Hep Me Out!
- Thread starter Angeline
- Start date
*Catbabe*
falling in between
- Joined
- Sep 6, 2002
- Posts
- 8,797
Okay, I just have to say that I love it when you break your lines the way Liar mentioned, Ange.
I don't find it hard to read. (and I know Liar didn't say he did either) With the breaks like that, I feel your are letting me know more clearly how you want the piece read. I have come to think of it as your style and style is never a bad thing.
I don't find it hard to read. (and I know Liar didn't say he did either) With the breaks like that, I feel your are letting me know more clearly how you want the piece read. I have come to think of it as your style and style is never a bad thing.
champagne1982
Dangerous Liaison
- Joined
- Aug 31, 2002
- Posts
- 7,671
The moon is pregnant with metaphor.
You look up and see a fingernail
or a benevolent loopy face.
Think of a harvest moon, dark
as pumpkin or fair
as winter’s white gold,
shifting in and out of gray, hanging
like an ornament in a snow globe.
The delicate spring moon is balanced
in night, a promise, lighting copses’
hidden bowers, glowing on whispers.
Laughter, yours and yours, a promise
kept in summer in its translucent
descent, kissing rivers and ocean.
So full of itself, dancing joy on water,
but it’s shy and unsure, too.
A bumpkin moon, sneaking behind
the Sun's skirts, sometimes all the way.
Nothing is so cold as that moment, when
it’s blotted away by darkness,
or so reassuring,
as the ever of its return.
We daydream about the cow’s high jump,
the silly dish and spoon eloping,
and we feel safe and sleep or sing
about its glow, how it shines on
because it has to be moonlight
or shadow or some other thing
that it is and isn’t everywhere.
You forgot to mention the moon surrounded by its angel hair storm halo, whipped by evening winds as its gibbous fullness is harried thin by the hounding dog star.
and I k-k-k-keep on waiting by the k-k-k-kitchen door.
You look up and see a fingernail
or a benevolent loopy face.
Think of a harvest moon, dark
as pumpkin or fair
as winter’s white gold,
shifting in and out of gray, hanging
like an ornament in a snow globe.
The delicate spring moon is balanced
in night, a promise, lighting copses’
hidden bowers, glowing on whispers.
Laughter, yours and yours, a promise
kept in summer in its translucent
descent, kissing rivers and ocean.
So full of itself, dancing joy on water,
but it’s shy and unsure, too.
A bumpkin moon, sneaking behind
the Sun's skirts, sometimes all the way.
Nothing is so cold as that moment, when
it’s blotted away by darkness,
or so reassuring,
as the ever of its return.
We daydream about the cow’s high jump,
the silly dish and spoon eloping,
and we feel safe and sleep or sing
about its glow, how it shines on
because it has to be moonlight
or shadow or some other thing
that it is and isn’t everywhere.
You forgot to mention the moon surrounded by its angel hair storm halo, whipped by evening winds as its gibbous fullness is harried thin by the hounding dog star.
and I k-k-k-keep on waiting by the k-k-k-kitchen door.
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,156
A few more changes--
Thanks Champers--I added some of your commas. I had debated putting them in initially because of the way I wanted the poem read, but I constantly struggle to recognize that readers don't see into my head and/or pick up on the nuances I think I'm getting across.
I kept "white gold" in the second stanza because that is what the mid-winter moon looks like to me, but I liked the way you made the phrasing clearer, hence my revision there.
Also, I'm trying overall to avoid similes (though I know I have a few) in favor of metaphor since that is the poem's hypothesis. I know you didn't add any, but I like the more impressionistic feel you get with fewer articles, conjunctions, adverbs, etc. Maybe that's splitting hairs since metaphor and simile are are both stand-in images for concrete terms. but I prefer the terser structure of metaphor here.
I like your halo burst suggestion too--and I should add a werewolf reference, but I'm too tired now.
Version 3 (final? maybe. for now, lol.)
The moon is pregnant with metaphor.
You look up, see a fingernail
or a benevolent loopy face.
Think of a harvest moon,
dark as a pumpkin,
or in winter, white gold,
shifting in and out of gray,
hanging like an ornament
in a snow globe.
The delicate spring moon
is balanced in the night.
It is promise, lighting copses’
hidden bowers, glowing on whispers,
laughter, yours and yours.
The promise, kept in summer,
is that translucent descent,
kissing rivers and ocean.
Then the moon is full of itself,
dancing joy on water.
But it’s shy and unsure too,
a bumpkin sneaking
behind the Sun's skirts.
Nothing is so cold as that moment
when it’s blotted away by darkness,
or so reassuring as the ever of its return.
We daydream about the cow’s high jump,
the silly dish and spoon eloping,
and we feel safe and sleep,
or sing about its glow, how it shines on
because it has to be moonlight
or shadow or some other thing
that it is and isn’t everywhere.
Thanks Champers--I added some of your commas. I had debated putting them in initially because of the way I wanted the poem read, but I constantly struggle to recognize that readers don't see into my head and/or pick up on the nuances I think I'm getting across.
I kept "white gold" in the second stanza because that is what the mid-winter moon looks like to me, but I liked the way you made the phrasing clearer, hence my revision there.
Also, I'm trying overall to avoid similes (though I know I have a few) in favor of metaphor since that is the poem's hypothesis. I know you didn't add any, but I like the more impressionistic feel you get with fewer articles, conjunctions, adverbs, etc. Maybe that's splitting hairs since metaphor and simile are are both stand-in images for concrete terms. but I prefer the terser structure of metaphor here.
I like your halo burst suggestion too--and I should add a werewolf reference, but I'm too tired now.
Version 3 (final? maybe. for now, lol.)
The moon is pregnant with metaphor.
You look up, see a fingernail
or a benevolent loopy face.
Think of a harvest moon,
dark as a pumpkin,
or in winter, white gold,
shifting in and out of gray,
hanging like an ornament
in a snow globe.
The delicate spring moon
is balanced in the night.
It is promise, lighting copses’
hidden bowers, glowing on whispers,
laughter, yours and yours.
The promise, kept in summer,
is that translucent descent,
kissing rivers and ocean.
Then the moon is full of itself,
dancing joy on water.
But it’s shy and unsure too,
a bumpkin sneaking
behind the Sun's skirts.
Nothing is so cold as that moment
when it’s blotted away by darkness,
or so reassuring as the ever of its return.
We daydream about the cow’s high jump,
the silly dish and spoon eloping,
and we feel safe and sleep,
or sing about its glow, how it shines on
because it has to be moonlight
or shadow or some other thing
that it is and isn’t everywhere.
