Adam Fenner's Blog, page 5

I loved you forever – Reviewed

John Lyons

The silence out of which
the spider spins its web
an organic contraption
of deceptive silk
malice aforethought
though there is no malice
A poem spun from words
from dreams of a beach

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

I loved you forever

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Analysis

This poem moves in a quiet, careful way, like a memory being built in real time, something the speaker is shaping for themselves even though they already know where it leads. It begins with the image of a spider spinning its web. The web is “deceptive silk,” something delicate but designed to trap. The phrase “malice aforethought” makes it sound intentional, like a planned trick, but then the poem pulls back—“though there is no malice.” The spider isn’t cruel. It’s just doing what it does. This idea lingers, suggesting that the memory itself might be a kind of trap, something the speaker spins without fully realizing how inescapable it will become.

Then the poem shifts, and suddenly it’s not about the spider anymore. The web disappears, and the speaker is somewhere else, standing on a beach in the past. They recall walking hand in hand, the ocean moving around them, the sand smooth beneath their feet. The waves break white against the shore. The frigate birds hover over the water, searching. Everything in this moment feels untouched, perfect. The way it’s introduced—“a poem spun from words / from dreams of a beach”—makes it feel distant, something being reconstructed. This isn’t a memory the speaker is fully inside. It’s something they’re trying to hold onto.

The memory is almost too perfect. The speaker describes a time when life felt wide open, when they could “do with [their lives] as we pleased as we felt.” That kind of freedom only exists in hindsight. The poem doesn’t say what happened after. It doesn’t describe what choices they made, what changed, or how things ended. But the fact that the speaker is remembering it this way suggests that they no longer feel that sense of possibility. The past is fixed, unchangeable, and the way the poem lingers on this moment makes it clear that something was lost.

That’s where the trap of the memory becomes clear. It isn’t just about recalling something beautiful. It’s about getting caught in it. If this love had lasted, if the feeling in that moment had stretched forward, there would be no need for this reflection. The way the speaker looks back makes it clear that the relationship ended, though they never say it outright. There’s no bitterness, no blame—just distance. Just the sense that what was once endless has become something unreachable.

Then the last lines hit. “And in that moment / I loved you forever.” It sounds absolute, but it isn’t. Love that lasts forever shouldn’t be confined to a single moment. But that’s exactly what’s happening here. The feeling was real, whole, but it only truly existed right then. It’s not about love that endured—it’s about love that was complete in one fleeting instant. The contradiction makes it painful. The speaker isn’t just remembering. They are caught in this memory, unable to leave it behind.

The structure of the poem reinforces this. It starts small, almost detached, with the image of the spider and its web. Then it moves into something bigger, something human—a poem, a dream, a memory. It expands into a landscape, a relationship, a feeling of freedom. Then it contracts again, down to one moment, one undeniable truth. The last line pulls everything together, making the memory feel both fleeting and permanent at the same time.

The tone of the poem is quiet, reflective. There’s no dramatic emotion, no declarations beyond that final thought. The speaker doesn’t explain how they feel now. They don’t say whether they’ve moved on or if they’re still caught in this memory. The feeling is left to stand on its own. That makes the poem linger. It’s not about what was lost or what lasted—it’s about how love, even when it only exists in a single moment, can feel like forever.

Photo by Erick Chévez on Unsplash

No Who – Reviewed

Mary K. Doyle

The spirited who-who-who-who
from a chorus of owls
sang out my bedtime lullabies
and early wake-up calls.

Owls would call to one another
to protect and attract.
Their conversations were lively,
and responses, intense.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Poem–No Who

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Analysis

This poem is about loss, but not in a loud or dramatic way. It’s about the kind of loss that happens quietly, the kind you don’t realize is coming until it’s already settled in. It starts with something that feels solid—the sound of owls calling in the night. This wasn’t just any noise. It was a familiar part of life, something the speaker had lived with for a long time. The calls were both a comfort and a signal, something that marked time, something always there. The way the first stanza describes it makes it feel warm, even nostalgic, like a memory of something safe and steady. The repetition of “who-who-who-who” gives the call a rhythm, a sense of presence. It’s a sound that should keep going.

