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Gone From My Hands
The bonfire skeletoned his body,
I climbed bough to bough
gathering his ash in my hair.
He was the potter and the kiln,
turning my head to his warm.
But, one by one, the embers fly from us.
All I can think of are his hands.
Just as the child in the park –
I watch him fly away,
the bird to land again, again, and again.
Her arms reach while she runs clumsy,
shoes too big for her small frame.
Forward, forward to catch her bird,
her little dress flutters in his wind.
All I can think of are her hands.
She and I do not share the sadness of birds,
only the empty of our hands.
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After reading your poems, I realize poetries cannot ever be craft but purest of emotions set to an ever beautiful music. But then, this is your craft, not to make it a craft.
Allow me to be a little personal, you have a very beautiful mind Stephanie.
Regards, J |
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Comment by: Stephie - 2008-04-10 12:01
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yes, and I do love playing with syntax ;)
Thank you |
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| This is again an unusual and unique poem with a great conceit at its heart. I really like the thesis/antithesis/synthesis structure - there is a strong structure here for the imagery to hang on. For what it's worth I really like 'she runs clumsy' - it has a 'thisness' to it. Meaning is underlined by the oddness of the syntax. Strong stuff. |
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Comment by: Stephie - 2008-04-06 16:33
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| Thanks for the suggestion, I will think on it ;) |
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Comment by: phillmag Online- 2008-04-06 05:00
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Stephie, nice work! i particularly like; gatering ash in her hair. but i stumbled on: Her arms reach while she runs clumsy (adj.) clumsily (adv.)-perhaps: Her arms reach, she runs clumsily/ in shoes too big...
it's just a thought. |
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