FreeWrights Peer Review™

In a moment of ecstasy, on top of a hill, I notice a leaf of grass, and think I must never have seen one before,
So tall and firm, a ballast of the sky,
Bending, twisting, turning, but never breaking,
Its courage never wavers, its resolve the epitome of perfection,
I think it must be the proudest thing I know,
It mocks me for being so nearsighted, for not seeing it before,
It calls to me with a light whistle, beckoning with its lone finger,
Tempting me to enter, promising to whisper its secrets in the wind,
But only if I am ready to listen.

I say to you friend, tread lightly! the grass is not your doormat, to be stomped and stepped on as you please, to drag your muddy feet across in your haste to somewhere else, for where else could you be going but here?
No, the grass is nature’s red carpet at the entrance to enlightenment, greeting those who would dare enter.

O-to be a leaf of grass!
I think the grass might be wiser than all,
Certainly more poised than myself,
What I see in the grass I find everywhere,
In the grandest river to the exiguous stream,
From the sprawling forest to the exalted mountain,
Between the vast plains and the humble prairies,
Amidst the lakes, brooks and ponds,
Among farms and country sides to cities and metropolises,
Under the great wide firmament and between the heavenly cosmos,
From the smallest nation to the most glorious continent,
Encompassed by the most wretched animal and most exalted human,
All connected by the universal truth,
What was still is, and always will be,
This is the secret the grass tells me.

I ask you, how many people feel unlucky to die?
Do these same people consider themselves lucky to have been born?
I say that both are to be anticipated equally, and disregarded just same,
The grass does not cower from the blade, for it knows it cannot die,
The grass gives no thought to time, for time holds no weight for it,
Nor does it fear winter’s icy hand; no, it does not even shed a tear,
Rather, it embraces the twilight and withers proudly,
Death is but the winter of our lives, always to be followed by the spring, which precedes the winter.


O-magnificent leaf of grass!
How gracious to remove the power of the blade!
How wondrous to live forever!
To enjoy your time in the sun, knowing there is no moment, no time more perfect and splendid than this.
Do not spend your life fearing phantoms,
Stand tall, blow in the wind, do not fear the blade,
This is the secret the grass tells me.

Wow, where did you learn to write like this? Very enjoyable read! Curious though, what would you call this (writing style?)

One suggestion though. I think you should have left out the 2nd to last paragraph of stanza's. You totally drift off into an oblivion, as beautiful as it might be. Your piece would be more complete had you stayed in tune
with the underlined meaning of your poem.

Thank you. I don't know where I learned to write like that, just something I developed. In fact I am a beginner to poetry and this is one of the first full poems I've written. I think at some point in your life you just discovery something within you that you never knew existed, and for me it manifested itself in the form of this poem.

Thx for the advice on the 2nd to last paragraph. I had some apprehension myself about that paragraph.

As far as what I would call my writing style, I don't know yet. Like I said my poetry is in its incipient stages so it is still taking form. I think I will leave it to others to determine that for the time being. I do read a lot of philosophy though and I think that manifests itself a lot in my poetry. I have a few others that I will post on here as well.

The following is the kind of critique normally reserved for the Broiler, and that's where I normally hang out. I've come at your request.

The style appears to be an emulation of Walt Whitman. One of his more well-known poems is titled Leaves Of Grass. A Carol Of Harvest For 1867. Even some of your passages are reminiscent of Whitman's poem.

I find myself scowling at your generous use of words like never and forever, your in-context-stale modifiers like exalted and vast (perhaps not yet over-used in Whitman's time), and phrases like "universal truth, secrets in the wind, winter's icy hand," but worst is that in the end you tell the reader what it all means, the lesson to be gleaned, contrary to the old poetry saw: show, don't tell.

Whitman's style is as good as any to practice, but consider bringing your language fully into the present and getting rid of the didactic phrases.

Allen