The second stanza shifts from memory to explanation. The owls weren’t just making noise—they were speaking. They were defending their space, finding mates, responding to each other. Their voices had meaning, not just for them but for the world around them. The word “lively” makes it feel active, full of movement and interaction. The calls weren’t just background noise; they were part of a system, something that kept the night alive. This makes the silence that comes next even heavier.

Then everything stops. The third stanza is blunt. Bird flu arrives, and the owls die. The words are short and harsh—“deadly,” “stole,” “leveled.” It’s not a slow disappearance. It’s fast, brutal, final. The chorus that once filled the night is gone, leaving only one owl behind. The poem doesn’t dwell on the details of the disease. It doesn’t have to. The absence of the other owls is enough. The loss isn’t just about the birds themselves; it’s about how their disappearance changes everything.

The last stanza returns to the owl’s call, but now it’s different. It’s not part of a conversation anymore. It’s just a single voice, calling into emptiness. The repetition of “who-who-who-who” is back, but now it feels lonely. The final line, “in search of friend and foe,” is where it really sinks in. Even conflict, even the presence of a rival, would be better than this silence. The owl isn’t just calling out—it’s hoping for an answer that will never come.

The way the poem is structured reflects this loss. It starts full—many owls, many voices. Then it moves to one. Then it moves to silence. The shift happens quickly, just like the loss itself. The owl’s call appears twice—first when it’s part of something bigger, then when it’s alone. That repetition makes the absence feel real.

This isn’t just a poem about owls. It’s about what happens when something that seemed permanent disappears. Bird flu didn’t just kill birds—it wiped out an entire soundscape, an entire piece of the world. The speaker noticed because they were connected to it in a way many people aren’t. They knew what the owl calls meant, understood that they weren’t just noise but conversation, life, presence. Now, they hear the silence. The poem doesn’t tell the reader how to feel, but by the end, it’s impossible not to notice what’s missing. It’s not just about what was lost. It’s about what it feels like to wake up one day and realize the world has gotten smaller.

Photo by Coed Pageant on Unsplash

The Hero – Reviewed

Siegfried Sassoon

Jack fell as he’d have wished,’ the mother said,
And folded up the letter that she’d read.
‘The Colonel writes so nicely.’ Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. ‘We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.’ Then her face was bowed.

Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He’d told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he’d been so brave, her glorious boy.

He thought how ‘Jack’, cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he’d tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.

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Analysis

This poem looks at war in a way that strips away the usual ideas of heroism. It doesn’t glorify sacrifice or bravery. Instead, it shows how war distorts the truth, how people believe what they need to believe, and how the idea of a hero often doesn’t match reality. The mother in the poem believes her son, Jack, died courageously. She holds onto the letter she’s been given, carefully folding it, repeating the words she’s been told: “Jack fell as he’d have wished.” But her voice wavers. Something in her knows there’s more to the story, but she doesn’t let herself think about it. She’s been given a version of events that she can bear. The officer who delivered the news knows this. He feeds her the story she needs to hear, and she takes it in, letting it sustain her. She wants Jack’s death to mean something.

But the reality is different. The officer knows what really happened. Jack wasn’t a hero. He was afraid. He tried to run. And when the mine exploded, he died quickly, without glory, without meaning. The contrast between what the mother believes and what the officer knows makes the poem so stark. She’s proud, even comforted, because she thinks her son was brave. But the reader sees the truth, and that makes her belief feel tragic.

The poem lays out two versions of heroism—the one that exists for people back home and the one that exists for soldiers. The gap between them is huge. The mother sees her son’s death as something noble. She repeats what she’s been told, as if saying it enough will make it true. She even says, “We mothers are so proud of our dead soldiers.” It’s an unsettling line, but it shows how deeply this version of heroism has been pushed onto people. There’s no room for doubt. If a soldier dies, then their death must have mattered.

The officer knows better. He lies to her, but not out of cruelty. He knows she needs this story, that without it, she would be left with nothing but loss. She listens with “gentle triumph,” as if she’s found something to hold onto. The reader, though, knows it’s all built on a lie.

The final stanza rips that comfort away. Jack wasn’t fearless. He panicked. He tried to escape. He wasn’t the soldier his mother imagines. But does that make him any less of a hero? War expects soldiers to be brave, to follow orders, to die the right way. The officer in the poem sees Jack’s fear as weakness. He calls him “cold-footed, useless swine.” But in the end, Jack still died, just like every other soldier. Does it really matter that he was scared?

