[Critique Group 2] Leonards comments for January

[tuchyner5 at aol.com]

Alice




 


This piece seems at first to be focused onthe trip, the architecture, some culture and other environmental aspects. Thelead in is natural in its transition to the rest of the piece.  But the quandary and image of giving or not givingto the needy child captures the reader’s primary attention.  The origin of the church with itsphilanthropist deepens the moral quandary. Then there is a description of howthe experiences influenced the writer’s life, perhaps even more in the presentthan it did at the time. Great story and great writing.




 


           On this January night in 2019, a year whose sound seems foreign to me, I amrecalling a January day of 1974.  While tonight I am weary of shovelingsnow and weary of excited voices of weather forecasters proudly announcing thewind chill will be 



I really like using (proudly) here. It’sgood sarcastic humor.



twenty-fiveto thirty-five below zero, I drift into thinking of a trip to Mexico in late December of 1973through January of 1974.  On each day of our journey around Mexico, D.F.,only a blazer or light sweater was part of my daily traveling outfits.  Onthe one day of a dozen or so I could recollect, I am focusing on Taxco, once asilver-mining town.



 



           Rather than a comfy seat in a large bus, a private car was our mode oftransportation into the higher altitudes of Cuernavacaand then Taxco. Jorge, who spoke English very well, was our apt guide and driver for theday.  We listened and learned from all that he had to tell us on thewinding roads to Cuernavaca,where we visited the church in which the first guitar mass wascelebrated.  Unlike all the other churches and cathedrals we toured, thischurch in Cuernavacawas more contemporary.



 



           My sister was my traveling companion; I spoke Spanish,; she did not.  Shehad perfect visual acuity; I did not.  At 23--eight years into somethingcalled "legal blindness"--I had planned, with virtually no qualms, totravel alone to Mexico; however, to help my dad feel a little more at ease, mysister decided to join me on this winter vacation to a warmer climate and to aland where I could practice speaking Spanish and tour points of interest. 



 



           Besides my sister and me, a vivacious woman of around fifty years of age andanother much quieter woman whom we had not previously met were also fellowtourists and passengers in Jorge's car.



 



           After the short stop at Cuernavaca, we continuedthrough the mountains to our main destination--Taxco, in the southern Mexican state ofGuerrero.  



 



           In this relatively small village, no vehicles are allowed on the cobblestonedinner streets of the town.  Thus, we could walk through the streetswithout any concern about vehicular traffic.  My first experience ofwalking on the cobblestone streets did not disappoint:  although one hadto be a little more careful with simple walking, the tactile journey wasinteresting and memorable.  All of the houses and stores that hugged themountainside were white-washed with red-tile roofs.  While I have adistinct remembrance of the bluest sky I had ever seen, the white-washed abodeswashed out in my limited field of vision.  However, at that time, myphotography hobby focused on slides.  Later, at home or in my classroom, Icould better see the white-washed buildings with the contrasting red-tile roofsprojected from the slide carousel onto a large screen.  Back home again inIndiana, I could much better see Mexico. (One of these slides, I had 



“Back home in Indiana? Isn’t that a cliché? (LOL)



developedinto a print; framed, the print of the Taxcohillside joins four other framed prints on a wall in my bedroom.)



 



           Before we entered the town square of Taxco, Jorge seriouslyreminded us that we absolutely should not give anything to the children whowould come near us and beg for a peso.  "If you give something tojust one child, a minute later, a dozen or more children will quickly gatheraround you to beg for more," Jorge explained.  



 



           As we exited a shop on the festive  and cheery town square, a physicallychallenged boy did come near us and carefully asked, in English, for apeso.  Jorge's words echoed in my mind.  No matter what I did, I wasuncomfortable, unsure.  Jorge had also told us to give in another way tohelp appropriately.  We did walk on:  somehow, we walked past thelittle disabled boy whose image is forever unceremoniously pressed into thephoto album of my mind.  



This is a powerful and emotional image. 



           Past the brightly decorated square, we strode to the stairs of the Santa PriscaChurch--an impressive structure, built from 1751 to1758 in the New SpanishBaroque style and known for its gilding.  ("The GoldenChurch" was the tallest buildingin Mexicofrom 1758 to 1806.)  Inside the Santa Prisca Church, the air was cooler,sounds crescendoed, and I wished for the moving chords of the organ.  Inthe candlelight and streaks of natural lighting, the gold decor shined incontrast to the relatively dark (to my eyes) church.  



 



           The confessional for men was on one side of the church; the confessional forwomen was on the other.  Did I ask God's forgiveness for my not givinganything to the little boy?  Midst the quiet gold, did I kneel and prayfor him; or did I just squint and admire the architecture and gilding?  



