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Space/Time as an Opera ***, obscenely long |
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Dec 15 15, 15:29
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Nomad
Group: Silver Member
Posts: 30
Joined: 30-October 15
From: High Peak
Member No.: 5,276
Real Name: Mike Daniels
Writer of: Poetry
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Space/Time as an Opera
A time-shift and the chasm opens - we might slide through the universes without touching the fabric of multiple creations.
This strange glide, part hover part desperation, against the backcloth of brilliant stars, the vacuum misplaced.
**************************************
Dawn bloomed flesh pale imagined by a white man thinking of some vaguely Western God, sombre pose, almost joyless except in faith. The sharp act may be to crawl across the moor into the face of the rising sun, into the east, into tomorrow.
He laces his boots, black threaded through black and tight enough that he can feel the flow of blood around his ankles. This, a morning delight of anticipation. and he savours every movement as he sits on the side of the bed, each curl of his fingers accompanied by a pause, this early rests beyond thought and he runs in automatic until his first coffee which is some minutes away.
So now, his moments are pauses between bursts of activity that pass un-noticed, unremarked, until, boots laced, he stomps down stairs to sample his first drink of the day.
**************************************
Space has no soundtrack beyond the imagination.
**************************************
Breakfast is mechanical, the spoon rises and falls, now steepled with oats and milk now empty of everything but intent. Eyes stare, fixed and blank, without recognition, and he gives thanks for the solitude he carries on his slumped shoulders – this is too early for social alertness. The spoon rises, the mouth opens, closes. He chews – life runs in perpetual motion, Unthinking.
Ambition lies on the far side of the black hole that rests beyond the now of it, as if space has no dimension. Insentient, he completes his tasks – the play of his fingers, the dance of hammer and spark his only real delight, skill and design rich in experience. Blow by blow, he beats out the pattern in the red heat of metal, hammerfall deliberate and thoughtless.
He is content.
***********************************
Stars are blind in a blind sky, having stared into the heart of too many suns. Now they drift aimlessly, desperate to fill the space around themselves with the force of their shining.
The magnetic field, weak as starshine, limps from one body to the next. In space
no-one can hear you scream.
***************************************
He rests for a moment after lunch, heavy bottomed, contemplates the grime of the plate as if the whole of his life lies within the smears of grease and sauce. Beyond, the fires burn, draw his legs under him and he settles back into the rhythm of the forge. The anvil of space, the starfire furnace – even the Gods demand such tools, this he knows with every blow, every spark. He knows that he is the blow, he is the spark.
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this is not a rebel song
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Dec 15 15, 16:46
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Babylonian
Group: Gold Member
Posts: 97
Joined: 31-October 15
Member No.: 5,279
Real Name: J.S. MacLean (Joe)
Writer of: Poetry
Referred By:Eisa
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Mike
This is not obscene and this is not a critique. This is excellent and I hope someone can give you any suggestions for little nips and tucks that this might need. A couple of things struck me. First some similarities (IMO) to my own recent post as far as subject and complete opposite as to approach. Another thing I got was a hint of "repetition" used as a device rather than as just "repetition" which I thought was brilliant and haunting.
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Dec 15 15, 21:44
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Group: Gold Member
Posts: 248
Joined: 10-November 15
From: Sunny Florida
Member No.: 5,293
Real Name: YC
Writer of: Poetry
Referred By:TCP
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A poem about space, time and even God.
I like the lyrical quality of it. However, at one point I think you strayed from your purpose by doing this long detailed narrative about some guy’s day.
As I was reading, I kept asking myself what was the connection between the first part of the poem and this man putting on his boots and eating his oatmeal?
You give hints about the connection but they came too late in the poem. I think you need to tighten it. You need to make stronger connections between the man, time, space and God.
Space/Time as an Opera
A time-shift and the chasm opens - we might slide through the universes without touching the fabric of multiple creations.
This strange glide, part hover part desperation, against the backcloth of brilliant stars, the vacuum misplaced.
************************************** Why the stars? No need to separate it.
Dawn bloomed flesh pale imagined by a white man thinking of some vaguely Western God, sombre pose, almost joyless except in faith. The sharp act may be to crawl across the moor into the face of the rising sun, into the east, into tomorrow.
He laces his boots, black threaded through black and tight enough that he can feel the flow of blood around his ankles. This, a morning delight of anticipation. and he savours every movement as he sits on the side of the bed, each curl of his fingers accompanied by a pause, this early rests beyond thought and he runs in automatic until his first coffee which is some minutes away.
So now, his moments are pauses between bursts of activity that pass un-noticed, unremarked, until, boots laced, he stomps down stairs to sample his first drink of the day.
