05-31-2012, 03:21 AM
(05-02-2012, 06:43 AM)Todd Wrote: Revision 1
Godzilla vs. Little Boy
a postmodern fable
The cherry blossom
withers on the branch
echo of voices
--anonymous
You would have us believethis is a more interesting than puzzling start. Things will clarify......like wine
man did this to man—
truth distilled into such
bitter vintage.picky bastard me! Vintages are ferments not distillations
Only a plane, a parachute,
and a child’s tantrum? Implication of rhetorical question but no question asked. The clarification has not yet come but the interest is held.
We reject this narrative.An enigma too far. Who we? What narrative?perhaps we reject this version of events? Sorry,todd, but though I have knowledge a priori of the tale you are telling I am still not informed enough. For me, there is a great need to expand the earlier text. It is almost as if this is a voice-over to a pathe news story. Something is missing.
Your monster fell
from the sky.
Ours have always been
beneath the surface. Though I like this stanza,it is the absoluteness of the words rather than than how they relate to the foregone. I am having to think too much and it hurts my head
Truth is in the breath that lit the horizon,
a burning afterimage shaming the sun,
and in the cloud that rose
above the water,love this. What's not to like?afterimage? One word or two?
and in the quiet that seeps
into each of us, into the bones into our bones. Then a semi-colon perhaps.Without a pause the sentance runs on and becomes like a runaway train of thought. This is a pity because the next two lines are excellent, in spite of the dubious use of aphasic
leaving us aphasic, words reduced
to faint scratches in the dirt.
Mute we witnessed the city’s reprisal.You MUST put a coma after mute or I shall lash out. Please tell me you can see that "mute we" is not an option
Roof tiles spun like propellers
launched into the air
under a shroud of dark rain.beautiful in a horrific way. Just right. Bon mots
The blackened bodies continue
to clog the river.
Death it seems always comes
from the water—
The crater is his footprint.
The only truth is that no one escaped
the rationalization that if we kill
there will be peace.
Gojira, Gojira, Gojira very,very good
excellent edit. This is a pensive piece which only fails in one area.....it is exclusive for too much of the read. Perhaps just a few lines of included intro (in the body of the poem itself) would help. There are those who may get enough from the title but that is the way newspapers head up insignificant articles....this is not insignificant. Though the theme is well worn you have taken a fresh look and for me, at least, it works. Thanks.
Best,
Tectak
Original
Someone told someone a story
about the cloud that rose above the water,
the light that dimmed the sun,
and the awful quiet, settling
as a shroud of dark rain.
Survivors usually walk away,
only no one escaped
the rationalization that if we kill
there will be peace.
The roof tiles spun like propellers
launched into the air
in impotent reprisal
as blackened bodies floated
down the river. Our throats
finally too parched to drink.
You would have us believe
that man did this to man
that truth can be distilled:
to a plane, a parachute,
and measured in seconds.
We reject this narrative.
We have the footprint,
the shrill metallic roar,
the truth of the breath.
Gojira, Gojira, Gojira
The cherry blossom
withers on the branch
echo of voices
(05-02-2012, 06:43 AM)Todd Wrote: Revision 1
Godzilla vs. Little Boy
a postmodern fable
The cherry blossom
withers on the branch
echo of voices
--anonymous
You would have us believethis is a more interesting than puzzling start. Things will clarify......like wine
man did this to man—
truth distilled into such
bitter vintage.picky bastard me! Vintages are ferments not distillations
Only a plane, a parachute,
and a child’s tantrum? Implication of rhetorical question but no question asked. The clarification has not yet come but the interest is held.
We reject this narrative.An enigma too far. Who we? What narrative?perhaps we reject this version of events? Sorry,todd, but though I have knowledge a priori of the tale you are telling I am still not informed enough. For me, there is a great need to expand the earlier text. It is almost as if this is a voice-over to a pathe news story. Something is missing.
Your monster fell
from the sky.
Ours have always been
beneath the surface. Though I like this stanza,it is the absoluteness of the words rather than than how they relate to the foregone. I am having to think too much and it hurts my head
Truth is in the breath that lit the horizon,
a burning afterimage shaming the sun,
and in the cloud that rose
above the water,love this. What's not to like?afterimage? One word or two?
and in the quiet that seeps
into each of us, into the bones into our bones. Then a semi-colon perhaps.Without a pause the sentance runs on and becomes like a runaway train of thought. This is a pity because the next two lines are excellent, in spite of the dubious use of aphasic
leaving us aphasic, words reduced
to faint scratches in the dirt.
Mute we witnessed the city’s reprisal.You MUST put a coma after mute or I shall lash out. Please tell me you can see that "mute we" is not an option
Roof tiles spun like propellers
launched into the air
under a shroud of dark rain.beautiful in a horrific way. Just right. Bon mots
The blackened bodies continue
to clog the river.
Death it seems always comes
from the water—
The crater is his footprint.
The only truth is that no one escaped
the rationalization that if we kill
there will be peace.
Gojira, Gojira, Gojira very,very good
excellent edit. This is a pensive piece which only fails in one area.....it is exclusive for too much of the read. Perhaps just a few lines of included intro (in the body of the poem itself) would help. There are those who may get enough from the title but that is the way newspapers head up insignificant articles....this is not insignificant. Though the theme ia well worn you have taken a fresh look and for me, at least, it works. Thanks.
Best,
Tectak
Original
Someone told someone a story
about the cloud that rose above the water,
the light that dimmed the sun,
and the awful quiet, settling
as a shroud of dark rain.
Survivors usually walk away,
only no one escaped
the rationalization that if we kill
there will be peace.
The roof tiles spun like propellers
launched into the air
in impotent reprisal
as blackened bodies floated
down the river. Our throats
finally too parched to drink.
You would have us believe
that man did this to man
that truth can be distilled:
to a plane, a parachute,
and measured in seconds.
We reject this narrative.
We have the footprint,
the shrill metallic roar,
the truth of the breath.
Gojira, Gojira, Gojira
The cherry blossom
withers on the branch
echo of voices