01-14-2014, 11:24 AM
The east river blows cut throat breaths,
crystal blue blades that slice
skyscrapers from the dark, piercing
light from their windows.
The last line doesn't seem good to me.
You can write whatever you want, but I was thinking something like:
The east river blows cut-throat,
crystal blue blades that slice
skyscrapers from the dark, piercing
light of their windows.
Diamond sheets littered on rooftops
and in streets are stripped
Maybe lose the in.
of reflected glittering stars
and their last moonlit pearls.
Maybe lose reflected and last. Just maybe, adjectives annoy me, and it's your poem.
Glass daggers wept from windowsills
and ledges crack, and are cast
to the snow ploughed pavement below,
swallowed in a hushed stab.
The froms and ands and even the ofs, fors and ins can get in the way throughout, though they can be necessary.
The rattle of can collectors
numbly searching for breaks
is drowned in sirens, cab horns,
and the subway's deep throb.
Maybe lose the last comma. And maybe deep subway throb. Otherwise this is one of the finer stanzas.
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?
I have to go out. Maybe I'll be back, if I don't get killed, and keep at it.
crystal blue blades that slice
skyscrapers from the dark, piercing
light from their windows.
The last line doesn't seem good to me.
You can write whatever you want, but I was thinking something like:
The east river blows cut-throat,
crystal blue blades that slice
skyscrapers from the dark, piercing
light of their windows.
Diamond sheets littered on rooftops
and in streets are stripped
Maybe lose the in.
of reflected glittering stars
and their last moonlit pearls.
Maybe lose reflected and last. Just maybe, adjectives annoy me, and it's your poem.
Glass daggers wept from windowsills
and ledges crack, and are cast
to the snow ploughed pavement below,
swallowed in a hushed stab.
The froms and ands and even the ofs, fors and ins can get in the way throughout, though they can be necessary.
The rattle of can collectors
numbly searching for breaks
is drowned in sirens, cab horns,
and the subway's deep throb.
Maybe lose the last comma. And maybe deep subway throb. Otherwise this is one of the finer stanzas.
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?
I have to go out. Maybe I'll be back, if I don't get killed, and keep at it.