03-27-2022, 10:14 AM
This is a poem about Iasos,
of moss growing on stones,
stones becoming walls
You say this is a poem, then you make up for that statement by doing something immediately poetic, repeating the word 'stone'?
lashed by the rein of thunder gods,
lying forgotten in tall grass. The glass
Because of what you did above, this is dying to say:
By the thunder gods lashed,
lying ...
But you have options here. Playing with the expectations of sound.
like harbour at noon,
broken by rain, and rippled by the wind
broken by rain could be cut. rippled by the wind
The 'and' works if it's there or not. But probably you'd cut it too.
dragging a cloud canvas.
dragging clouds
Two thousand years, more,
have lapsed into silence since
they sighted this shore, steer-
ing away from the pale of Pelias.
For them, cataracts gush
from mouths of stone,
sailors who longed for a sea
rising and falling,
like a serpent, or unravelling
like a skein of ancient ways, to be
woven into tales, and tales into thought,
indivisible from our own
in poems about Iasos.
I'm stopping. You said you would let it sit.
I wanted to get around to giving a critique and play with.
of moss growing on stones,
stones becoming walls
You say this is a poem, then you make up for that statement by doing something immediately poetic, repeating the word 'stone'?
lashed by the rein of thunder gods,
lying forgotten in tall grass. The glass
Because of what you did above, this is dying to say:
By the thunder gods lashed,
lying ...
But you have options here. Playing with the expectations of sound.
like harbour at noon,
broken by rain, and rippled by the wind
broken by rain could be cut. rippled by the wind
The 'and' works if it's there or not. But probably you'd cut it too.
dragging a cloud canvas.
dragging clouds
Two thousand years, more,
have lapsed into silence since
they sighted this shore, steer-
ing away from the pale of Pelias.
For them, cataracts gush
from mouths of stone,
sailors who longed for a sea
rising and falling,
like a serpent, or unravelling
like a skein of ancient ways, to be
woven into tales, and tales into thought,
indivisible from our own
in poems about Iasos.
I'm stopping. You said you would let it sit.
I wanted to get around to giving a critique and play with.