The poem doesn’t give an answer. It just lays out the contrast between the comforting lie and the harsh truth. Jack’s mother believes in heroism. Jack never had that choice.

Photo by Todd Trapani on Unsplash

The Punic Wars – Reviewed

whitecatgrove

I had seen this movie before: that glee
wide-mouthed and sick at the triumph, feasting
on tears. Glory of burning hospitals,
the tumbled houses. They wrapped the bodies

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Dream poem: The Punic Wars

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Analysis

This poem moves fast, showing war as something that repeats endlessly. The first line—“I had seen this movie before”—makes it clear that this isn’t new. War, destruction, and suffering are all part of a pattern the speaker has seen before and will see again. The phrase “that glee” stands out. War isn’t just about fighting. It’s about the way people react to it, the way victory and suffering go hand in hand. There’s something sick about it, something familiar.

The destruction builds in layers. First, there’s fire. Hospitals and houses burn, places meant to be safe are wiped away. But safety doesn’t matter here. Then it gets worse. The dead aren’t just gone—they become fuel. “They wrapped the bodies / in tight shrouds and used them to light a torch / for the games.” The wording makes it feel like a public event, something people watch. War turns into entertainment, death into a spectacle. And the poem doesn’t pause to react. The horror is presented without commentary, as if this is just how things go.

Then the warships arrive, but they aren’t ordinary ships. They’re swans, creatures that should symbolize peace, turned into engines of destruction. “Shredding our flag with a merciless beak” suggests the tearing apart of identity, the loss of a nation. Then, “devouring mercy”—kindness itself disappears. War isn’t just about burning cities. It eats away at ideas, leaving no space for anything but violence.

The final section shifts into something ancient. A “living tophet” appears—a reference to sites where children were burned as sacrifices. The war in this poem isn’t just one battle. It’s something deeper, something that has happened before and will happen again. The last image—“A red mouth opens, the earth sown with salt”—pulls everything together. The mouth could be fire, could be war itself, could be history swallowing everything whole. And the salt is a direct reference to Rome’s destruction of Carthage. It’s not just about winning. It’s about making sure nothing is left. War doesn’t just kill people—it erases them.

The structure of the poem reflects its message. The images come in a rush, with no time to stop or process them. The lack of pauses makes it feel relentless, the way war moves, the way history repeats. There’s no reflection, no moment where the speaker questions what’s happening. They already know. They’ve seen it before. They’ll see it again.

The poem feels like a nightmare, the kind where you know what’s coming but can’t stop it. The way destruction is described makes it feel distant, inevitable. The title, The Punic Wars, ties it to history, but the poem makes it clear that history never really stays in the past. War follows the same pattern, over and over. The fire burns, the salt is sown, and eventually, it all starts again.

Photo by Austrian National Library on Unsplash

Wild Waters – Reviewed

Hana Rubinstejnova

frogs having a blast
puddles turned lakes
raging rivers

swallowed fields

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

MIDDAY POETRY – ‘Wild Waters’

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Analysis

This poem follows the movement of rising floodwaters, starting small and growing into something overwhelming. It begins with a moment of life—frogs “having a blast.” It’s lighthearted, almost comical. The image suggests that while the rain might be disruptive for people, some creatures are thriving in it. But as the poem unfolds, the mood shifts. The puddles aren’t just puddles anymore. They’ve turned into lakes. The rivers aren’t just flowing; they’re raging. The water is no longer just something to splash in. It’s something bigger, something out of control.

The structure is short, fragmented, almost like a list. Each line is a small piece of the picture, dropping in like raindrops, one by one, until the whole scene is built. There’s no punctuation, no full sentences, just images that stack on top of each other. This mirrors the way floodwaters rise—little by little, then all at once. The biggest break happens in the middle, after “swallowed fields.” The space that follows gives a pause, as if the poem itself is letting the water settle before moving into the next stage. That’s how floods work. One moment, the ground is still visible. The next, it’s gone.

