05-25-2015, 10:04 PM
A rickety draft (or a draft with the Rickets!) By adding more sound effects (and a good bit of regularity with the accents), I hope I've taken the appropriate step from prose to poesy (em dash) er, poetry. There's also more parenthetics (hooray?) and a slightly lighter tone.
The night before last spring sprouted, I was This was supposed to be "last spring sprang", which I thought was terribly (as in, terrible) funny play on words. Anyway...
pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk, when
a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
Slipping outside to see the damage, I saw
death soaring swiftly over the city,
her drab dress bearing orange blossoms.
[Remember your botany (or is it your myths)?
Oranges are Hesperidia, so named
for the golden apples of inspiration
growing in the gardens of Hesperides.] I am a bit sure the message of this parenthetic is important, but I've yet to think of a better way to so incorporate it. (or does it fit even as part of the poem proper?)
I'd gleaned a quest! With curious heart,
I grabbed the book and pen by my porch, Spatial problem is gone, I hope. I'm keeping the dreamy (drugged up) aesthetic.
padlocked my door, and followed her course
through the clouds. No souls swept the streets
as if all but I knew death's business then, The clunkiness here was consciously kept in. I'm still looking for a better way to reword this line altogether.
and crickets clicked their heels to the call
of a funeral party of stars. Alone at night,
with death soaring swiftly over the city?
Fear thus filled me (call me a coward).
But then, a scream shot through the silence Padding is gone.
between the cold cricket chants. I hope this is better than the dirge and silence thing.
Its sound was as fair as a fateful seedling
springing from springtime soil Simile hopefully clarified.
to the sower so beholden. So, I ran
to the source, and found the corpse
of Mrs. Miller's son. He'd fallen from
the fairest Bennet's window; When replaced with a semicolon.
a gust of wind had pushed him off.
His scattered brains were sower's seeds Hope this is a better wording.
scattered on springtime soil.
Moments ago, he was singing so:
"Judy, your hair is an orange's zest,
the flavorful prelude veiling your luscious breasts,
the oily rind! Let me peel the skin-layers off,
to taste of the fat flesh, your hot heart!" A fuller response: a girl might be incomparable to an orange, but (1) it is a bit of a joke (a lot of poems out there do hammy comparisons like this) and (2) more importantly, the comparison is meant to be a bridge to the idea of death and sex bringing inspiration. But hey, I hope this more detailed metaphor gives a bit of reason to the dirty mind of Mrs. Miller's son.
(Your cunt) A dutiful neighbor, I gave the girl
my sympathies, then slipped swiftly away. Vain omitted.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key; it wouldn't be
until the dawn that I'd return to my desk.
Lucky I had my book and pen!
A bit responsive, but the problems seem to mostly relate to manner, so I'm not entirely convinced the poem's matter is fundamentally flawed (then again, I haven't seen anyone argue for that yet, so....)
The night before last spring sprouted, I was This was supposed to be "last spring sprang", which I thought was terribly (as in, terrible) funny play on words. Anyway...
pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk, when
a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
Slipping outside to see the damage, I saw
death soaring swiftly over the city,
her drab dress bearing orange blossoms.
[Remember your botany (or is it your myths)?
Oranges are Hesperidia, so named
for the golden apples of inspiration
growing in the gardens of Hesperides.] I am a bit sure the message of this parenthetic is important, but I've yet to think of a better way to so incorporate it. (or does it fit even as part of the poem proper?)
I'd gleaned a quest! With curious heart,
I grabbed the book and pen by my porch, Spatial problem is gone, I hope. I'm keeping the dreamy (drugged up) aesthetic.
padlocked my door, and followed her course
through the clouds. No souls swept the streets
as if all but I knew death's business then, The clunkiness here was consciously kept in. I'm still looking for a better way to reword this line altogether.
and crickets clicked their heels to the call
of a funeral party of stars. Alone at night,
with death soaring swiftly over the city?
Fear thus filled me (call me a coward).
But then, a scream shot through the silence Padding is gone.
between the cold cricket chants. I hope this is better than the dirge and silence thing.
Its sound was as fair as a fateful seedling
springing from springtime soil Simile hopefully clarified.
to the sower so beholden. So, I ran
to the source, and found the corpse
of Mrs. Miller's son. He'd fallen from
the fairest Bennet's window; When replaced with a semicolon.
a gust of wind had pushed him off.
His scattered brains were sower's seeds Hope this is a better wording.
scattered on springtime soil.
Moments ago, he was singing so:
"Judy, your hair is an orange's zest,
the flavorful prelude veiling your luscious breasts,
the oily rind! Let me peel the skin-layers off,
to taste of the fat flesh, your hot heart!" A fuller response: a girl might be incomparable to an orange, but (1) it is a bit of a joke (a lot of poems out there do hammy comparisons like this) and (2) more importantly, the comparison is meant to be a bridge to the idea of death and sex bringing inspiration. But hey, I hope this more detailed metaphor gives a bit of reason to the dirty mind of Mrs. Miller's son.
(Your cunt) A dutiful neighbor, I gave the girl
my sympathies, then slipped swiftly away. Vain omitted.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key; it wouldn't be
until the dawn that I'd return to my desk.
Lucky I had my book and pen!
A bit responsive, but the problems seem to mostly relate to manner, so I'm not entirely convinced the poem's matter is fundamentally flawed (then again, I haven't seen anyone argue for that yet, so....)