[Critique Group 2] Leonard's comments for Sept 26 meeting

[Tuchyner5 at aol.com]

for Abbie 

This poem has the essence quality of a haiku.  To me, it’s about the boy 
trying to  intensify or imprint the memory of his father. There is also an 
honoring  motive.  The meal is one of the ways  he will feel the presence of 
his father when he is gone.  You have chosen an interesting  meal.  Part of it 
is down home  stuff, but the other part, the title part, I assume is very 
gourmet. At least,  I’ve never eaten veal medallions, let alone in wine 
sauce. I don’t even know  what they are. In the poem, the choice gives the father 
a distinctive  personality. If the meal was one of hamburgers, it would not 
have portrayed  anything special. I would say the same thing of the 
composer choice, of whom I  am also unfamiliar. I wonder whether these things have 
a special meaning to the  author.  I believe the piece is  appropriate to 
the theme. 

VEAL AND TELEMANDE 

Alone at a mahogany dining room  table, 
the teen-ager eats veal medallions in wine  sauce, 
mashed potatoes, asparagus,  salad, 
a meal his father always  enjoyed. 
He listens to music by  Telemande, 
one of his father’s favorite  composers. 
Later, he will visit his  father, 
in a hospital dying of  cancer, 
the boy’s mother at his  bedside. 
------ 
For Alice 
So, your favorite line  starts with ‘But.” 
But, how can that  be? 
This is a beautiful double tribute. It eulogizes Emily and  Heather. 
Beautiful and clever.    

Emily  Dickinson’s Heather and Mine 

by Alice Jane-Marie  Massa 


“But, know I how the heather looks ....”  --Emily  Dickinson 
(Stanza One) 
>From Amherst came two  quatrains 
from Emily, of  course. 
(Thanks to Mabel Loomis  Todd, 
I like how you use the full name. It somehow helps to  create the rhythm.) 
the world relishes the poetic  source 
from where I grasp my favorite  line— 
the one that did  foretell 
the name of my  creamy-colored Yellow Lab 
I approve of your putting cadence over the taboo of  redundancy.  
who guided me so very  well. 
I notice that you are using a more arcane form of  composition.  Like “so 
very well.”  It works out nicely. 
(Stanza Two) 
Through this Leader  Dog, 
I learned how Heather  looks 
through all seasons of  life, 
in tactile photographic  books. 
(Stanza Three) 
Large, strong, muscular  Heather-- 
who walked over drawbridges with  me, 
who lay by my desk as I  taught, 
who cuddled near my theatre  seat 
as I listened to musicals and Maya  Angelou, 
who guided me up  the stairs 
Did Maya Angelou guide you up the  stairs? 
where Lincoln had  lived, 
who saved me  
from being hit by a falling  icicle, 
>From being sliced by falling  ice. 
I would love to hear how she did  that. 
who learned to walk down a special  ramp 
when she could no longer descend our back  stairs, 
who easily befriended her successor Zoe   
for the final thirteen months   
of Heather's season on  Earth— 
softened with  age, 
but strengthened my heart and  hand 
How did she strengthen your hands? 
“... and what a wave must be.”  --Emily  Dickinson 
(Stanza Four) 
>From Amherst, with her red tresses and white  dress, 
Emily wrote these words of the  sea; 
however, they apply to a Midwestern  me 
as I tearfully wave and  wave, 
like whitecaps, again and  again, 
good-bye, good-bye 
to Heather, so  missed, 
my second guide, my valorous  friend 
who now remarkably rests and runs   
with Keller, Chelsea,  Chico, and  Prince, 
and all who came  before. 
"...as if the chart were given."  --Emily  Dickinson 
* * * 
When I taught braille as a blind rehabilitation teacher  (now referred to 
as a certified vision therapist), I brailled the following  two-quatrain poem 
for some students to read. 
Untitled 
by Emily Dickinson 
I never saw a moor, 
I never saw the sea; 
but know I how the heather  looks 
and what a wave must  be. 
I never spoke with  God 
nor visited in  Heaven, 
yet certain am I of the  spot 
 
as if the chart were  given.
For  Brad 
This is a beautiful  eulogy to your mother. It is honest, describes her 
life with its ups and downs  in a remarkably small container. All your writing 
has a distinctive style and  personality. No where is it more appropriate 
than in this tribute. The style  adds to the authenticity of the sentiments 
expressed. 