Then the poem moves from nature into something messier. Septic tanks are overflowing. The water isn’t just water anymore—it’s carrying waste, mixing everything together. The phrase “with surfers” adds something unexpected. Maybe it’s literal, maybe people are out there, riding the floodwaters like a game. Or maybe it’s a way of saying that people have been swept up in it, floating whether they want to or not. Either way, it shifts the tone again. The water isn’t just a natural force anymore. It’s taken on everything in its path.

The last lines pull everything together. “Life has blended into one.” The separation between things—land and water, clean and dirty, human and nature—has disappeared. The poem doesn’t say whether this is good or bad. It just states what has happened. The final word, “one,” lands with a kind of finality, as if everything has been reduced to a single state of being.

If this is about climate change, it’s not an alarm bell. It doesn’t talk about causes, doesn’t point fingers. It just shows what happens. The flood isn’t just a disaster—it’s a transformation. The short lines and lack of punctuation keep everything moving, like floodwaters rising without pause. The imagery shifts from life thriving in the rain to destruction, then to something beyond either—something where everything has mixed together into a single, unstoppable force.

There’s no resolution here. No sign that the water will recede. The poem captures a moment when the flood has already won. It doesn’t rely on big, dramatic statements. Instead, it lets the water rise line by line, creeping forward, swallowing things bit by bit. By the end, there’s nothing left to separate—just water, waste, movement, and change.

Photo by Jack B on Unsplash

Deus loquitur – Reviewed

Charles Sorley

That’s what I am: a thing of no desire,
With no path to discover and no plea
To offer up, so be my altar fire
May burn before the hearth continuously,
To be
For wayward men a steadfast light to see.

They know me in the morning of their days,
But ere noontide forsake me, to discern
New lore and hear new riddles. But moonrays
Bring them back footsore, humble, bent, a-burn
To turn
And warm them by my fire which they did spurn.

They flock together like tired birds. “We sought
Full many stars in many skies to see.
But ever knowledge disappointment brought.
Thy light alone, Lord, burneth steadfastly.”
Ah me!
Then it is I who fain would wayward be.

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You may find this and other poems here.

Analysis

In this poem, God does not demand devotion or punish those who turn away. He is just there—steady, patient, waiting. Charles Sorley wrote this during World War I, a time when faith, duty, and sacrifice were being tested by the brutality of war. His God is not vengeful or commanding, just enduring. He watches people leave, chase after knowledge and new ideas, and then return when they are lost. He does not stop them, does not try to hold on to them, but remains a presence they can always return to.

The title, Deus Loquitur, means “God Speaks,” but this is not the voice of authority or judgment. It is quiet, reflective, almost resigned. The poem follows a clear pattern. Each stanza first describes God’s nature, then human behavior, then ends with a short, almost resigned statement. This repetition reinforces the idea that belief and doubt follow a cycle—people will always leave and come back.

At the start, God calls himself “a thing of no desire.” Unlike the jealous or wrathful God of scripture, he does not ask for anything, does not seek worship. He has “no path to discover,” meaning he does not move forward or backward. This contrasts with people, who are always searching. The central image is the “altar fire” that burns continuously—not a fire that consumes, but one that offers warmth. It is not kept alive by sacrifice; it simply burns. This fire represents constancy, a presence that does not demand attention but is always available. Yet a fire that never goes out must always be burning. Even in this stillness, there is a kind of sacrifice.

The second stanza shows the pattern of belief and doubt. People begin life knowing God, but as they grow, they turn to other things—new knowledge, new ideas. They leave, but they always come back, exhausted and disillusioned. “Foot-sore, humble, bent, a-burn”—they return not because they were forced to, but because they need to. The fire is still there, unchanged, waiting. There is no judgment in these lines, just an understanding of human nature.

The last stanza shifts perspective. People admit they have searched “many stars in many skies” but found only disappointment. What’s unexpected is how the poem ends—not with God accepting them, but with a flicker of doubt. “Ah me! / Then it is I who fain would wayward be.” Watching humans chase meaning, even God feels the pull to wander. For a moment, his constancy seems like a burden.

Sorley’s God does not force belief, does not punish doubt. He stays in place, like a soldier ordered to hold his position while others leave and return. The war had no clear purpose, no grand meaning, but soldiers endured it anyway. In the same way, God’s steadfastness feels like a choice—an act of quiet endurance. He does not leave in the end, but the fact that he wants to makes him feel less like an unreachable divine force and more like something that understands longing, even if he never gives into it.

