Poem Review: Donovan’s Flight of Fancy
This is the second dedication to a poet this year. Each year, Ponder evolves and adapts. That is the beauty of this journey.
In this review, we are in for a treat of a bouquet of micro-poems from Donovan Baldwin, a prolific poet.
A small introduction to Donovan.
Donovan Baldwin is featured in Ponder 2021. His poems evoke both an instant and an aftereffect on the reader. He is a US Army Veteran, serving the country during the Vietnam era. He is a poet and article writer and has written more than 400 pieces across various websites. He is a prolific poet, and simply put, I am his fan.
I found a simple trick to pen a review on this magnificent bunch. Treat this entire bunch as a single piece of verse.
Oh, let’s wait for another surprise along the way
It is a first of its kind, that’s all I want to say.
Priya Patel, also a featured poet in Ponder 2021 becomes the first contributor for a poetry review in Ponder Review Series. It is an eclectic cocktail and a new form of poetry review. But the core of it is the celebration of a prolific poet and his contemporary poetry.
Priya writes:
It’s such an honor to do my first review, especially for Donovan, because he is not only an amazing poet but a good friend also. He has this way of pulling his readers in with emotion so thick, that it drips like honey and coats your soul with wonder.
I’ve read so much of his poetry over the past couple of years and yet I am still left wondering how he is able to so effectively merge his own real-life heartstrings with this amazing poetry I get to read every day. I’ve read each a multitude of times trying to blindly slip myself into his thoughts to understand where his writing and thoughts come from.
I feel selfish almost as if I’m trying to retell his story. I am reminded of why I am so passionate about writing and poetry in particular; it’s because the words one person write that form verses of poetic wonder can mean one thing to the writer and the complete opposite to someone else. To me, that is the most beautiful form of art there is. It’s like looking through a diamond and seeing one image in a hundred different ways.
I’m not here to retell Donovan’s story and dissect his thoughts, he alone can only do this. I just want to tell you a story of how his poetry is seen through my eyes.
“Poetry is when an emotion has found it’s thought and the thought has found words” ~ Robert Frost
Donovan has mastered the art of Haiku’s. He writes a series of haikus in one post that are masterful on their own and somehow collectively a work of art as well. I want to talk about a few of them in one of his collections that really pulled me in on his romantically inspired yet seductively written journey.
Poems: Flights of Fancy
wings were first to go
halo lost in a card game…
robe in her boudoirkept my secrets well
not the man she thought she knew…
broken wings hiddennot too good with saints
the sinners are more pleasant…
make me feel at homesensual spectrum
pleasure’s prism shatters her…
explosions of lightone is old and gray
one still young and colorful
once they were loversin the calm after
the storm took her far away…
she returns to earthinitiation
guides him round her secret world…
his hand held in herswater down her skin
drops beading dripping at points…
never ending thirsti long to touch her
like warm rain upon her skin…
seeking out secretsdared to try her heat
entered oven of her love…
melting in her flamesadoring rituals
kneeling but not for prayer…
though god’s name was heard
Commentary on Poem:
Donovan sets the stage in the middle, and I shall bring it to the front. There is an old man and a young girl. The man and the girl have a history.
one is old and gray
one still young and colorful
once they were lovers
There is a past, and in that, there was love. The love was an attraction of the opposites — the man, old and gray, and the girl, young and colorful. Their love was copious and uninhibited. This flourish somehow ended.
The poignant feeling, when the woman leaves, probably in her passing can be felt.
Priya writes:
There is no mystery in this for me. He misses this entanglement, a whirlwind of youthful desire to cover his gray. I read “once they were lovers” and all I can hear is I miss you; I miss what we had. Perhaps here, the writer is playing with the past, reliving a time when even he was youthful and he wants that whirlwind of time again now.
One is old and gray, one still young and colorful, once they were lovers. Every time I read this, I find something new to think about. A new perspective; why must there be only one!
Old and gray could be right now, still laying next to one still young and beautiful. Something has changed the wind and has left him with longing. I like this perspective, it is entirely relatable as we all are living a life that is not 100% what we expected it to be.
the storm took her far away…
There is a storm that took her away. The storm could be interpreted as an event of tumult — an illness, an accident, an unforeseen and overwhelming event — that took her far away, maybe to the lands of the yore. There is a sense of poignant feeling that settles, ‘in the calm’.
in the calm after…
… she returns to earth
Time heals and calm prevails. She comes back, this time, ‘to earth’ — this indicates that the storm took her away, beyond the realms of this blue planet, indicating that she had passed due to the tumultuous event ( the storm).
