Daybreak

The first thing I notice in the first stanza is the curiously passive tone you take toward the gods. Helios is dragged. Eos watches as nothing moves. It is a masterful introductory stanza because of the tone it sets- I am watching things move and sit still in a whirlwind, cacophony of images and moods. Where another writer would confuse the reader, you captivate- the short, jagged, casual structure of your lines and phrases make it work. I get the sense that I'm turning through radio stations hearing loud periods of static interspersed with brief flashes of evocative and colorful music. The birds set into motion, and nothing moves. A tornado of light. Not to use the same word twice, but it's very curious, and it pulls me in to your poem.

And the second stanza it gets better- the razor sharp mood of the first is cooled by doves spilling from windows (a perfect verb to use). Your irregular syntax gives me a sense of freedom, and I love it.

One thing that trips me up is that you have these doves "narrate" the scene: I feel as if this whole first part is narration, and I want to see some action. "Narrate" seems implicit and therefore redundant.

And these are wastelands. At first glance it seems that "Wastelands" refers to the the setting you've placed all these movements in (which at this point, you haven't described much; there's a house, are there houses? If there is only one house then "they spill from their windows" should be "they spill from its windows" and "wastelands" should be "this is the wasteland," maybe) but it can also be interpreted as the doves, the characters: as a general comment, I love how open ended your work is, how open to interpretation. Okay. Not to jump around again, but I feel like if I don't say something, I'll forget it- you should get into the habit of reading your poetry out loud, and I would start with this one, I would read it over and over and over again, because it sounds so lovely spoken to the air. Read it slowly. Let it sink in. Your consonant sounds are just stunning. All those r's in the middle of the second stanza. blackbirds and jackdaws. My goodness.

On to part 2.

Who is this new character? I'm not sure, but he's very intriguing. I would clarify the relationship between this character and you, the speaker. A dense light drapes you and your skull closes and you're tired. I'm not sure why, but I'm very interested. This seems sort of out-of-place and anticlimactic compared to the powerful and mysterious Part 1. Nonetheless I really love the sound of "end of his cloak trails upon the sleeping."

Aaaand to part 3. Again I'm not sure about the relationship between you and your environment. The swans dissipate, however, that's set quite apart from the fact that you can't focus, a detail that is bracketed, so the swans must be dissipating for another reason besides your faulty vision. The images you string together here are lovely and encompassing, freshness, the summer, the lake, all is beautiful, and I start to understand your fatigue, in light of so many glorious things, you are wedged into this reality that you treat with doubt and distance, and in going to sleep you are able to be with a "beloved," but your poem is trapped in that curious state where you are too tired to sleep, and so you're writing, letting the artificial light in. Does any of that make sense? It's this sort of layered reality that you're trying to communicate in this poem, and you communicate it beautifully. And in the last two stanzas of part 3 everything ties together as light drains away- you're back to a period of not-knowing, a place where you can rest.

Part 4 starts with a loud and clear image that is wonderful after the fuzzy description
in part 3. I love that you say he "tears down language, mocking the harmony- as if he is forgetting." The process of unknowing seems to fascinate you here, with good reason, and it fascinates me too through your language. You mix up time with "the dawn chorus always comes before sleep." And now I get the sense that your anguish is caused by someone leaving you probably right at nightfall and now that the night is falling as I write this I really have some shit in my personal life to figure out and you're poem's inspiring me to do that. I love this: "It was almost occult, how you emptied." This is your climax, at the end of this part, and it's a clamoring one.

Anyway. I digress so much, I'm sorry. Part 5. A return to those scattered images that were so effective in Part 1. The way your poem winds down is simply lovely, everything becomes still as you float back away from lucidity. And that someone wakes up in the end. Perfect.

In conclusion. This is an emotionally stirring poem that feeds me so many images in glimpses and blinks that allows me to question conventions of poetry and reality. An incredible work in what it's able to convey, you should be most proud of this.