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Post by determinedtofail on May 28, 2010 15:50:06 GMT -5
Sounds (Revised Version)
I remember my mother sitting late at night, strumming an old Spanish melody, only the moonlight playing witness to her tears.
I have often asked, What notes had led her there? She can revise them now as she likes, but they are only songs, only sounds.
Sounds that vanish with a sweep of bus tires falling into the night.
The ground rumbles over, and a pair of broken spectacles trembles; like memories without ears or nursing home hallways between rounds.
Only hallways, only glasses. My thoughts are always waiting for my bus.
Tomorrow comes too early. Already the dandelion seeds drift by. I ran five miles today, wondering just how far they will go.
I board the same bus where passengers tell random stories. And stories fall open at me like books from library shelves.
The bus stops and hisses. Our feet pour out of door.
Around the park children are running. The soles of their sneakers bless the ground.
In the park. lovers make promises with their eyes. An elderly couple huddles away from the wind.
On the bench A book worm eats a sandwich- while being stalked by ducks.
I turn away so as not to bother anyone. My heart stings too easily.
Returning from my travels My quiet shoes lie by the door.
My shoes... Worn, dirty, well trodden, But they are only shoes.
---Austin
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Post by mfwilkie on May 29, 2010 10:34:35 GMT -5
Interesting first read, Austin. Some great imagery.
Want to think about it for a bit.
Maggie
I remember my mother sitting late at night, softly strumming and old Spanish melody, the moonlight played witness to her tears.
I have often asked myself, What notes had led her to this? She can revise them now as she likes, but they are only songs, only sounds.
Sounds that vanish with a sweep of bus tires, growling, falling into the night.
Rumbling over the ground, as a pair of broken spectacles trembles; like memories without ears or nursing home hallways between rounds.
Only hallways, only glasses. My thoughts wait for my bus.
Tomorrow comes too early. Already the dandelion seeds go by. I ran five miles today, wondering just how far they will go.
I board the bus. The passengers tell random stories. And the stories fall open at me like books from library shelves.
Our feet pour out of door.
Around the park children are running the soles of their sneakers bless the ground.
In the park. lovers make promises with their eyes. An elderly couple huddles away from the wind.
On the bench A book worm eats a sandwich while being stalked by ducks.
I turn away so as not to bother anyone. My heart stings too easily.
Returning from my travels
My shoes lie quietly by the door. My shoes…. Worn, dirty, well trodden, But, they are only shoes.
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Post by mfwilkie on Jun 2, 2010 11:15:25 GMT -5
Austin,
There are two references to night in the first stanza, are they both necessary to the image?
I remember my mother sitting late at night, strumming an old Spanish melody, only the moonlight playing witness to her tears
Maggie
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Post by Marion Poirier on Jul 15, 2010 19:28:00 GMT -5
Austin, I like what you have done in this poem. It is more focused than some of your other work. IMO, you could eliminate the stanzas about glasses and nursing homes and a couple of other lines. Very nice work! The sounds are vibrant and the visuals are well done.
Marion
Sounds (Revised Version)
I remember my mother strumming an old Spanish melody, only the moonlight witness to her tears.
I often ask, What notes led her there? She can revise them now as she likes, but they are only songs, only sounds.
Sounds that vanish with a sweep of bus tires falling into the night.
Tomorrow comes too early. Already the dandelion seeds drift by. I ran five miles today, wondering just how far they will go.
I board the same bus where passengers tell random stories. And stories fall open at me like books from library shelves.
The bus stops and hisses. Our feet pour out the door.
Around the park children are running. The soles of their sneakers bless the ground.
In the park. lovers make promises with their eyes. An elderly couple huddles away from the wind.
On the bench A book worm eats a sandwich- while being stalked by ducks.
I turn away. My heart stings too easily.
Returning from my travels My quiet shoes lie by the door.
My shoes... Worn, dirty, well trodden. But they are only shoes.
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Post by determinedtofail on Jul 19, 2010 0:44:35 GMT -5
Marrion I think your pretty right on about omitting some of the imagery. Hard for me to come to grips with it though. The broken glasses were my a personal experience that I intended to build this poem from. Art can be a funny thing though, when I try to force it, or make it do what it doesn't want to. Gonna take some more time to stare at this one to find the right combination.
---Shawn
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Post by Marion Poirier on Jul 20, 2010 10:30:33 GMT -5
Austin, this poem is one of my favorites of yours. It's a series of random thoughts; in my mind it's a stream of consciousness poem. If the broken spectacles and nursing room hallways are important to you, as obviously they are, perhaps a tad more detail, the nursing home hallways I am associating with the N's mother, perhaps incorrectly, but probably needs no explanation; however, I'd like to know a bit more about the broken spectacles, a few words might suffice. You might want to eliminate like and or in those lines and separate only with a comma, keeping the semi-c where it is. I think the "but" beginning last line should be lower case or leave it out and make this a sentence by itself to end the poem. I don't see much to change in this one. Very nicely done! Marion
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