Morning Mood 2.1

[Erthona]

Still in bed. I wonder  (Why the period after bed? Makes me pause and wonder why it's there)
if my love for you 
is still as true  cliche
as the distant sun setting (setting should be on the next line, not that it matters this whole sun/moon dichotomy is both clumsy and obvious) 
into the horizon or
as the distant moon rising
to the throne -- I wonder
if all the questions that you never answered
would once again in clearness flutter
through the honest mind like butter (these last three lines are good)

flies in summer. And then I see (Use of enjambment does not benefit the poem, put it with the rest of the sentence. Don't just stick it here so the lines come out even)
last night's dream, the dying embers (dying embers-cliche)
scattered across the floor, the Sibyl
standing by the door, her mess of hair (this image just doesn't work, there are so many problems with it, I'll address it later)
shining like the moon -- soon, (soon? Did you have to take a number?)
she says, you will run out of time,
soon (again?) you will run out of rhymes. (first rhyme and it's forced, this is based on nothing, no build up, no context, nada!)

Outside, the wind blows, (comma coma)
the fallen leaves
flutter in the daylight. (so?)

Into the sky. The water
whistles a happy tune, then drowns
the autumn pot. Here's the tea. No sugar,
please, I say to myself,
only cream -- yes, make it white,
that's how I like it. And then I see
that's how I love you,
you who are so distant. (You like her to not be sweet but white?)

Today's breakfast consists
of two eggs fried
on the stove across the room, (is the stove or the eggs across the room and why does it matter? I guess the eggs could have been fried across the room on the concrete?)
with the cool sides being (with what "cool sides" do you mean, "with the sides being cold bacon, butter..."?)
cold bacon, butter, and last night's old
loaf of bread. I remember
ancient music as I eat,
and the swirling
of the tea leaves in my cup becomes
the dancing of the stars -- but what do I see?
Only the plain white of cream, (Question? How does one see leaves when the tea is saturated in cream?)
of the twin dooms lying (wait, what? twin dooms? what twin dooms?)
on my plate, of the steam
rising from the silver gates.
And the music gives way to voices:

all developed love consists
of conversations, between
man and woman, between
son and father, between
slave and master -- never so between
object and reflection -- and the ancient
myths of fire and water
never mattered. They say
there is only the void,   (so now we dip our toes into philosophy?)
then a cold cold voice.

The morning shower. And here you say (Ah, here is where the poem starts)
you were waiting in the park for me
last Friday -- and here you play
with thoughts and shows: yes, you say,
the car came by the house
last Friday -- and even when I didn't answer
the door, still, you kept my seat,
bought me beer and meat
last Friday -- knew I wasn't dead,
you say: the dead, at least,
respond to invitations with a sigh.

But I was high! I was high!
on drugs, on sugar, music, love,
on life! How could I
be sure I suck the sweet sap flowing
from the root of the living
tree without those moments? (awkward) And you reply:
You were down! You were down! down
in the dumps, down town
cutting class, down and out
drinking, lashing out -- how could you
be living life with your heart run through
by three swords like on that card
you so enjoy after vespers? But we are
(white space sucks when used incorrectly as it usually is)
children, you and I,
and like the tender ring of light
fluttering round and round the silver shower (bad enjambment)
head, all we could do is flow and fly (oops, falling off the horses, back to la-la land)
and fight -- not talk, just flow and fight.

And then the coldest voice:
on waking hour,
like the laughter of Hades
ringing in the ears of Orpheus,
the inferno comes.
Gates of horn, gates of ivory,
still it comes. 

The morning prayer. The waters of the tap
are cold. They pool
over the dishes, cool
all the still-warm iron casts
of the morning meal, and the old
faces painted on the rings of the plates
lose their silver
gifts of luster,
their ash, their oil, their saliva,
the love, the loss, the regret.

Before my dream of you, I remember
poetry in motion (cliche, even have a game named after it): the father's dance, the mother's pain,
the children's flight, the stars' embrace,
(The this, the that, the  this, the that.... ad nauseam)
and then the light, the light, the brightening dying
light -- and then I offer my hands,
twice-washed, to the ever-watchful god,
the silent god, who in turn
offers his readings
and his good conversation.
I wonder -- the sun stings my eyes.

Outside, the wind blows,
the sprinklers
come alive.

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" the Sibyl standing by the door, her mess of hair shining like the moon"

Mess means curls at best. I f the hair were silver, which one usually doesn't think of on a Sibyl as they were usually young girls, being a mess would definitely cause the hair not to glow unless it is back-lit by a spotlight like Barbara Streisand in "A Start is Born". I don't this is the case. So despite what you might imagine  (and this is easy to do, I do it all the time) it does not mesh with reality and causes a disruption in the reading.
 
In general. About a third of this is very good, primarily from

" And here you say you were waiting in the park for me"

to

"by three swords like on that card you so enjoy after vespers?"

The rest seems to be surrounded by what I call "Windsong" poetry. Just to give an example.

"Still in bed. I wonder
if my love for you
is still as true.

Cut and print. Nothing that follows helps one bit, it is just flowery words that actually subtract from the original honest question.

Here is the "Windsong" part:

"as the distant sun setting
into the horizon or
as the distant moon rising
to the throne --"
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There is the ending that is pretty good:

"And then the coldest voice:
on waking hour,
like the laughter of Hades
ringing in the ears of Orpheus..."

I think the implication that she is gone and that the speaker did something he shouldn't is fairly obvious from these lines, without all the other verbal flagellation. It makes for the perfect allusion and at the same time says that the speakers lost love is the equal of Orpheus' lost love.

_______________________________________________________________

I'm sure you have worked very long on this and are very attached to all this description, like the "Autumn Pot", by which I assume you mean a tea pot with a fall motif. Yet all of this in depth description does nothing so much than obfuscate the point at hand, which is the lost love. Some of it could work were it somehow integrated with the main thesis of the poem, but unfortunately, it is not, a large portion of the rest, well...

Best,

dale