Happiness is but a butterfly...

Now... How do I put this...

I'm not bothered with the people above me (irrespective of the fact that *NotenSMSK is a childhood friend of mine) because I have something to think after I finished reading this.

The first few things that struck me were the font (I'm a sucker for any Typewriter font, and here its the right choice to use) and the openness that you've used (reminds me of e e cummings, Brendan Behan, and in fragments of Seamus Heaney in terms of content). I had to take out "the new dragon book of verses" just to bring myself to comprehend who could have written like this.

Which is where I gave you marks for Vision, Technique and Impact. The vision was very pristine and well strung. It was definitely something written from a sense of loss or a sense of distraught disharmony.

The feeling of being a man whose crutches have been sown unto his armpits; the almost deliberate cry to "fucking breathe" (which I'll also pinpoint, the word "fuck" has been used to very subtle effect here. It suits the desperation of this poem) Its very clear. Good job there.

BUT... Originality...

I can't help but quote Dylan Thomas on this one:

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion

and e e cummings:

for whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
its always ourselves we find in the sea

following this up with Brendan Behan's "I Remember in September"

[link]

and Seamus Heaney's poems from "The Death of a Naturalist" the book itself.

That is a very big tradition that I've borne witness in this one poem.

Let me put it this way: Its a poem, that brings to the fore all poems written at an age of indescribable development. In essence, this poem... is more than just a poem; its an experience.

And an experience that occurs for the whole week... talk about happiness beyond words, and this poem is honestly a tradition put in words.

Don't do anything to this poem. Its a worthwhile experience.

And one which I'd like to end with a stanza from Thomas Moore's untitled poem:

So soon may I follow
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie wither'd.
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! Who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?