Now, the man — the lovelorn soul, sees her return as an angel ( of sorts.) This sets the stage for the rest of the poem.
The angel returns, but…
wings were first to go
halo lost in a card game…
robe in her boudoir
… without wings. From an ethereal being, she quickly transforms into a sensuous one — the center of his fantasies. Angels are identified with their halo and their wings. The wings go first, and the halo, too, follows.
“Poets are damned… but see with the eyes of angels.”
― Allen Ginsberg
But the poet here sees the transformation of an angel into the lady of his fantasies. The transformation is with the eyes of a lovelorn human.
Nobody has ever noticed a robe on an angel, but once she becomes the sensuous being of his dreams, she is seen adorning a robe.
Even that robe goes, dropping to the floor in her boudoir — her small bedroom at the back of nowhere.
Priya writes:
Every time I read this one, I am pulled into the 1860’s and into an old western movie where the sensual barmaid is seducing a cowboy with a pistol in one hand, and a lace fan in the other. She has an innocent enough smile but a fire in her eyes.
I’m fairly certain if Donovan is reading this right now, he is laughing hysterically and wondering where my imagination can go. I did mention that I am not retelling his story, just offering an amateur perspective. When he wrote “wings were first to go”, I imagined the innocent smile perhaps. A smile seems like a small part of the face, but in fact, can tell so much about a woman with just the slightest twitch.
Maybe when he met this beautiful woman, her innocence is what originally drew him in, but the smile told a whole new story. Much like the “halo lost in a card game”, where I can clearly see the seductress in a card game surprising all players and claiming all the victory. She is no longer seen as an angel; but a fox in velvet wrapping and for all her angelic smiles, painted lips, and smoldering eyes, she has ensured that her robe will be left in her boudoir.
If I wanted to really delve into trying to decipher his haiku and what he may have been thinking, I would have to know more about him as a person. I think instead, I enjoy this mystery of who he really is and use my imagination to wonder.
kept my secrets well
not the man she thought she knew…
broken wings hidden
This step is a flash of the reality- their past. I would see this as a sepia-tinted, or a dull black and white shot of their past, but just a glimpse.
The old man had his secrets, and she kept them well. As they spent their time, they had grown apart, and he turned out to be a different man than what she thought she understood. There were skeletons in the closets, and the angel had her ‘broken wings’, and hid them. Their love was not all sleek, but there was a dark side to him, and she was hurt — either physically, or in her heart, but she hid it well, like many women like her.
Under the angelic surface, there were undercurrents of secrecy and altercations.
Yet, now, she was back, losing her angelic halo and wings and appearing as the sensuous being of his dreams.
not too good with saints
the sinners are more pleasant…
make me feel at home
Saints, those good souls or those who try, are what she would have expected, for she was always his angel, blessing his good side and bearing his dark side. But, the saint he was not to be. Her acceptance of his sins, without a wince, made a saint out of herself. Yet, somewhere, the sinner in him appealed to her.
“I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints.”
― Billy Joel
Now you get a sense. The past love was based on her acceptance of what he was — a human, more a sinner; and his expectations of her to be an angel. This is an inequitable and imbalanced relationship, yet, it was the one both sought and got.
Priya writes:
There is no question here that the writer is telling us up front that he is not an angel. There is no halo where he is concerned and in fact, he is most at home where there is sin and perhaps a little crazy inhibition. Not too good with saints, meaning he stumbles with the quiet formal type of life.
He likes to live life a little on the edge where there is perhaps an occasional element of danger to excite his mind. I think we are all a little like that; a little bit of angel, a little bit of devil, and a whole lot of mystery.
sensual spectrum
pleasure’s prism shatters her…
explosions of light
She, now devoid of the robe, is standing in front of him, allured by the explosion of love. It is a burst of ovarian hormones, starting from her core and exploding into light, and the full spectrum of sensual pleasure shatters her. Imagine her drenched in a shower of rainbow particles. Closed eyes and open mouth, just savoring the shower of sensual pleasure.
initiation
guides him round her secret world…
his hand held in hers
Robe-less, yet drenched in sensual pleasures, she now takes the lead, ‘holding his hand in hers’. Imagine her leading the way, and he walking behind, in a trance, seeing her own hypnotic behavior, following her lead. Together, hand in hand, they enter a world of pleasures, hidden and secret away in the middle of nowhere.