Photo by Jyoti Singh on Unsplash

sickness lately – Reviewed

Musehick

in our tag team
of sickness lately
i skipped a week
while the wife and baby
sweat and sneezed
and wriggled in fever dreams
and i slipped clean through

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

sickness lately

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Analysis

This poem captures the experience of sickness as something that moves through a household, shifting roles between caretaker and patient. The speaker starts off lucky, avoiding illness while his wife and baby struggle through it. But just when he thinks he’s escaped, it hits him hard. The poem plays with that transition, moving from distance to full-body misery, exaggerating the shift in a way that feels both relatable and a little humorous.

At first, the speaker is just an observer. He describes his sick wife and baby “sweat and sneezed / and wriggled in fever dreams,” using “wriggled” in a way that makes their suffering seem almost over-the-top. It’s the kind of description that comes from someone who isn’t feeling it themselves—he sees what’s happening, but he’s not experiencing it firsthand. He even sounds a little smug when he says he “slipped clean through,” as if he dodged the sickness entirely, like he’s immune to it.

Then, suddenly, he’s not. The shift is abrupt: “But yesterday I hit wall.” There’s no buildup, no warning—just impact. The phrase “shattered into bricks” makes it feel like he didn’t just get sick, he completely collapsed. And then he’s just there, “laid in a line / under covers,” as if he’s been arranged by the sickness itself. He’s not moving, not fighting it—just stuck, unable to do anything but let it run its course.

This is where the humor creeps in. The poem leans into the stereotype of “man flu,” the idea that men act like they’re dying when they get sick while women push through it. The way he describes himself—sweating, twisting, completely undone—plays into that image. His wife was sick last week, probably still tired from it, and now he’s the one falling apart. He knows how it looks. But the joke works because it’s also true. When you’re in it, sickness really does feel like this.

Then comes the push to recover. The phrase “tried to wrestle back / the i” suggests that sickness has taken something away from him—not just his health, but his ability to function, to feel like himself. He has to fight to get it back. And even though he’s trying, the final line, “to move forward into the week,” feels exhausted. He has things to do, but getting up and back to normal isn’t easy.

The structure of the poem mirrors this experience. The first half moves quickly, skipping over time, because it’s not his sickness yet. The second half slows down, sinking into the fever, the exhaustion, the feeling of being trapped in it. Then the ending is a struggle, not a resolution—he’s not better, just trying to move forward.

The poem keeps things simple and direct, making it feel real rather than overly poetic. There’s no deep reflection on sickness or recovery—just the reality of how it happens. One minute you’re fine, the next you’re a wreck, and all you can do is wait it out while everyone else shakes their head at you.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

The Dragon And The Undying – Reviewed

Siegfried Sassoon

All night the flares go up; the Dragon sings
And beats upon the dark with furious wings;
And, stung to rage by his own darting fires,
Reaches with grappling coils from town to town;
He lusts to break the loveliness of spires,
And hurls their martyred music toppling down.
Yet, though the slain are homeless as the breeze,

Vocal are they, like storm-bewilder’d seas.
Their faces are the fair, unshrouded night,
And planets are their eyes, their ageless dreams.
Tenderly stooping earthward from their height,
They wander in the dusk with chanting streams,
And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms up-flung,
To hail the burning heavens they left unsung.

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You may find this and other poems here.

Analysis

The Dragon and the Undying is a poem about war as a living force, something that moves from place to place, feeding on its own destruction. The dragon is not just a metaphor—it is war itself, relentless and consuming. The poem does not focus on soldiers or victories. It is not about sides or causes. It shows war as something that exists only to destroy. But the poem does not end in despair. The war takes everything, but it does not erase the people. They remain, transformed into the night, the stars, the trees. The poem begins with fire and ruin, but it ends with endurance.

The first half of the poem focuses on destruction. The dragon is fire and fury, lighting up the night sky with artillery and burning through towns. All night the flares go up; the Dragon sings makes war sound almost joyful in its violence. The dragon beats upon the dark with furious wings, making it feel restless, driven by its own destruction. Stung to rage by his own darting fires suggests that war is not just violent—it is self-perpetuating, unable to stop itself.

