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> Repatrition, A Problem Poem
bbnixon
post May 13 07, 12:12
Post #1


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Real Name: Brenda Nixon Cook
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Hi All,

I am afraid I am bringing my problem poem over here, it is one I have revised more times than I can count and well I still don't like it. Originial (a mourner a snowglobe....)) concept was to to tell the story from different viewpoints...and I used the "snowglobe" and the "shake of the snowglobe" to switch scenes...a concept I have been pretty vested in...so I continued to hit my head on the brick wall...but still not working....so in the last version I got rid of the snowglobe..and the shake and just told the story...not sure if it working...or if I lost somathing in the translation..

The funeral itself is based on real and imagined events. The military elements and the history are from the story of my uncle..who was recently repatriated...the winter scene, the setting....a blend of imagination and a conglomeration of several funeral.....

I have placed both versions here...I am curious-a poll..which version a persons prefers...and for what ever version is preferred..honest crit would be greatly appreciated.

I am vested in this poem...because of its content...because of my family...I am however bullet proof at this time...I want it to be right....so feel free to rip it up. if that is what it needs.....


:) brenda

Repatriation (not a draft-an alternative concept)

Snow flakes fall at the cemetery
the mourners are matchsticks
dipped in white.

Gun shots slice the air,
A middle aged man,in grey mourning clothes,
tenses and relaxes 21 times.

Tin soldiers, in military blues stand at attention.
A postage sized flag drapes the coffin
The flag covers bones without form.
Flesh and cells sloughed off in a Vietnamese rice field.
A B-52 bomber lost and then found,his life for his country.
My family on the six o'clock news.


My cousin sits in the front row.
He was still a boy, not quite a man
when his father went down.
I remember the boy without a father
solemn and sad, except with us.

A surogate big brother, torturing us girls
the way big brothers do.
Camping trips where he woke us by pulling
a single hair from our leg,hiding a rubber hose
under our sleeping bags and screaming snake.

Under the family tent, I stand;
watching the military honor guard.
Their faces carved in stone, razor sharp,
blotched,beautiful, black sometimes brown, and
sometimes white.

They are folding the flag,
in a symphony of quick, sharp, movements.
Wrist snaps, guns tap, pure and precise,
anesthetized and sterile.

My cousin stands at the coffin
and reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the silver bracelets
bearing his father name.
One for every year he was lost
laying them atop the trianlge
of red, white and blue.
The sun reflects off the silver
throwing rainbows in the snow.

He whispers in the wind:

Mom it took 30 years,I brought him home.


My mind drifts to thoughts of Iraq
I wonder how many more times this task
will be performed for a fallen soldier.
How many young boys will grow up without
thier fathers.Lifes sinew, blood and bone
behind the evenings casualty statistics.

Taps begin to play, the remains of life
are slowly lowered beneath the snow.

The snowflakes,fully developed
crystalline lattices
dance above my head.
I watch them fall,position myself
so that one delicate prism
falls on the bridge of my nose.
Uniquely beautiful it slowly dies
from the heat of my body




A scene in a snow globe, a funeral, a mourner suspended in time



I hold the snow globe to my ear
like a shell from the sea
Notes of amazing grace dance in my ear.

Shake

Snow flakes fall at the cemetery
the mourners are matchsticks
dipped in white.

Gun shots slice the air,
threaten the glass in my hand.
A middle aged man,in grey mourning clothes,
tenses and relaxes 21 times.

Tin soldiers, in military blues stand at attention.
A postage sized flag drapes the coffin
The flag covers bones without form.
Flesh and cells sloughed off in a Vietnamese rice field.
A B-52 bomber lost and then found,his life for his country.
My family on the six o’clock news.

Shake

My cousin, a middle aged man,
sits in the front row.
He was still a boy, not quite a man
when his father went down.
I remember the boy without a father
solemn and sad, except with us.

A surogate big brother, torturing us girls
the way big brothers do.
Camping trips where he woke us by pulling
a single hair from our leg,hiding a rubber hose
under our sleeping bags and screaming snake.

Under the family tent, I stand;
watching the military honor guard.
Their faces carved in stone, razor sharp,
blotched,beautiful, black sometimes brown, and
sometimes white.

They are folding the flag,
in a symphony of quick, sharp, movements.
Wrist snaps, guns tap, pure and precise,
anesthetized and sterile.

My cousin stands at the coffin
and reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the silver bracelets
bearing his father name.
One for every year he was lost
laying them atop the trianlge
of red, white and blue.
The sun reflects off the silver
throwing rainbows in the snow.