The little boy becomes central to thestory, with the travel log as a background. Both are beautifully described. 



           I knew that Senor Jose de la Borda had the church built after he found not avein of silver--but a vein of gold.  De la Borda said, "God gave tode la Borda, and de la Borda will give back to God."  He did: de la Borda gave the quaint village of Taxco the Santa PriscaChurch.



 



           Throughout these intervening forty-five years, I have periodically thought ofthe Santa Prisca Church and the little boy.  Often, I have thought of thefamous quote: "God gave to de la Borda, and de la Borda will give back toGod."  With each passing year, I try to live by this motto more andmore because I know that even in the midst of this Polar Vortex, I find that Iam better if I  do not count degrees below zero, but count blessings.



 



January 24, 2019, Thursday



Brad


 


A dark prediction of our planet’s future.   It makes me sad and angry to read it becauseit is a likely outcome of history.  Theoceans drying up and the aridness of the landscape could only be caused byrunaway heat.   Which   might have been the result of the Venuseffect, or nuclear holocaust? Of course ultimately, as the Sun expands in itsextreme old age, these defects would happen with out the help of man. By thattime, maybe we’ll have become an evolved space faring species.  We should live so long. (An old Yiddishcaution.




 


The Violation OfGaia



C By Brad Corallo



Word count 133 




 


The wind blowseddies of dust



over the starkdesolate land.



Appearing as atarnished, filthy steel bowl



I would leave out :appearing as.”  Start with the article ‘A.”




 


the sky,unyielding



like grey smoke



Leav out ‘like’, and add another syllable, like “Thick grey smoke.




 


squats heavilyabove the ground.



I love this line and the use of “Squats.”




 


Accept for thewind 



there is silence.



I would like more description of the wind sounds.




 


Shatteredformations of rock,



vast piles ofdebris;



I’m not sure why, but  I would prefer rubble or detritis. They aremore descriptive of the kind of debris the piece is talking about.




 


once something,



nowunidentifiable functionless and broken.



No blade ofgrass, tree or bush remains.



The onceextensive oceans



gone or congealed



to areas ofbarely fluid sludge. 




 


Once a worldteaming with life.



now only theheartiest extremophile micro organisms are left.



If intelligentlife ever evolved here,



I like this line because  it is a veiled criticism of our species. Arewe intelligent?  Our actions bring theissue to debate.




 


no traces exist. 



No recordedhistory illuminates the story of this world.



Over it all,ceaseless, icy winds howl and cry



These lines give the wind sounds I was asking forabove.



their mournfullament for beautiful Gaia, that was.



Now, goneforever! 



I’m not sure this last line should remain.  It is redundant. We know that is the case.The reality ight be more stark if the last line was not there.




 


The Violation OfGaia




 



 


Joan


 


I love this poem. Simply done, but with complexmeaning. 




 


Final Good-Bye



Good title. It hides a mystery not apparent until the whole poem is read.




 


Somehow it’seasier to slip away



when darknesscloaks the earth,



When sleepmasquerades



as the finalgood-bye.



Sleep  is a rehearsal for death.  However, it is also like a fire drill. You know it is not the real thing  so it does not have the emotional impact. Youknow you will probably wake up.




 


Death’s only atrick then,



a childish prank,optical



When you say ‘childish’;, you are denying thatdeath is serious.  You may also be sayingthat it is immature, thus thumbing your nose at death. Maybe the expressedattitude is whistling in the dark.




 


Illusion. Blinktwice, clap



your hands, andfairies will dance again.



This death Is temporary.  Life returns. Somehow, this reminds me of theWizard of Oz. Click your ruby slippers and your back home in Kansas.  So is it wishful thinking that if going tosleep  is LIKE death, maybe death is likegoing to sleep with no more permanence than going to sleep.




 


But, infact,  you leave us



dreaming,



swimming intodaybreak



through this veilof pulsing rain.



This is interesting. I think you are saying thatlife is a dream.  It is not any more realthan what we experience in sleep. But I’m not sure that is what you are saying.There are many ways in which this piece can be interpreted.  I believe that leaving the reader with manypossibilities or unanswered  questions isa mark of depth and quality, provided the questions are not unintended. I thinkyou knew exactly  what you were doing.




 



 


Val


 


The poem saysthat music is the sound of love, and in its own vibrations it can never bedestroyed. Resilient is defined as the power to come back. Even when life seemsto have died, it returns. It is eternal, never failing. Love and Life are ofone substance, one energy, one music. To me, that is the message of the poem.It says this in the brilliant shorthand of poetry. As usual, well done.




 


Hearing



All life sound



Rezilliant in thebright Music



Of Love



Never



Yields tofailure.



______




 



 



 

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