10-30-2014, 08:13 PM
after reading both poems there is no doubt that this is an almost exact replica of the poem by tecktack [AKA] Tom, there are no excuses for copying and posting another persons poetry (from any site) especially from this one. it is to close to the original tobe classed as a homage, passing another person's poetry off as your own is something we take very seriously and because of that we have no allowances that can be extended to you. not even if you didn't realize it wasn't allowed You have been banned for plagiarism/ billy/Admin
(10-30-2014, 08:13 PM)SammyelMariachi Wrote: Summer Nights successive re-writes found below:
10-05-2013, 01:26 AM
9PM
The air itself was choked that night,
it lay unmoving hot and moist;
slumped across the smoke-hazed town,
in doorways meshed against the fly,
in river loops and forest depths,
on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.
Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,
sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,
and swilled back warm, black, city ale.
10PM
Youth in prime dismay of life
moped about for cooler haunts;
then flushed and florid, melded in
to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,
as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.
Extinguished by the press of night
the flame of impulse flickered out
with every parting shadow shift,
‘till only one or two kicked cans
along the slickly shining street.
11PM
Soon the spill of last-to-leaves
broke into maudling, raucous song.
They laughed at metaphors for moons,
Belisha Becon, Orange friend;
then crossed in safety. Off and on,
the flashing amber fired each face.
In bonded knots they stumbled home
each sharing legs from either side,
'til in the distance they were gone.
Without the living on the streets
the silence added to the heat.
12 Midnight
No one stirred in cramped, dank rooms
with peeling walls and curtained beds,
where ceiling fans clanked slowly round
in futile hope of moving air;
they lay in salt-steeped, lucid dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or cough
disturbs the suffocating sleep.
Each bladder warning opens eyes;
invokes the same incanted prayer.
Just end the night, just send the dawn,
bring one more morning, cool and fair.
Quote:Original
9PM
The air itself was choked that night,
it lay unmoving hot and moist;
slumped across the smoke-hazed town,
in doorways meshed against the fly,
in river loops and forest depths,
on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.
Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,
sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,
and swilled back warm, black, hop-dry ale.
10PM
Youth in prime dismay of life
moped about for cooler haunts;
then flushed and florid, melted in
to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,
as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.
Extinguished by the press of night
the flame of impulse faded out
with every parting shadow shift
‘till only one or two kicked cans
along the slickly shining street.
11PM
Soon the spill of last-to-leaves
broke out with dire homeward hymns.
Some sang drunk metaphors for moon,
belisha becon, orange friend;
yet staggered, thankful, where he shone.
Aglow in sickly sodium light
they stumbled on in friendly knots,
each sharing legs from either side,
until the distance took them… gone.
Without the living on the streets
the silence added to the heat.
12 PM
Not one soul stirred, but in the rooms
with peeling walls and curtained beds,
where ceiling fans limped clanking round
in futile hope of moving air;
they lay in salt-steeped, sleeping dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or turn
or cough disturbs the fragile state.
Each wide-sprung eye, each bladder cry,
invokes the same incanted prayer.
Just end the night, just send the dawn,
bring one more morning, cool and fair.
Quote:written by tecktak
05-10-13, 01:26
9PM
The air itself was choked that night,
it lay unmoving hot and moist;
slumped across the smoke-hazed town,
in doorways meshed against the fly,
in river loops and forest depths,
on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.
Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,
sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,
and swilled back warm, black, city ale.
10PM
Youth in prime dismay of life
moped about for cooler haunts;
then flushed and florid, melded in
to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,
as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.
Extinguished by the press of night
the flame of impulse flickered out
with every parting shadow shift,
‘till only one or two kicked cans
along the slickly shining street.
11PM
Soon the spill of last-to-leaves
broke into maudling, raucous song.
They laughed at metaphors for moons,
Belisha Becon, Orange friend;
then crossed in safety. Off and on,
the flashing amber fired each face.
In bonded knots they stumbled home
each sharing legs from either side,
'til in the distance they were gone.
Without the living on the streets
the silence added to the heat.
12 Midnight
No one stirred in cramped, dank rooms
with peeling walls and curtained beds,
where ceiling fans clanked slowly round
in futile hope of moving air;
they lay in salt-steeped, lucid dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or cough
disturbs the suffocating sleep.
Each bladder warning opens eyes;
invokes the same incanted prayer.
Just end the night, just send the dawn,
bring one more morning, cool and fair.
Original
9PM
The air itself was choked that night,
it lay unmoving hot and moist;
slumped across the smoke-hazed town,
in doorways meshed against the fly,
in river loops and forest depths,
on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.
Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,
sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,
and swilled back warm, black, hop-dry ale.
10PM
Youth in prime dismay of life
moped about for cooler haunts;
then flushed and florid, melted in
to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,
as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.
Extinguished by the press of night
the flame of impulse faded out
with every parting shadow shift
‘till only one or two kicked cans
along the slickly shining street.
11PM
Soon the spill of last-to-leaves
broke out with dire homeward hymns.
Some sang drunk metaphors for moon,
belisha becon, orange friend;
yet staggered, thankful, where he shone.
Aglow in sickly sodium light
they stumbled on in friendly knots,
each sharing legs from either side,
until the distance took them… gone.
Without the living on the streets
the silence added to the heat.
12 PM
Not one soul stirred, but in the rooms
with peeling walls and curtained beds,
where ceiling fans limped clanking round
in futile hope of moving air;
they lay in salt-steeped, sleeping dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or turn
or cough disturbs the fragile state.
Each wide-sprung eye, each bladder cry,
invokes the same incanted prayer.
Just end the night, just send the dawn,
bring one more morning, cool and fair.
Summer 2013
tectak