He whispers in the wind:

Mom it took 30 years, he is home.


My mind drifts to thoughts of Iraq
I wonder how many more times this task
will be performed for a fallen soldier.
How many young boys will grow up without
thier fathers.Lifes sinew, blood and bone
behind the evenings casualty statistics.

Shake

Taps begin to play, the remains of life
are slowly lowered beneath the snow.

The snowflakes,fully developed
crystalline lattices
dance above my head.
I watch them fall,position myself
so that one delicate prism
falls on the bridge of my nose.
Uniquely beautiful it slowly dies
from the heat of my body.


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Guest_Don_*
post May 13 07, 12:30
Post #2





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Hi bbnixon,

Your request will take me some time. The work is long, which done double adds time to review right. My first impression is that heavy emphasis on narration should not be depended upon. This is poetry, not prose.

I kinda wonder what I am doing on this side of the fence as I am unlikely to post any free verse. No, untrue, I've a humorous corruption with working title of "Dialect."

Short and sweet, like MacArther, I shall return.

Don
 
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Guest_Kathy_*
post May 13 07, 12:50
Post #3





Guest






Quick comments, because it is 0352 here.

I think there's too much in it. You need to condense. Maybe write two poems, or three. It's really hard to write something this close to the bone.

I'll come back tomorrow and read it afresh.

I suggest you keep it in the moment, without much reverie. Present tense, as is. Focus on one person, then another. See if that brings it clear.

Maybe start with 'my cousin brought him home...' eg:


He was still a boy
when his father went down.
I remember him
solemn and sad

Now he sits, a middle-aged man.
I watch how he tenses
to the 21 gun salute

or something.

This sets the time-line, determines the scene, and cuts straight to the guts of the story.

Maybe then you could do a bit of reverie, put it in italics to keep it apart from the rest? Flashback style. The unreality/reality of this being YOUR family can come out this way, like your snowglobe being shaken. My family is shaken.... though you don't have to say so...

Does that make sense? Hope it helps,

K
 
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bbnixon
post May 25 07, 10:37
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Real Name: Brenda Nixon Cook
Writer of: Poetry
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Hi Don,


Thanks for stopping by. I am sorry for my late response. Peotry vs prose. A problem I struggle with. This one I am thinking about letting settle to the bottom.

Hope you have a wonderful day

:) brenda


Hi Kathy

Thanks for the comments, I am sorry for my late response. I am still struggling with this one. ... I like the idea of person to person. I am thinking on that... Perhaps it is just one I can not get right or am not ready to write. I have a couple of those.


Hope your day is very good

:) brenda


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JaxMyth
post May 26 07, 08:42
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QUOTE (bbnixon @ May 14 07, 03:12 ) [snapback]96003[/snapback]

Hi Brenda some comments in line:

Repatriation (not a draft-an alternative concept)

Snow flakes fall at the cemetery
the mourners are matchsticks
dipped in white.

The matchsticks that I am used to are made from poplar and are already white.

Gun shots slice the air,
A middle aged man,in grey mourning clothes,
tenses and relaxes 21 times.

Too prosaic, perhaps something like 'A grey man in a grey suit...' Maybe 'releases' rather than 'relaxes'

Tin soldiers, in military blues stand at attention.
I am more used to 'stand to attention' this may be a regional thing.
A postage sized flag drapes the coffin
Maybe a better modifier than 'postage'.
The flag covers bones without form.
Flesh [and cells] sloughed off in a Vietnamese [rice field](paddy).
A B-52 [bomber] lost and then found,his life for his country.
My family('s) on the six o'clock news.


My cousin sits in the front row.
He was still a boy[, not quite a man]
when his father went down.
I remember [the boy without a father] (him being)
solemn and sad, except with us.

A surrogate big brother, torturing us girls
the way big brothers do.
Camping trips where he woke us by pulling
a single hair from our leg, hiding a rubber hose
under our sleeping bags and screaming snake.

Under the family tent, I stand;
watching the military honor guard.
Their faces carved in stone, razor sharp,
blotched,beautiful, black sometimes brown, and
sometimes white.

They are folding the flag,
in a symphony of quick, sharp, movements.
Wrist snaps, guns tap, pure and precise,
anesthetized and sterile.

My cousin stands at the coffin
and reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the silver bracelets
bearing his father name.
One for every year he was lost
laying them atop the [trianlge] (triangle)
of red, white and blue.
The sun reflects off the silver
throwing rainbows in the snow.

