other it should seem.
  
  compartments of strength and sensitivity can be refocused,
  babies are my subject
• on Here I Love You by Pablo Neruda, on March 4, 2008

  I had a parallel pull

  this could be literal or exaggerated distance and duration of separation as this chemical sensitive mamma feels by marginal highway that husband and daughter trips out to.
  
  the mingling of the first stanza gets a grip of description yet on an edge of time to share. the second connects intelligence for moment with slowed down alliteration. and then the third is a burst, which was next with what stopped me with " Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
  I love you still among these cold things." one isn't swamped by environment to swap concentration totally. but then the ending there emotes worry of object permanence developed arched or angled in a heart first learned as a baby with walking family.
  
  heaviness of paths in shadow without sureness echoes this afterwards! Oh, proposals of self's life have no aim but mechanical in such ache. then setting is sketchboard of of moving memory towards modeling.
  
  sighingly enchanting,
  babies are my subject
• on Baby Toes by Carl Sandburg, on February 26, 2008

  attention by more than name with participation turn

  this is so inventive from title to curled in talk...
  
  wow, the warmth of imagery by physically squeezing in the topic of astronomical setting for feet among touch or eyes. imagine not only wanting it reread but iterated again over the itty bitty five digits pressed (slightly) in hand on lap and alertness, that can have circulation of comfort colors by speed that could be asked to be done again... until understanding zip of story's sensation too! discomfort could bring different answers right along with curiosity, what a treasured youngster to take in lesson of traveling choice and health quickness -- overlapped peep
  
  phenomenally smiled,
  babies are my subject
• on Tulips by Sylvia Plath, on February 21, 2008

  creation for forceful sense

  there's a consternmation for concern that is just procedure
  
  associations are made with the oddity of duty without closeness, as with "Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
  Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
  Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds." flitting without fulfillment thoughts are not involved but "They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
  Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
  Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in." corresponding without response has a suffering for inanimate things of true environment almost with "I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
  Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head." caring is not as ricocheted but questioned from one collapse to another, body or spirt or both to be focused.
  
  It writes of what isn't but tries as when hundred mile per hour expulsion of air takes me back to my dad's apartment, repeating. when vicious cycle makes for curiosity over any love of violence to just not emit but not sniff, or "I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
  I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses" as attendance can't be to emptiness. viscous is consciousness, shake it how from which start or continuance.