Could somebody please critique this poem?
"Artist"
To make imaginings real is not
so difficult - this painting that I've got
half-done grew from my first reflecting that
a meld of hilly landscapes with the flat
would change straight lines of depth that merge,
toward point of vanishing converge -
they, depth-ward into distance shrinking,
diminuating sign-waves now become
A place as uniform as plane is this,
though hilly as one upland drizzles kiss,
but morning scene, sea-surge-like suburb-scape
from eaves-height viewed through eyes tear-eddies drape.
Impose, on third-D sign-waves growing small,
elliptic ripples, major axes all
contracting, snaking down horizon rays:
The anonym is blue some summer days.
Perhaps that background city's made him sad,
a tedium he grows less and less glad
to go to weekday mornings in that town,
some parabolic tower's looming frown.
Jack Mellender