Untangling - edit

[nibbed]

I had difficulty finding any fault in this poem,
but I will pull out a magnifying glass and find something, I'm sure.


Untangling                                                                                              I thought of hair or fine chains, when I saw the title


When I was young my father told me how                                            
when working through a snarl of tangled rope
to find an end, then lead it through each knot
until its other end shows all is well.                                                                                                       

He didn’t know he talked philosophy
just practical instruction for his son                                                       
and yet as guidance for the life of man                                                    perhaps a comma after yet, and life of [a] man
it leaves most other systems in the shade.                                               systems is a strange choice for a word here

But I’m not him, with but one end to hold
in sight, the house of many mansions’  light.                                            if this is in reference to a book or hymn title, it may not be fully accurate
My life’s a tangle but its earthly ends
are fixed beyond a mind’s maneuvering.

This means according to topology                                                            though necessary for a point, this is a very unpoetic word, too formal,
there are no tangles, knots are never real.                                                the aesthetics of it, doesn't fit into the body of the poem. As though
Yet when I pull, the blob of curling snarls                                                   a brainiac is straining themself to be a simple graceful troubadour
drags on as one, inscrutable and tight.

My method - which can’t be original -
is finding loops, those teardrops out of which
the tangle’s complex knots are woven hard:
choose one loop, if it’s single pull it through.

But if it joins an interlocked design -
cross, trefoil, valentine, or swastika -                                                           these four words lightened up the poem and showed a variety of types
trace each lobe of its pattern ‘til you find
a simple circuit acting as an end.

Pull out this master loop, the figure’s gone;
repeat this cogitation and release.
In time a wending line emerges, straight
and purely obvious, no knots or doubts.

My father’s mansions being closed to me,                                                    this reminds me of how many times I see God having done something
my goal is knowing, found simplicity.                                                           and another person comes along and tries to rob the credit. I really
                                                                                                                   like the last two words.



the poem had a wonderful feel to it, peaceful in many ways.
I was not objective or helpful enough in my first critique,
which was a bit hasty of me and I am sorry. I've had some
difficulty with critiques on this site today, there is some delay
in words and backspacing for some reason.

thank you for the privilege to read your poem
and critique it.


nibbed