**************************************
Space has no soundtrack beyond the imagination.
**************************************
Breakfast is mechanical, the spoon rises and falls, now steepled with oats and milk now empty of everything but intent. Eyes stare, fixed and blank, without recognition, and he gives thanks for the solitude he carries on his slumped shoulders – this is too early for social alertness. The spoon rises, the mouth opens, closes. He chews – life runs in perpetual motion, Unthinking.
Ambition lies on the far side of the black hole that rests beyond the now of it, as if space has no dimension. Insentient, he completes his tasks – the play of his fingers, the dance of hammer and spark his only real delight, skill and design rich in experience. Blow by blow, he beats out the pattern in the red heat of metal, hammerfall deliberate and thoughtless.
He is content.
***********************************
Stars are blind in a blind sky, having stared into the heart of too many suns. Now they drift aimlessly, desperate to fill the space around themselves with the force of their shining.
The magnetic field, weak as starshine, limps from one body to the next. In space
no-one can hear you scream.
- Clique. ***************************************
He rests for a moment after lunch, heavy bottomed, contemplates the grime of the plate as if the whole of his life lies within the smears of grease and sauce. Beyond, the fires burn, draw his legs under him and he settles back into the rhythm of the forge. The anvil of space, the starfire furnace – even the Gods demand such tools, this he knows with every blow, every spark. He knows that he is the blow, he is the spark.
Luce
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Dec 18 15, 21:08
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Nomad
Group: Silver Member
Posts: 30
Joined: 30-October 15
From: High Peak
Member No.: 5,276
Real Name: Mike Daniels
Writer of: Poetry
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Thanks guys
Critter, thank you for your time and consideration. I appreciate anyone spending time on an extended piece like this and I'm pleased you found something in this.
Luce, the piece is not about space and time. Were it, your critique would be invaluable. However, its about the separate dimension of Space/time and Quantum Mechanics, which originates with an imaginary experiment in which an observer plays a critical part. Of course, no reading of a poem is ever wrong as we all bring our separate experiences to a work. Clearly, I failed to make my intent clear enough.
Mike
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this is not a rebel song
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Dec 19 15, 04:09
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Group: Gold Member
Posts: 248
Joined: 10-November 15
From: Sunny Florida
Member No.: 5,293
Real Name: YC
Writer of: Poetry
Referred By:TCP
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Mike wrote:
“Luce, the piece is not about space and time. Were it, your critique would be invaluable. However, its about the separate dimension of Space/time and Quantum Mechanics,….”
OH!!!! I see! Sooooo….since I didn’t “get it” that you were talking about the “separate dimension of space/time and quantum mechanics” my crit is crap which is what you’re really saying… oh so very politely.
“Of course, no reading of a poem is ever wrong as we all bring our separate experiences to a work.”
Well…. I guess I’m the exception to the above since you obviously saw my reading as wrong. Thus, you saw no value in it.
“Clearly, I failed to make my intent clear enough.”
Yes, by all means make your intent clearer and therefore more reachable for readers. If you’re able to convey, in poetic terms, “the separate dimension of space/time and quantum mechanics” in your poem, then that would be a triumph.
Luce
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Dec 19 15, 09:06
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Nomad
Group: Silver Member
Posts: 30
Joined: 30-October 15
From: High Peak
Member No.: 5,276
Real Name: Mike Daniels
Writer of: Poetry
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alternatively, I could gut a poem and claim some kind of superiority - which I should have written originally rather attempt to be generous to the critique.
And the word is 'cliché' by the way, not 'clique.' A clique is a small group who see themselves as superior in some way - how appropriate.
I'm out of here.
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this is not a rebel song
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Dec 19 15, 10:52
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Group: Gold Member
Posts: 248
Joined: 10-November 15
From: Sunny Florida
Member No.: 5,293
Real Name: YC
Writer of: Poetry
Referred By:TCP
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QUOTE (danimik @ Dec 19 15, 09:06 ) alternatively, I could gut a poem and claim some kind of superiority - which I should have written originally rather attempt to be generous to the critique.
And the word is 'cliché' by the way, not 'clique.' A clique is a small group who see themselves as superior in some way - how appropriate.
I'm out of here. I can be equally petty and point out all your misspellings in turn but it serves no purpose Nevertheless, I'm sorry for the misspelling in the crit. I'll change it. Critiques are suggestions. Don't take them so hard. I've had crits that left me with five words in my poem. If you get a crit you really don't agree with, just thank them for their time and move on. Well, at least this exchange has a plus side to it. Your poem is now at the very top. Hope you get more crits. then mine. Luce
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