tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5010170380967519230.post3077634262096582750..comments2024-03-19T02:18:18.399-07:00Comments on First Known When Lost: "You Hear Yourself Resume For A Word Or Two The Conversation That Ended Unhappily Years Ago"Stephen Pentzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882220887712092005noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5010170380967519230.post-54794058924470894682011-10-22T07:41:47.856-07:002011-10-22T07:41:47.856-07:00Mr. Sigler: thank you very much for visiting again...Mr. Sigler: thank you very much for visiting again, and for your thoughts on the recent autumn poems. Your comments on the "ambiguous 'whose'" of the final line of "View" are right on the mark. "Whose" got my attention when I first read the poem, but you have articulated better than I can why it works so well. And thank you for the reference to "This House Is Empty Now": I haven't listened to that CD for some time -- time for a visit.<br /><br />Thanks again.Stephen Pentzhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14882220887712092005noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5010170380967519230.post-15161806476986282962011-10-19T06:37:32.808-07:002011-10-19T06:37:32.808-07:00I’ve thoroughly enjoyed "the gradual pompous ...I’ve thoroughly enjoyed "the gradual pompous dying" of your fine fall "collection," Mr. Pentz. Nicolsons' is my personal favorite, for the clarity of its insanity, but each one captures a special wispy twig from the great abyss of Autumn. <br /><br />Your earlier Cook poem did leave me a bit chilly, I must confess – too insistent in its efforts to connect the mind with the environment, although the cadence is lovely. This one, however, is perfect: the wind “combing out” the clouds, rarefied (and in these days, expensive) views compared to disrepaired holes in the roof, that imperceptible shift from beauty into pain in one’s thoughts as it concludes. I love that ambiguous “whose” at the end: the thought, the conversation, the person that is addressed/referred to here – all work and add layers of richness. The thought of this as a lost love poem – a torch song so to speak – calls to my mind the Elvis Costello/Burt Bacharach number <a href="%E2%80%9D" rel="nofollow">This House is Empty Now</a>:<br /><br />“Oh, if I could just become forgetful when night seems endless<br />Does the extinguished candle care about the darkness?”<br /><br />An aptly mournful Autumn sentiment…Bill Siglerhttp://billsigler.blogspot.comnoreply@blogger.com