01-12-2014, 08:13 PM
Thanks for the input all, and apologies. This should have been much more heavily worked before going up. I hit a bit of a wall.
I've revised fairly savagely in an attempt to bring more continuity to the imagery and strip out the extraneous material.
Any and all thoughts appreciated, particularly re the opening and closing.
Revision 1
A Cold War
I hear the whispers
of a thousand deaths,
the east river blows
cut throat breaths,
crystal blue blades slicing
skyscrapers from darkness. Dawn
lances night from windows
whose ledges and sills weep
glass daggers. Cracking, plunging,
spearing ploughed snow
in hushed stabs
or dashing, shattering
sheets of mirrored stars
and moonlit pearls.
Can collectors scour debris
numbly searching for breaks.
Their clink and rattle drowned
in sirens, cab horns,
the subway's deep throb.
The trill din of a city
hung from alabaster gallows.
I venture out, scouting.
My boots crunching
and biting into paw printed ash,
oozing slush from beneath,
the street's brown blood.
I mist, grimacing,
through spectral columns
of hot odorous steam
spewed from the depths.
Rounding a corner
I encounter the horde.
Ruddy-cheeked, bag-laden,
fresh from the pillage.
Stiffly bustled I steady
against a sudden slip.
It's easy weather for falling.
A sharp gust scalpels
warmth from marrow,
drilling teeth.
Bone-chilled I retreat from the front.
Clutching keys a final wintry blast
stirs thoughts of the can collectors.
What mettle would I need
to battle wicked night,
were I armoured heavy
and barricaded light.
Original
The east river blows cut throat breaths,
crystal blue blades that slice
skyscrapers from the dark, piercing
light from their windows.
Diamond sheets littered on rooftops
and in streets are stripped
of reflected glittering stars
and their last moonlit pearls.
Glass daggers wept from windowsills
and ledges crack, and are cast
to the snow ploughed pavement below,
swallowed in a hushed stab.
The rattle of can collectors
numbly searching for breaks
is drowned in sirens, cab horns,
and the subway's deep throb.
I stride out, into this trill city
suspended on strings of silver.
My boot steps crunch and bite
into paw printed sifted flour,
seeping a brown slush from beneath,
squeaking on a rare slick patch
of sewer steam melted footpath
as I mist through spectral columns.
Secret savings routes have been revealed,
but furtive mappers are snug,
wrapped in dreys, so no more nuts
will be dug this crisp day.
Bustled by ruddy cheeked bag laden hordes
hungry for consumption,
I steady myself against a sudden slip.
It's easy weather for falling.
A sharp gust sets my teeth a chatter,
scalpelling the warmth from my marrow,
needling, and paring away resilience.
Shivering, I retreat to comfort,
and clutching keys a last wintry blast
draws my thoughts to the can collectors.
Were I again braced for night's wicked chill,
jacketed heavy but walled light,
could I persevere resistant to spite?
A working title only at this point. All feedback greatly appreciated as always.
I've revised fairly savagely in an attempt to bring more continuity to the imagery and strip out the extraneous material.
Any and all thoughts appreciated, particularly re the opening and closing.
Revision 1
A Cold War
I hear the whispers
of a thousand deaths,
the east river blows
cut throat breaths,
crystal blue blades slicing
skyscrapers from darkness. Dawn
lances night from windows
whose ledges and sills weep
glass daggers. Cracking, plunging,
spearing ploughed snow
in hushed stabs
or dashing, shattering
sheets of mirrored stars
and moonlit pearls.
Can collectors scour debris
numbly searching for breaks.
Their clink and rattle drowned
in sirens, cab horns,
the subway's deep throb.
The trill din of a city
hung from alabaster gallows.
I venture out, scouting.
My boots crunching
and biting into paw printed ash,
oozing slush from beneath,
the street's brown blood.
I mist, grimacing,
through spectral columns
of hot odorous steam
spewed from the depths.
Rounding a corner
I encounter the horde.
Ruddy-cheeked, bag-laden,
fresh from the pillage.
Stiffly bustled I steady
against a sudden slip.
It's easy weather for falling.
A sharp gust scalpels
warmth from marrow,
drilling teeth.
Bone-chilled I retreat from the front.
Clutching keys a final wintry blast
stirs thoughts of the can collectors.
What mettle would I need
to battle wicked night,
were I armoured heavy
and barricaded light.
Original
The east river blows cut throat breaths,
crystal blue blades that slice
skyscrapers from the dark, piercing
light from their windows.
Diamond sheets littered on rooftops
and in streets are stripped
of reflected glittering stars
and their last moonlit pearls.
Glass daggers wept from windowsills
and ledges crack, and are cast
to the snow ploughed pavement below,
swallowed in a hushed stab.
The rattle of can collectors
numbly searching for breaks
is drowned in sirens, cab horns,
and the subway's deep throb.
I stride out, into this trill city
suspended on strings of silver.
My boot steps crunch and bite
into paw printed sifted flour,
seeping a brown slush from beneath,
squeaking on a rare slick patch
of sewer steam melted footpath
as I mist through spectral columns.
Secret savings routes have been revealed,
but furtive mappers are snug,
wrapped in dreys, so no more nuts
will be dug this crisp day.
Bustled by ruddy cheeked bag laden hordes
hungry for consumption,
I steady myself against a sudden slip.
It's easy weather for falling.
A sharp gust sets my teeth a chatter,
scalpelling the warmth from my marrow,
needling, and paring away resilience.
Shivering, I retreat to comfort,
and clutching keys a last wintry blast
draws my thoughts to the can collectors.
Were I again braced for night's wicked chill,
jacketed heavy but walled light,
could I persevere resistant to spite?
A working title only at this point. All feedback greatly appreciated as always.