He whispers in the wind:

Mom it took 30 years,I brought him home.


My mind drifts to thoughts of Iraq
I wonder how many more times this task
will be performed for a fallen soldier.
How many young boys will grow up without
[thier] (their) fathers.Life(')s sinew, blood and bone
behind the evenings casualty statistics.

Taps begin to play, the remains of life
are slowly lowered beneath the snow.

The snowflakes,fully developed
crystalline lattices
dance above my head.
I watch them fall,position myself
so that one delicate prism
falls on the bridge of my nose.
Uniquely beautiful it slowly dies
from the heat of my body


Brenda I am sorry I have run out of time. I see your major problem being that this far too prosaic. Remove all line breaks and cast this as prose the try to rework the prose as a poem it my get you out of your rut.

Use or lose,

Regards,

Jax




A scene in a snow globe, a funeral, a mourner suspended in time



I hold the snow globe to my ear
like a shell from the sea
Notes of amazing grace dance in my ear.

Shake

Snow flakes fall at the cemetery
the mourners are matchsticks
dipped in white.

Gun shots slice the air,
threaten the glass in my hand.
A middle aged man,in grey mourning clothes,
tenses and relaxes 21 times.

Tin soldiers, in military blues stand at attention.
A postage sized flag drapes the coffin
The flag covers bones without form.
Flesh and cells sloughed off in a Vietnamese rice field.
A B-52 bomber lost and then found,his life for his country.
My family on the six o’clock news.

Shake

My cousin, a middle aged man,
sits in the front row.
He was still a boy, not quite a man
when his father went down.
I remember the boy without a father
solemn and sad, except with us.

A surogate big brother, torturing us girls
the way big brothers do.
Camping trips where he woke us by pulling
a single hair from our leg,hiding a rubber hose
under our sleeping bags and screaming snake.

Under the family tent, I stand;
watching the military honor guard.
Their faces carved in stone, razor sharp,
blotched,beautiful, black sometimes brown, and
sometimes white.

They are folding the flag,
in a symphony of quick, sharp, movements.
Wrist snaps, guns tap, pure and precise,
anesthetized and sterile.

My cousin stands at the coffin
and reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the silver bracelets
bearing his father name.
One for every year he was lost
laying them atop the trianlge
of red, white and blue.
The sun reflects off the silver
throwing rainbows in the snow.

He whispers in the wind:

Mom it took 30 years, he is home.


My mind drifts to thoughts of Iraq
I wonder how many more times this task
will be performed for a fallen soldier.
How many young boys will grow up without
thier fathers.Lifes sinew, blood and bone
behind the evenings casualty statistics.

Shake

Taps begin to play, the remains of life
are slowly lowered beneath the snow.

The snowflakes,fully developed
crystalline lattices
dance above my head.
I watch them fall,position myself
so that one delicate prism
falls on the bridge of my nose.
Uniquely beautiful it slowly dies
from the heat of my body.


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Eisa
post May 26 07, 09:44
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Hi Brenda

There is so much that is good here, but I can see why you struggle with it. I feel it would make a wonderful piece of prose. It certainly is too long for poetry ... although I like Kathy's idea of making it into a trilogy -- that would be good. Before you make any changes I feel you should weigh it up ......Prose or a trilogy. Once you have decided I feel you will be able to work better on this one. Just my opinion -- hope it helps.

Snow Snowflake.gif


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bbnixon
post May 30 07, 05:59
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Hi Jax and Snow,

Thanks to you both for the read and the comments...I like the idea of a weighing it up. I just need to decide what to do with it...These days I am, leaning toward the trash can.. Perhaps it is one I am just not ready to write. Sometimes it is the writer themselves that proves to be greatest stumbling block.

Hope you both have a wonderful day....

:) brenda


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AMETHYST
post May 30 07, 22:08
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Hi Brenda,

STOP! Don't you dare put this is the trash can! There is a lot of good stuff going on here, you also have a lot of wonderful poetic devices in your poetry tool box to take this into the poetry zone, and out of the prose zone.

I too, will triple vote on Kathy's suggestion of a Triology, although I do see what you were trying to do. In the case that you are still leaning towards using the technique of the snowglobe to shake it into the next stage scene, your best bet than would be to go toward prose and make a short story.

For now, I have printed it out and will be working towards suggestions for poetry, weeding out unnecessary words, tightening up and utilizing those poetic devices we have available to us. :) Like sound devices, better, stronger line breaks etc... hopefully something will click and will reveal what destiny this piece of work holds for you.


