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I am in
a classroom.
The classroom is very well lit
sunlight beams in.
The tiles on the floor
a gleaming imaculate
white.

The walls eggshell white -- clean
Very clean.
The trim along the bottom
of the walls is a washed
blue.
It has a lot of white in.

There are six desks facing
one direction
Seven facing another -- perpendicular
to the first six.
One faces the opposite to the first six.

There are five blue chairs
stacked leaning to one side
numbered 445, 423, 422, 434, and 436.

One black computer chair with five legs one is broken.
Two long desks - one is wooden
with one side much longer than the other
The other desk is one end and made of metal-
nothing but a frame.
Much like a bed frame is made of--
something air duct workers call
"angle" -- short for angle-iron.

There is a stand made of bamboo
a dark brown much like
my pen.

A semi circle bar
in the corner.
A few more blue chairs stacked
up and two small school desk charis, also...
staked up.

This room is nice
but void of life
It does not drain anyone inhabiting its energy
only because the window letting the sun in.

I am comfortable as I sit
waiting
to see the Traumatologo
el doctor de pie
quien va a analizar mis estudios, resonance magnetico,
que he traido conmigo.



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Comments

The following comments are for "Eternally stuck"
by xinerama

Adrift in Arid White, Lost in Detail
This poem reminds me of the classic psych question: "You're in a pure white room -- white walls, white ceilings, white floors. There are no doors or windows. What do you do?" The question is meant to evoke the querrants feelings about death -- in and of itself, that underlying imagery makes for an intriguing contrast to your title, Eternally Stuck.

More interesting is the realization that this poem unwinds in a classroom -- an empty classroom in which the only sense of life is the wash of light streaming through the window.

I wonder, as I'm reading, about the fashion in which the narrator of this poem is stuck. One of my favorite things about your poems is the tendency you have to imply a rather hapless, insouccant sense of drifting. Things may not neccessarily be the best at the moment, but that doesn't necessarily mean they're not enjoyable, or at the very least (and in a sense, perhaps, most importantly) that doesn't mean they can't be *savored*. As a poet, you have a wonderful ability to savor the irrelevent, the obscure, even moments which might otherwise appear to be somewhat condemnatory in their lonely singularity.

I love the elements of this poem -- the numbered chairs, the angle-iron.

I do not particarly like the narration of this piece. I think it would read better if you took a sharp editing scalpel to the superfluity of your words, here. For instance, rather than:

"I am in
a classroom.
The classroom is very well lit
sunlight beams in.
The tiles on the floor
a gleaming imaculate
white."

consider this:

"A classroom,
sunlight beams in.
The tiles on the floor
gleam immaculate
white."

The second version gives the reader all the same information without the sense of being hand-led through a laundry list of first person experience.

I'm sending you a PM because I have an amazing capacity for losing important information like email addresses.

I hope you're well. Keep writing!

( Posted by: hazelfaern [Member] On: June 12, 2006 )





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