Poetry Collection Review, Jeane: Poems by Jeane Elise Rilling
I’m not a philosopher who says “we” in substitution of “I.” Jeane was a young poet who went through a
short life before death. My mom gave me
this poetry collection; it belonged to her mom, who got it with her high school
yearbook. It’s a tribute that was shared
with high school graduates from Herbert Hoover High School, around Glendale in
California. Jeane’s demands of romance
are akin to James Joyce’s rather than Edgar Allan Poe’s. She makes large use of clichés because they’re
the most powerful in pronunciation terms, being musical with ideas that should
be memes like “frosty star” or “velvet blue.”
Intimacy about Spring and songs is illustrated with a kind of awareness
that isn’t so keen but on a higher level instead. A star’s laughter in the heavens is a bad
rhyme for her, so Earth to her seems more like what Christianity heaven ought
to be. I’ve heavily listened to plenty
of music on all music genres except rap, so I’m possibly biased about Jeane’s
works; in particular, I’ve been listening to a whole lot of songs from the
internet and am reading Poetry Magazine and poems from Poem Hunter with my bias
on what reading nature sounds like.
Jeane’s intuitive about naming various objects like concrete and bees so
she can portray her cute ways with romance, although she’d be mentioning love
(not really talking about love) when history is rolling and so many kinds of
people are claiming to be Americans. For
example, she might talk about how a rose would still have its gaze for some of
the streaming forms of nature. The
poetry book’s cover includes the elongated imprint of the letter J to Jeane’s
name that’s inked with a long tail; there’s something about that towering J
which makes me think of Jeane’s death as well as her intimacy with “Christmassy”
parents and “Dream-Away Lane.” Jeane’s
words are built with dreams that overlap other words, so clichés have
dimensions of transportation over meanings to boney voices and blood
muscles. If I could meet Jeane today, I’d
ask the poet how long she’d been awake after birth, since a bed involves a
person’s exhaustion through it that transcends faith until anybody becomes a birth. Jeane’s rhyming often is the cause for
accidental philosophy; just consider the relationships between phrases “mirth”
and “birth.” The poetry here is a
collection of abstractions which transcend from memes about weather, streets,
rides, her dad, and plenty more, with emphasis that is simple yet intuitive
because of Jeane’s affection for queens and our sky’s godliness in layers. Can the reader imagine frosty stars? I think of wedding cakes! Jeane’s lovely associations revolve around
normal words but are only half-descriptions, thus I wonder if the act of
reading is a vague concept; I can say that I’m watching movies, but I can’t say
if I’m watching books, according to our traditional literacy customs. I don’t know what happened to Jeane on her
last vacation; but from the looks of her flowery language and natural
interests, I’d say she’d been living a life of vacations due to her attitude
that’s less than infatuation but more than her admiration of defense.
Because of the free poetry on the internet, and Jeane’s absence from the internet, I’ll type here two poems of hers that I think are very special:
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NIGHT FLOWERS
I put a rose into a vase,
Then breathed its fragrance in;
It seemed so pure and innocent-
As if it had no sin.
I thought a fairy lived inside
And slept there all day long,
Lulled to sleep by a little breeze
And soothed by the wind’s soft song.
But every night, when the world was still,
And the moon in the blue rose high,
She would leap from her rose with an airy song
And raise her arms to the sky.
Then up she would float, like a silver dream,
To dance on a moon beam gold,
Till the moon would pale and sink from sight
‘Ere the sun’s morning message was told.
Then down from the sky and the aerial heights
That she loved, would the fairy come,
‘Way down to the earth and her crimson rose,
To wait for the sinking sun.
But when the sun, with its lovely light,
Has faded again from view,
Then up she will fly with an airy song
To the moon and a velvet blue.
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CLEANING HOUSE
These are the wardrobes of forgotten dolls,
Cracked and dusty, in their ancient bed
Carelessly placed, shoved in some corner,
Wearing painted smiles that long were dead;
Ah, well, each ruler’s favorite sometimes falls!
Poor toys, do you remember me at all?
So often have I gaily played with you
And set the crooked stitches in your gowns,
And now, your fates I am to settle, too;
Bring out the victims to my justice hall!
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