The destruction is not random. The dragon does not just kill—it targets beauty. He lusts to break the loveliness of spires suggests that war does not just take lives but erases history, culture, and meaning. The word lusts gives destruction a kind of hunger, as if war itself craves the loss of what people have built. And hurls their martyred music toppling down reinforces the sense of something sacred being lost. The things that fall are not just structures but symbols of something greater. War does not just kill; it silences.

Then the poem shifts. The focus moves from destruction to those who have died. Yet, though the slain are homeless as the breeze, suggests that they have lost everything—no home, no body, no place in the world. But they are not gone. Vocal are they, like storm-bewilder’d seas. The dead still have a voice. The sea is restless, powerful, never truly silent. The dragon takes their lives, but it does not erase them.

The transformation continues. Their faces are the fair, unshrouded night, / And planets are their eyes, their ageless dreams. The dead do not fade away. They become something endless, something untouchable. Their dreams do not die with them. They rise into the night sky, beyond war, beyond destruction. The dragon can burn towns to the ground, but it cannot touch the stars.

The final lines reinforce this endurance. Tenderly stooping earthward from their height, / They wander in the dusk with chanting streams. The dead are not lost or forgotten. They move through the world in a different way, not as mourned names but as something lasting. The final image is one of resilience. And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms up-flung, / To hail the burning heavens they left unsung. The trees, reaching toward the sky, suggest strength and growth. The heavens are still burning—the war has not ended—but the dead are no longer trapped in that destruction. They have become something beyond it.

The poem moves from fire to light, from destruction to endurance. The dragon destroys, but it does not win. The dead do not vanish. They become the sky, the stars, the trees. They are undying.

Photo by Patrick Perkins on Unsplash

Smoke and Fire – Reviewed

Project 54

He drifted
wafted in and out
choking the air from a room
bringing tears to innocent eyes
leaving a taint on everything
a sting, a stink, a stain,
no substance,
only smoke.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Smoke and Fire

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Analysis

Smoke and Fire is a poem about a toxic relationship where one person gives everything, and the other takes until there’s nothing left. The poem uses smoke and fire as metaphors for these two people. Smoke drifts, stains, and suffocates but has no real substance. Fire is full of energy, bringing warmth and light, but it also consumes what fuels it. Together, they create an unbalanced cycle where one person feeds the other, but instead of growing, they both burn out.

The structure of the poem is split between the two people. The first stanza describes the man as smoke, and the second focuses on the woman as fire. The way the lines rise and fall mirrors their nature. The smoke stanza feels light at first, almost harmless. He drifted / wafted in and out makes him seem passive, like he’s just moving through life without direction. But the harm he causes builds as the stanza goes on—choking the air from a room, bringing tears to innocent eyes, leaving a taint on everything. Smoke doesn’t just disappear when it leaves; it lingers. It soaks into walls, clothes, the air itself. It stains everything it touches. The three sharp words—a sting, a stink, a stain—land like final blows, summing up the damage he leaves behind. Then, the poem takes all of that away. No substance, / only smoke. He isn’t solid. He doesn’t create anything or leave anything meaningful behind. His entire presence depends on something else.

The second stanza shifts to She was fire. The first sentence is firm, definite. Unlike smoke, fire is active, full of energy. She doesn’t just exist—she was. The lines that follow make her role clear. She made him / burned to sustain him. He only existed the way he did because of her. Smoke comes from fire, and in the same way, the man in this relationship was only able to take because she was giving. Fueled all they ever were / and all they ever could be. She wasn’t just part of the relationship—she was the relationship. Without her effort, there would have been nothing. The lines move with a sense of momentum, like fire growing, spreading, consuming everything in its path.

But then, fire can only burn for so long. Until she burned out. It’s inevitable. Fire needs fuel, and if she is the fuel, she can only last so long before she has nothing left to give. The rhythm slows down. And they were / nothing. It’s the same emptiness as the first stanza’s ending. Smoke fades, fire dies, and in the end, there is nothing left of either of them. The relationship was completely dependent on her. When she was gone, so was he.

The poem’s structure mirrors their dynamic. The first stanza drifts in like smoke, growing heavier as it lingers. The second builds like fire, growing stronger before it collapses. Together, they show the full cycle of a relationship that could never last. One person takes too much, the other gives too much, and in the end, both are destroyed.