Middle  Child 
C By Brad  Corallo  
I think the  title is appropriate, and you explain why you chose that title 
 in the beginning of the piece. I also  know that in the legends taught in 
graduate school about the characteristics of  children born in the pecking 
order of birth, I’ve also found it not to be  particularly accurate. However, 
 I  have no problem with the use of the title because you support it so 
well in the  body of the poem.  
Word count  431 
In memory of  Marie Corallo: 
Middle child,  who am I? 
Who should I  be? 
Sweet  Marie? 
That's not  me! 
Great  beginning verse. 
Growing up in  the shadows of shining siblings- 
older sister,  younger brother 
with parents,  volatile and passive. 
Love, fear,  resentment! 
Desperately  trying to define identity.  
Sounds like a  normal family to me. 
Incisive  intelligence, not recognized by many! 
She excelled  at office skills, 
dropping the  vowel ending her name. 
I assume that  was a way of defining her individuality.  
A secretary on  Wall Street. 
Two best  friends 
married two  brothers, recently returned 
How did she  marry 2 brothers? I assume they were consecutive marriages. 
But maybe you mean  it figuratively. 
from the chaos  of The Great War. 
Warld War One  I presume. 
Establishing  their household, 
first child, a  daughter arrived. 
Are the first  child and the daughter arrived one and the same? 
A move to  their own home 
bought on the  GI bill 
Two sons  followed.  
The American  Dream? 
Does the use  of the question mark meant to convey sarcasm? 
But the black  dog stalking her from a distance, 
at  first. 
I think you  meant stalked rather than stalking. 
Calm waters  troubled by relentless  
waves of  waxing anxiety.  
Cocktails,  cigarettes, religion  
Interesting  combination of negative factors, particularly with the 
inclusion of religion in  the list. 
of no avail  against the black dog. 
‘Black dog’,  is clear in its meaning, but I’ve never herd that term 
before. Did you make it  up or is it a colloquialism? 
Stealthily  padding closer and closer. 
Two kids,  great depression era; 
Do the ‘kids’  refer to the two sons or to the married couple? 
too scarred,  unable too fully relax 
in their own  skins. 
The specter of  economic ruin, 
an ever  present fear. 
Panic, mortal  struggle, 
medications,  treatments, break down! 
Hospitalization,  reassembling herself 
It is not  entirely clear to me whether the mortal struggle is only with 
mental illness, or  also with physical illness. 
transformation,  something lost, something gained. 
It would be  difficult not to disturb the flow of the poecy,but  I feel a 
desire for  elucidation. 
Never a "girly  girl" mom 
more like one  of the boys.  
Yet, kind and  gracious to all; 
pets,  children, hoboes and kings. 
My hands, my  eyes, my best friend for so many years. 
Her support, through three universities  and 
my own  Hellhound dust up. 
What does  ‘dust up’ mean? 
Respected and  loved by my friends 
opening up our  home to waifs and strays.  
Ultimately  retiring to a beautiful place  
with her  husband of 40 years, 
well equipped  at last! 
She always  said, 
"I just want  five years in the sun!" 
She got twenty  five in stead 
The price she  paid? 
The last two  years of her life 
a living  nightmare! 
Frustration,  pain, rage!  
Her husband,  her rock  
being eaten by  dementia. 
Then a  merciful blessing. 
she began the  next stage of her journey 
just twenty  eight days short of ninety two  years.  
>From the  Fayetteville NC Observer:  
"This day  marks the passing of Marie Louise Corallo (January 12, 1924  to 
December 15,  2015). Marie is survived by her loving husband of 68  years, 
Charles, her  children, Judy and Brad, Carol her daughter in law, her  
grand 
children Jill,  Jesse and Sarah and her great grand children Brady Tanner  
and 
Tiffany.   We who remain celebrate her life  which she lived with love, 
compassion,  humor and grace. Those of us who were privilege to share in  
her 
sojourn became  better human beings as a result. Farewell gentle spirit  
while 
 
your journey  continues.  You will live in our  hearts forever!"
For Val 
I love this poem, but I had to wrestle with it  before I knew that.  It is  
beautiful in words and form and runs very deep.   
High Lonesome 

Stream of words 
clear and profound
touch and paint  the
reality of your undenyable truth. 
I have to dig deeply to find what this poem may be  saying.  The title says 
it is about  the state of loneliness or a particular person, perhaps the 
author,. It is  probably about both  
I think it’s saying that in that state of loneliness,  the stream of 
consciousness reveals  essential truth . You say stream of words, but you describe 
a stream of  consciousness which includes words. 

In scarlet and purest  blue,
you flow through the gaps,
trails of glittering gold

as well as envelopping night. 
In that state, in surrealistic and abstract ways, truth  finds away through 
the gaps of construct and where there seems to be emptiness.  But 
emptiness, in this case, is the womb of self  discovery. 


Known by all,
defined by love and pain,
light in  darkness,
wounding and binding
of sorrow... 
It’s difficult to describe the meaning here, though it  is clear in a 
poetic way. We are all aware of the truths when we accept the  non-defensive 
stance that leaves us vulnerable  to accept the b beauty and truth of  things 
that we would other seek to avoid or control. When logic is put aside and  
opposites form a unit. Roundedness invites healing. Chaos invites  order.

you are resolute, 
universal companion. 
That state of aloneness is to be befriended. And  cherished. I think it is 
a place where poetry is born.
_______
What we  love we become, whom we become shapes what we love.
-St. Clare Of Assisi 
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