Best Wishes, Liz ...


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AMETHYST
post Jun 2 07, 10:35
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Hi Brenda,

I spent a while rereading this several times and making notes to return with. I will have to agree that this would do quite well as a Series of poems working its way to the final stanza.

If you don't mind, I would like to show a few edit suggestions as examples - What I felt this needs most though is weeding out of unnecessary or weak areas.

I hope something I leave helps you find your way with this. As I mentioned there is a lot of strong lines and images and the idea is a good one, I just feel it needs developing. :)

Hugs, Liz ...


QUOTE
Repatriation (not a draft-an alternative concept)

Snow flakes fall at the cemetery
the mourners are matchsticks
dipped in white.

This is great opening. The image is interesting and serves a hook and follow through for the readers curiosity. Some weeding out suggestions would be omitting 'the' in L1 - and perhaps

Snow flakes fall
on cemetery mourners; like matchsticks
they stand, dipped-white.



Gun shots slice the air,
A middle aged man,in grey mourning clothes,
tenses and relaxes 21 times.

Another word for slice, or perhaps they don't slice the air but disrupt the saddened mood dressed in silence, then gun shots cut through the silence. L2/3 are a little wordy... perhaps ...

A man, clothed in grey mourning
attire ... tenses, relaxes -
twenty-one gun shots
slice the silence.


Tin soldiers, in military blues stand at attention.
A postage sized flag drapes the coffin
The flag covers bones without form.
Flesh and cells sloughed off in a Vietnamese rice field.
A B-52 bomber lost and then found,his life for his country.
My family on the six o'clock news.

The idea of a postage sized flag draping a coffin seems a little difficult to picture. There seems to be some trips here as well, and L5 sounds like the B-52 bomber lost but then found his life, as if he misplaced it. L6, who's family? The B-52 bombers family? I think if you are going to reference to 'my ...' indicating the 'narrator' perhaps introduce him/her in the first stanza.

I watch snow flakes fall
over cemetary mourners,
like matchsticks dipped-white.

An example of possible suggestion here might be:

QUOTE
Tin soldiers, in military blues stand at attention.
A postage sized flag drapes the coffin
The flag covers bones without form.
Flesh and cells sloughed off in a Vietnamese rice field.
A B-52 bomber lost and then found,his life for his country.
My family on the six o'clock news.


A flag drapes a coffin, Tin Soldiers
stand at attention; military blues against a gray sky-
within the casket, are bones
of a B-52 bomber, once lost and now found,
flesh and cells sloughed
off in a Vietnamese rice field.
My family, on the six o'clock news.





For now, I must go get ready for work but I will return later on with further comments on the remainder of the poem.

Hugs, Liz


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Guest_Don_*
post Jun 2 07, 10:53
Post #10





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I most certainly second your keeping the theme. In what form to frame it will pop into mind some unexpected moment. For instance it could be a series of snowglobe poems. I think the snowglobe is a clever approach, but I doubt if it has enough scope to cover your entire theme. You have worked out a raft of sound details, which may be adapted to various compositions.

Don
 
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AMETHYST
post Jun 3 07, 15:41
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Ok ... the continued critique -

In my opinion, I think the first point inwhich I've already critiqued is a part I and can stand on it's own-as the ending line, leaves the reader with a revelation and connection to the context at the start.

Now I would begin this following as Part II.




QUOTE
My cousin sits in the front row.
He was still a boy, not quite a man
when his father went down.
I remember the boy without a father
solemn and sad, except with us.

L2, gives me two opposing images. When I read 'he was still a boy' this brings to mind a child, anywhere from 10 - 13yoa ... while, not quite a man' gives me someone who is entering into manhood, but not there yet, such as someone 15-16 or 17-18 years of age. Either way, one or the other is required, as both makes it wordy... So is this young man a older teen or a man coming into his teens... ???

I'll continue my thoughts with him coming into his teens, as that to me is more striking.

My cousin sits in the front row.
He was but a boy
when his father went down.

I remember him --
that boy without a father, solemn
and sad, With us, he was different.



A surogate big brother, torturing us girls
the way big brothers do.
Camping trips where he woke us by pulling
a single hair from our leg,hiding a rubber hose
under our sleeping bags and screaming snake.

Under the family tent, I stand;
watching the military honor guard.
Their faces carved in stone, razor sharp,
blotched,beautiful, black sometimes brown, and
sometimes white.



I would blend these above 2 stanzas to make the transition from his sitting to his stand by the coffin.


