07-04-2012, 01:22 AM
I like the idea, but there are phrases that seem light on meaning, or are confusing (bolded), and those that are written in a somewhat affected, or trite way (italics). Underlined words I think would be best removed.
Personally I don't get the need for this pseudo-archaic type of speech (especially as there are no form or meter constraints that might force you into strange syntactical flips as iambic pentameter often does)as it comes across as affected and melodramatic and cheapens what could be insightful commentary about human existence.
For me this has a priggish tone, instead of a grand one. It brings to mind the worst image of the romantic poet: frills and lace (a little boy blue suit),[Image: http://ts3.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail....5cebfa7ec9] with a long feathered nib in hand, standing upon a hill, with the forward foot upon a rock, contemplating the sunset (or rise, if that is your preference).
I suspect you are encountering the same problem one encounters when attempting to write love poetry when he is actively in love. The heart I fear is an excellent apprehender of the more delicate sentiments, but an altogether unsatisfactory poet. It is like acid rock. when on is high it takes on the deepest, multifaceted aspects one can imagine, yet when straight these added dimensions appear nowhere to be found.
However, go then where thou wouldst go, and imbibe in what the indwelling spirit dost commend thou to consume. When thine heart hast cleared of these ephemeral vapors, and beats the steady beat once again, return and find the rake, bags and shears waiting for thee to put things to right!
Dale
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Each dawn’s bright rise is but a turn, a cyclic twist above the blinded earth;
The living feel each passing day, clicked by a ratchet hooked by time.
But we below have run the race, and sense but seasons in our bones;
a winter comes, a summer next, spring and autumn barely touch.
Lagging warmth, slow risen, peaks then drains so gently into ground.
The quick, above, entranced by life, enthralled by futures promised fair, (there are not multiple futures)
will come to yearn the fast embrace, the steady passage, constant night.
That you know not what death can bring, nor care to know, nor dare to guess,
is all the better whilst you stir, and all the better when you die.
This the secret no one tells, why none return to clarify. (good line)
Ask not the question “What of me?”, for whilst you stride the changing plane,
your footsteps pulse upon your fate, and deep in darkness souls vibrate; (do they?)
a friend or two, a brother lost, a father grieved, a mother mourned,
a lover once, but now long gone, a worshipped (worshiped) wife, a much loved son.
This is the way, (and) the course, of life and this is the longest day.
Personally I don't get the need for this pseudo-archaic type of speech (especially as there are no form or meter constraints that might force you into strange syntactical flips as iambic pentameter often does)as it comes across as affected and melodramatic and cheapens what could be insightful commentary about human existence.
For me this has a priggish tone, instead of a grand one. It brings to mind the worst image of the romantic poet: frills and lace (a little boy blue suit),[Image: http://ts3.mm.bing.net/images/thumbnail....5cebfa7ec9] with a long feathered nib in hand, standing upon a hill, with the forward foot upon a rock, contemplating the sunset (or rise, if that is your preference).
I suspect you are encountering the same problem one encounters when attempting to write love poetry when he is actively in love. The heart I fear is an excellent apprehender of the more delicate sentiments, but an altogether unsatisfactory poet. It is like acid rock. when on is high it takes on the deepest, multifaceted aspects one can imagine, yet when straight these added dimensions appear nowhere to be found.
However, go then where thou wouldst go, and imbibe in what the indwelling spirit dost commend thou to consume. When thine heart hast cleared of these ephemeral vapors, and beats the steady beat once again, return and find the rake, bags and shears waiting for thee to put things to right!
Dale
----------------------------------------------------------------
Each dawn’s bright rise is but a turn, a cyclic twist above the blinded earth;
The living feel each passing day, clicked by a ratchet hooked by time.
But we below have run the race, and sense but seasons in our bones;
a winter comes, a summer next, spring and autumn barely touch.
Lagging warmth, slow risen, peaks then drains so gently into ground.
The quick, above, entranced by life, enthralled by futures promised fair, (there are not multiple futures)
will come to yearn the fast embrace, the steady passage, constant night.
That you know not what death can bring, nor care to know, nor dare to guess,
is all the better whilst you stir, and all the better when you die.
This the secret no one tells, why none return to clarify. (good line)
Ask not the question “What of me?”, for whilst you stride the changing plane,
your footsteps pulse upon your fate, and deep in darkness souls vibrate; (do they?)
a friend or two, a brother lost, a father grieved, a mother mourned,
a lover once, but now long gone, a worshipped (worshiped) wife, a much loved son.
This is the way, (and) the course, of life and this is the longest day.
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.