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Kate Burnside

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Moth
by Kate Burnside

Wednesday, March 07, 2012
Rated "G" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Kate Burnside
•  Touch Down
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           >> View all 890

It's funny how the mind works: I went to see the musical of Singing In The Rain at the Palace Theatre in London on Monday night and am obviously either intent on drying out a little or concerned about all the electrics! :)) xx

 

 

MOTH

 

 

We all know what draws her here:

 

Forget scenes i to xix: this is xx

for the actress who, despite her

countless criss-crossings, has

her wide wing-eye fixed bee-line,

drawing her inexorably through

night’s thick dusty curtain to bask

in the glare, the kindled flame of

the many unseen, rapturous faces

pulsating like froth at her feet.

 

How their love fuels her path like dry powder

and palms of their crackling applause

are streaked with her shed gold;

 

and see, together, how brightly they burn!

 

 

 

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Reviewed by Rafika Anderson (Reader) 5/6/2012
I very much enjoyed reading your poem. The flow is quite appealing and the imagery is robust. The line "drawing her inexorably through night's dusty curtain to bask in the glare" is particularly evocative.
Reviewed by Diana Legun (Reader) 3/27/2012
For me this is full of life, death, risk and glory. I especially appreciate your use of 'dust' and 'powder' and the 'wing-eye,' 'bee-line' insect implications to the launch of an artist into an attractive crowd. The 'shed gold,' is a remarkable way to paint the 'giving' an artist does of herself to create a mutual bliss.
Reviewed by Jon Willey 3/25/2012
Kate, the draw of the flame is evidentiary and universal, especially to we, the romantics of human kind. Are we susceptible to the agony the flame can produce, imminently. Dare we proceed with caution? Never no never for the lure of rewards versus risks is too great for mortals to assess with lucidity. I enjoyed this wonderful rendering. I wish you love and peace my dear friend, Jon Michael
Reviewed by Odin Roark 3/18/2012
Welcome to the 21st of electrics that will bury language as we know it, unless some of us, especially the likes of your talent, might put a wedge in the door... keep it ajar... at least.
Reviewed by E T Waldron 3/10/2012
It's amazing how closely related Moth/Actress are, with audience/theater as brought to light by your poem which makes
it all come to life,as one glorious memory of magical Cinema!

Eileen
Reviewed by Amber Moonstone 3/9/2012
Let's hope this moth is of the essence of a Shakespeare play, always stunningly elusive. Always full of that flame that burns deeply within her soul for her lover...Nicely done, Kate..

Peace, love and light,
Amber
Reviewed by Charlie 3/9/2012
...and I think back to my childhood when I sat mesmerized by the blue, electric "fly-zapper" that hung in one of the buildings at the farm, and I hadn't realized, until this very moment, how like that moth I was--mesmerized by the mesmerized (ZzzZZkkkkkchchkkktzzzzz...and gold powder burns). Through your words, those wings come alive, all wide-eyed and feathered--feathered eyes? -- just like dreams that vanish with the opening of eyes, hers open to light, and ppfff... is that Sand-man's dust she's sprinkling on our palms?

Your poem's theme is original, your wording precise and insightful, the mood musing, and the whole together is a magical combination of muse-inspiring stuff, as you can see by the fabulous reviews below. --Charlie
Reviewed by RWE SAYS BYE 3/9/2012
the only thing more compelling than applause is a pause, a pregnant pause... and your poem gives one... pause...
Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado 3/9/2012
Marvelous poem, Kate; well done yet again!

(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in America, Karen Lynn in Texas. :D
Reviewed by Amor Sabor 3/8/2012
As always, Beautifully done
Reviewed by Ronald Hull 3/8/2012
Basking in the light of applause. Now that's a great metaphor for a moth.

Ron
Reviewed by Mr. Ed 3/8/2012
Quite captivating, Kate - this piece burns brightly.
Reviewed by jude forese 3/7/2012
i hope at least he powder was scented to embellish the power of the burn ... are moths attracted to sweat scents as much as the fire that engulfs them? when they fly with golden wings are they so willing to shed them without remorse? is their act a one scene play or a continuing saga ... am i drying out as well?
Reviewed by Morgan Merriweather 3/7/2012
I actually could picture a real moth or two in those thick dusty curtains riding back and forth between scenes. This actress with her wide wing-eye fixed bee-line. that line is cool. Well they all are but, in particular got a giggle out of that one. ~ Morgan
Reviewed by Mary Ann Biddinger 3/7/2012
Beautifully fascinating Kate ~
On a Monday night at the Palace Theatre in London is delightful.
Lady Mary Ann
Reviewed by Axilea MU 3/7/2012
The first time I read this I thought "Well, I'm no longer fascinated by fire!" and felt safe... for a minute. But then, how can one live and not burn? Great description, especially the part about the unseen faces. Good to read you, Kate!

Axilea
Reviewed by D. Vegas 3/7/2012
Kate, Beautifully put together.

Always,
Deborah
Reviewed by Ed Matlack 3/7/2012
I Came, I Read, I Admired, I Respect the writer...e
Reviewed by Kate Burnside 3/7/2012
... that's so insightful, Jerry! So true and just so poignant... yes, please do write the poem, though perhaps you already have with your already rich cast of characterful "coulda-woulda-has-beens". I love what you see here. :)) xx
Reviewed by Regis Auffray 3/7/2012
This is very "effective" and evocative, Kate. Your words had me go to YouTube and watch Aimee Mann do a rendition of her song, "The Moth" which I really love as I do your poem. Love and best wishes to you,

Regis
Reviewed by Jerry Bolton 3/7/2012
"pulsating like froth at her feet."

Oh boy, do I ever love that friggin' line, Kate.

The glare of the spotlight and the frothing of the faithful is where she will live and where she will die when they stop writing about her and the froth turns to meddlesome dry hacking coughs, both from her and from her adoring one. Accent on "one," for by now there is only he who is left. Damn, there is a poem in there somewhere.



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