Perhaps ...

I stand beneath the family tent,
watching the guards, their faces
carved stone and razor sharp.

Memories over flow my mind
of my cousin, like a surogate big brother-
in his mischievious ways, torturing
us girls. On camping trips
he'd wake us with a pulled hair
from our leg. Once, he hid
a rubber hose under our sleeping bags
and screamed snake.



They are folding the flag,
in a symphony of quick, sharp, movements.
Wrist snaps, guns tap, pure and precise,
anesthetized and sterile.

My cousin stands at the coffin
and reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the silver bracelets
bearing his father name.
One for every year he was lost
laying them atop the trianlge
of red, white and blue.
The sun reflects off the silver
throwing rainbows in the snow.

Perhaps ...

He stands near the coffin,
pulls out a cluster
of silver bracelets
from his pocket -
bearing his fathers name;
one for every year he was MIA -
laid them atop a triangle
of red, white and blue.


They fold the flag
in a symphony of quick,
sharp, movements. Wrist snaps,
guns tap, pure and precise,
anesthetized and sterile.

Sun reflects the silver,
as rainbows in the snow.



He whispers in the wind:

Mom it took 30 years,I brought him home.

My mind drifts to thoughts of Iraq
I wonder how many more times this task
will be performed for a fallen soldier.
How many young boys will grow up without
thier fathers.Lifes sinew, blood and bone
behind the evenings casualty statistics.

Taps begin to play, the remains of life
are slowly lowered beneath the snow.

The snowflakes,fully developed
crystalline lattices
dance above my head.
I watch them fall,position myself
so that one delicate prism
falls on the bridge of my nose.
Uniquely beautiful it slowly dies
from the heat of my body


This point I will get to later on, a suggestion of beginning another part here...

A scene in a snow globe, a funeral, a mourner suspended in time



I hold the snow globe to my ear
like a shell from the sea
Notes of amazing grace dance in my ear.

Shake

Snow flakes fall at the cemetery
the mourners are matchsticks
dipped in white.

Gun shots slice the air,
threaten the glass in my hand.
A middle aged man,in grey mourning clothes,
tenses and relaxes 21 times.

Tin soldiers, in military blues stand at attention.
A postage sized flag drapes the coffin
The flag covers bones without form.
Flesh and cells sloughed off in a Vietnamese rice field.
A B-52 bomber lost and then found,his life for his country.
My family on the six o’clock news.

Shake

My cousin, a middle aged man,
sits in the front row.
He was still a boy, not quite a man
when his father went down.
I remember the boy without a father
solemn and sad, except with us.

A surogate big brother, torturing us girls
the way big brothers do.
Camping trips where he woke us by pulling
a single hair from our leg,hiding a rubber hose
under our sleeping bags and screaming snake.

Under the family tent, I stand;
watching the military honor guard.
Their faces carved in stone, razor sharp,
blotched,beautiful, black sometimes brown, and
sometimes white.

They are folding the flag,
in a symphony of quick, sharp, movements.
Wrist snaps, guns tap, pure and precise,
anesthetized and sterile.

My cousin stands at the coffin
and reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the silver bracelets
bearing his father name.
One for every year he was lost
laying them atop the trianlge
of red, white and blue.
The sun reflects off the silver
throwing rainbows in the snow.

He whispers in the wind:

Mom it took 30 years, he is home.

My mind drifts to thoughts of Iraq
I wonder how many more times this task
will be performed for a fallen soldier.
How many young boys will grow up without
thier fathers.Lifes sinew, blood and bone
behind the evenings casualty statistics.

Shake

Taps begin to play, the remains of life
are slowly lowered beneath the snow.

The snowflakes,fully developed
crystalline lattices
dance above my head.
I watch them fall,position myself
so that one delicate prism
falls on the bridge of my nose.
Uniquely beautiful it slowly dies
from the heat of my body.



I'll be back... :)


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bbnixon
post Jun 3 07, 20:16
Post #12


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Real Name: Brenda Nixon Cook
Writer of: Poetry
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Hi Don,

Thank you for the read and comments...Looks like I have my work cut out for me...It will take me some time...but I think I might eventually move forward.

hope you have a wonderful day

:) brenda


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bbnixon
post Jun 3 07, 20:22
Post #13


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Real Name: Brenda Nixon Cook
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Hi Liz,

hsdance.gif You Rock hsdance.gif

Thank you for everything, it will take me some time...hopefully I will get there.

wishing you a beautiful summer day

:) brenda


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Guest_Don_*
post Jun 4 07, 08:23
Post #14





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Dear bb,

The challenges chosen are within which we grow.