There’s no anger in the poem, just a quiet inevitability. Smoke can’t turn into fire. Fire can’t burn forever without something to keep it going. The relationship was doomed from the start because one person was always consuming while the other was always being consumed. The poem doesn’t offer a lesson or a resolution—just the truth of what happens when someone gives everything to someone who only knows how to take.

Photo by Lucas K on Unsplash

Moonmind – Reviewed

Björn Rudberg

Moving myself
waltzing to melodies
moonminded
mindlessly mesmerised
lunaticked wolflike

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Moonmind

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Analysis

Moonmind is a poem about deep fascination, almost an obsession, with the moon. The speaker seems hypnotized by it, caught in its pull like the tides. The poem doesn’t just describe admiration—it feels like a surrender, as if the speaker has given themselves over completely to the moon’s presence. It’s dreamy and restless at the same time, filled with movement and trance-like devotion. The way the speaker describes the moon makes it feel like something more intimate, almost as if they are speaking about a lover instead of a celestial body. The poem plays with that idea, blending the moon and a person together, making it unclear where one ends and the other begins.

It starts with movement—Moving myself / waltzing to melodies. A waltz is a dance usually done with a partner, and though the poem never names another person, it feels like the speaker is dancing with something—or someone. Moonminded / mindlessly mesmerized adds to that feeling of being lost in the moment, caught up in something bigger than them. It sounds like love, or at least deep fascination, where a person can’t think clearly because they are so drawn to something.

The tone shifts. Lunaticked wolflike / howling the hues / of silver on cobalt. The word lunaticked twists lunatic, tying madness to the moon but also suggesting obsession, someone acting outside of reason. Wolflike and howling bring in another layer. Wolves howl at the moon, but in the context of romance, this could mean longing. The speaker could be calling out to someone they love, expressing emotion that can’t be contained. Silver on cobalt describes the moon against the dark sky, but it could also be about someone’s features—the way their skin or hair shines in dim light.

Transfixed / in her gaze makes the connection to a person even stronger. The speaker is not just looking at the moon; they are locked into its gaze, like they are staring into someone’s eyes. The moon isn’t usually described as “gazing” back, but a person would be. This is where it starts to feel less like a poem about the night sky and more like one about someone the speaker loves. I am tethered to sequins adds to that idea. The moon’s surface could look like sequins, but it could also be describing something else—maybe the shimmer of a dress, the sparkle of someone’s jewelry, or even just the way light reflects off their skin.

The last lines are the most personal: my madam forever / my midnight, my moon. My madam sounds like a title of respect, even devotion, making it feel more like the speaker is addressing a person. Forever adds a sense of commitment, like this love isn’t temporary. My midnight, my moon ties it all back together, blending night and romance into one. Midnight could represent mystery, intimacy, or even a private moment shared between two people. The moon is both a distant thing and something deeply personal to the speaker, the way love can feel both overwhelming and comforting at the same time.

The structure is loose and flowing, without punctuation to stop the momentum. This makes it feel like a continuous thought, like the speaker is carried along by their own obsession. The lines are short, which adds to the feeling of being caught up in a rhythm, almost like a dance. There’s repetition in the ideas—moonminded, mindlessly mesmerized, transfixed—all circling around the same theme of being spellbound. The tone of the poem is both romantic and wild. The speaker calls the moon my madam forever, making it sound like a lifelong devotion. But there’s also a restless energy in the way they move—waltzing, howling, mesmerized. It’s not just still admiration; it’s full of motion and intensity.

The poem never directly states that it’s about a lover, but the language makes it easy to read that way. The movement, the fixation, the admiration—it all feels more like someone in love than just someone looking at the night sky. The way the speaker describes the moon is the way people describe someone they can’t stop thinking about. The poem leaves space for both ideas, making it work as a description of the moon, of love, or even both at once. It captures the way the moon has fascinated people for centuries—not just as something beautiful in the sky but as something that stirs something deeper. It blends the romantic with the untamed, the quiet glow with the wild pull. The structure keeps it fluid and entrancing, and the language makes it feel personal and strange at the same time. It’s not just a poem about looking at the moon; it’s about being caught in its gravity.

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