“There is nothing in this world that never takes a step outside a person’s heart.”
― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84
The secrets are not vicious in nature, but secrets of her heart. A woman holds many things in her heart, like her purse. It is a deep maze, and it is beyond the comprehension of a man — even our protagonist.
Yet, here he is, now led by her into her secret world.
water down her skin
drops beading dripping at points…
never ending thirst
In a fantasy world of sensuality, her body aches and drenches in water drops, forming beads, and slowly dripping at points. While she was exploding into a rainbow of sensuousness, her skin shimmers and shines with the water droplets. Her arched back and folded legs, her arms flowing in the air like a dancer, while one holding his hands, thirsts for love — a love that only a sinner can give to his angel.
“Sensual love is no ordinary love. Got to go deep to find it.”
― Lebo Grand
He was led, invited into her secret, sensual world. In an exotic cocktail of rainbow light and dripping water droplets, she presents a sight but becomes irresistible to explore by the moment. Time to explore.
Priya writes:
This is where Donovan takes my breath away because at the end of the day, I am a romantic at heart and there may be some deep meaning to the beauty of these words but all that I can read is longing. This haiku stands alone because it is as if he doesn’t really know her.
I long to touch her
like warm rain upon her skin…
seeking out secrets
Exploration is the act of the human, in this case, our poet, who has developed an insatiable desire to explore her world — her secrets. Just a touch, maybe. Her soft young skin against his old, time-withered fingers. But the touch is not rough but like a ‘warm rain’.
“Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass,
Be not afraid of my body.”
― Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
This is the point is when his desire to act overcomes his passive fear from just watching. Secrets inspire awe and fear, but finally, the curiosity to explore.
Priya writes:
He wants her, wants to blanket her with his love and he wants to learn her secrets. What secrets are there between two lovers? He hasn’t loved her yet, he just longs to. Like warm rain upon her skin, he wants to comfort her, it’s more than lust; he longs for all of her.
dared to try her heat
entered oven of her love…
melting in her flames
Curiosity and eagerness to explore her secret sensual world, now gives him the courage, a boldness driven by his desires, invited and led by her. From a submissive follower, he turns into a courageous explorer of her secret world, touching and immersing in her cauldron of love.
“We are all flames waiting to be fed”
― Arti Manani, Seven Sins
The flames of her oven of love first invited him like a moth, then consumes him, and he — the moth — becomes a flame, himself, burning in oneness fused inside her cauldron of love.
adoring rituals
kneeling but not for prayer…
though god’s name was heard
From the touch of his hand, he kneels, like a devotee before an angel, not to pray, but to explore further. The ritual that follows is an act of deeper exploration, melding both deeper into oneness, but as she utters the Almighty’s name, it is a cry of ecstasy, a yearning to ask for more.
Towards the climax, he was a sinner-turned-explorer, and she was an angel shouting God’s name.
“I thought I knew love, or it knew me. But I am yet learning. Exploring my mystic side gave me a very different perspective on love, and the first throes of climax. I am not done, the pen is yet wet”
― Jenney Clark, Magic Of The Ancients
Flights of Fancy:
Priya writes:
I know in some way, in a way perhaps that only Donovan will ever really know, they could all be connected, but to me, they each stand alone. So many times I look into the night sky and think of all the beautiful stars that blanket the night.
His poems are like a quilt of a thousand twinkling lights, each with a story of their own as they softly fall to the ground. Donovan, you never cease to amaze me and I thank you for sharing your brightly twinkling stars with our sky.
The poet has lived through moments that stay in our memories through a step-by-step sequence of fantastical love.
“When you know how to make love to fantasy, there’s no limits to how deeply and passionately you can make love to someone else.”
― Lebo Grand
The world of fantasy, which ebbs and disappears, coming together in pieces, of discrete poems, is like opening a bottle of honey, then letting it drip into the tip of our tongues, drop by drop, and the viscosity holding back against the gravity increasing the waiting period, as our tongues stretch and taut in anticipation, while we hold our breath for the unexpected tinge of sweetness to hit. The effect of micro poems is exactly this, especially when composed around the topic of fantastic love.
It takes imagination and a life full of longing, to build this — scene by scene with vivid details and weave a web of poetry.
“Lovers and madmen have such seething brains
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
”
― William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
The poet’s flights of fancy apprehend our seething minds and shape fantasies, beyond the comprehension of any ‘cool reason’.
That is Donovan for you.
~Ashok Subramanian with Priya Patel.
