The haunting of
lost loves,
ghosts in our being.

The blind walk
reaching with
persistent hope.

How familiar are
these ghosts
we will not give up?

but you can't give up ghosts, right?
just like you said in your first stanza, they are haunting.

i like this poem because it makes you search: thinking and feeling.

sometimes it seems i am illiterate with poetry translation (but with practice i will get better, right. optimism is nice.) can you help clarify what you mean by the "blind walk". who is walking? how is the walk reaching with persistent hope?

the opening especially, reminds me of one of my fav counting crows songs: mrs. potter
"if dreams are like movies then memories are films about ghosts.... a price of a memory is only the price of the sorrow it brings..." or something like that.

nice.

I chose to write this poem from an objective point of view because it was about someone. And I thought I'd talk objectively rather than say, "you are..." or "I am..."

The blind walk is in through the house. The house is inhabited by old loves. The house, the person themself, still lets the ghost live within them.

what house?
there is no house in the poem, nor none implied.
it is a good idea tho
because it further relates the poem's message by analogy.
i like the house idea,
but readers can only know what you tell them,
so the poem should include that if that is what you want to be understood, right.

thank you for clarifying.

i like it!

Beyond the cellar door
down ricket wood steps
puddles of tears on
the cold, damp floor.
The haunting of
lost love,
ghosts in our being.

The feet stumble down stairs
and hands reaching desperately.
Hope flowing through the soul,
strengthening vitality.
And makes a conscious refusal to
give up the ghost.

beautiful...

(only one little thing-- i would take off "The" in "The feet stumble...")

There is a difference between critiquing and nick-picking.

the desire to occasionally nit-pick is very hard to suppress. You can't really expect the suppression of all nitpicking on a poetry critique board.

Beyond the cellar door
down ricket wood steps
puddles of tears escaping
the cold, dead eyes.
The haunting of
lost loves,
ghosts in our being.

Feet stumble down stairs
eluding logic,
and hands reaching desperately.
Hope flowing through the soul,
strengthening vitality,
making a conscious refusal to
give up the ghost.

i feel like my opinion here, my words dont really matter--
the poem is very good- hands down. you should submit it to something.

I LOVE the recent version. I like the rythm, the words and the message. All that I can say is that I found it awesome!

" the cold, dead eyes.
The haunting of
lost loves,
ghosts in our being."

I really like that part. It is my favorite. (I am not a good critic... but I can state what I like).

There is a difference between nit-picking and perfection----a paycheck!

Perfection gets the paycheck right?

In the words of Mark Twain, "Creativity is truly acknowledged when it receives monetary value."