James Joyce declared that of all English men of letters, Wordsworth best deserves the label of genius. Coleridge encouraged Wordsworth to write an epic philisophical work on nature, man, and society. He didn't.

Don
 
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bbnixon
post Jun 14 07, 20:08
Post #15


Babylonian
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Group: Gold Member
Posts: 88
Joined: 7-March 07
From: United States
Member No.: 409
Real Name: Brenda Nixon Cook
Writer of: Poetry
Referred By:Sampo



Don,

Thank you for the encouragement....I have been in a funk of late....but hope to get to work on the revision soon...I have started a series of poems about my expereinces working at Katrina, that have been consuming me...I hope to try to be around a little more.

:) brenda


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Guest_Don_*
post Jun 15 07, 07:20
Post #16





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Hi bb,

Most of ideas that challenge us the most take a while to meet selfsatisfaction. Let your subconcious free to help you. It has helped me solve technical problems and more than satisfy employers with creativity.

Don :)
 
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Judi
post Jun 15 07, 10:56
Post #17


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Group: Bronze Member
Posts: 544
Joined: 3-May 07
From: Central Florida
Member No.: 427
Real Name: Judith Labriola
Writer of: Poetry



Snow flakes fall at the cemetery
the mourners are matchsticks
dipped in white.
very good image

Gun shots slice the air,
A middle aged man,in grey mourning clothes, add space after comma

tenses and relaxes 21 times.

Tin soldiers, in military blues stand at attention.
A postage sized flag drapes the coffin (This does not sound right..change size)
The flag covers bones without form.
Flesh and cells sloughed off in a Vietnamese rice field.
A B-52 bomber lost and then found,his life for his country.
Lost and found does not sound feasible...just lost would have been okMy family on the six o'clock news.


My cousin sits in the front row.
He was still a boy, not quite a man
when his father went down. (How about plane went down)
I remember the boy without a father
solemn and sad, except with us.

A surogate big brother, torturing us girls
the way big brothers do.
Camping trips where he woke us by pulling
a single hair from our leg,hiding a rubber hose (Add space)
under our sleeping bags (and) screaming snake. (How about then screaming snake)

Under the family tent, I stand;I would not use an inversion..
how about I stand under the family tent

watching the military honor guard.
Their faces (,)carved in stone, razor sharp, (should be a comma after faces)
blotched,beautiful, black sometimes brown, and
sometimes white.

They are folding the flag,
in a symphony of quick, sharp, movements.
Wrist snaps, guns tap, pure and precise,
anesthetized and sterile.
Very Good

My cousin stands at the coffin
and reaches into his pocket
and pulls out the silver bracelets
bearing his father name.
One for every year he was lost
laying them atop the (trianlge ) triangle is the proper spelling
of red, white and blue.
The sun reflects off the silver
throwing rainbows in the snow.

He whispers in the wind: He speaks into the wind?

Mom it took 30 years,I brought him home.


My mind drifts to thoughts of Iraq
I wonder how many more times this task
will be performed for a fallen soldier.
How many young boys will grow up without
thier fathers.Lifes sinew, blood and bone
behind the evenings casualty statistics.

Taps begin to play, the remains of life
are slowly lowered beneath the snow.

The snowflakes,fully developed need a space here
crystalline lattices
dance above my head.
I watch them fall,position myself
so that one delicate prism
falls on the bridge of my nose.
Uniquely beautiful it slowly dies
from the heat of my body

Nits are mostly in typos...watch for spaces after commas, and spelling..(which most of us are guilty of) Judi


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bbnixon
post Jun 17 07, 14:05
Post #18


Babylonian
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Group: Gold Member
Posts: 88
Joined: 7-March 07
From: United States
Member No.: 409
Real Name: Brenda Nixon Cook
Writer of: Poetry
Referred By:Sampo



Hi Don

Thanks for the encouragement, it has been moved to my back burner (i.e. subconcious) for a little while. I am hoping I will wake up one day...and in my sleep a miracle would of happened and I can sit down with all othese great comments and be done.. hahaha...I just think I need a little break from it.

:) brenda

Hi Judi

Thank you very much for the read and comments. I have put this one on the back burner for a little while, I think it needs a major rewrite....and perhaps a conceptual change and right now my attention is on some other poems I am working on. The wonderful thing, is it will be there when I am ready.

:) brenda


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