> Hello Colin,
              I think the rewrite is the better of the two. The original is rather too verbose, even for my famously wordy taste. I think it contains too much detailed description and similies which pile up in the reader´s mind and actually obscure the subject rather than making it clearer. I think also that the idea `row as a way of being´ comes over as a bit `heavy´ and ponderous, as does much of the philosophising that follows it. The rewrite is preferable IMHO since it is shorter but I feel that it contains the same problems of description, just fewer of them. In fact, I think that the final stanza of the original contains the seed of what might make the best poem from this subject. I would think that to make it work you would need to avoid any labouring of the idea of rowing as a metaphor for life or existence. These are just my personal reactions, of course. When I read through what I´ve written it does sound as if I´m rather sure of these judgements. I´m not really, but it seems better to state things clearly and then say at the end, `I could be quite wrong´. Anyway, I hope this is useful.



Best wishes,   Mike



> Lähettäjä: Colin dewar <[log in to unmask]>
> Päiväys: 2004/01/16 pe PM 08:19:17 GMT+02:00
> Vastaanottaja: [log in to unmask]
> Aihe: sub
> 
> The rewite or the original?
> 
> Thanks,
> 
> Colin
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> REWRITE:
> 
> Rowing
> 
> Oars dip
> and through the fractured light I glide,
> afloat on sky and wooded shade.
> All land around this little pond
> falls on water that reacts,
> a living eye on earth's cold stone.
> 
> I row and row and do not sink or stay aware
> of hard and heavy hills,
> of bouldered slope and sky's slate,
> the leaden clouds and rain that might
> in the next hour descend in pallid sheets,
> of words like discontented leaves
> and this body straining like a rope over deep water.
> 
> Moffat, April 02
> 
> ___________________________________
> 
> 
> ORIGINAL:
> 
>   Rowing
> 
> Our oars dip
> and through the fractured light we glide
> afloat on sky and wooded shade.
> All land around this little pond
> falls on water that reacts,
> a living eye on earth's cold stone,
> unfolding its own sun and mirrored moon.
> 
> The water drips like silver from the duck's dry wing
> as it floats upon reflected land.
> I look beyond to hard and heavy hills,
> whose folds are leonine
> beneath their veil of blue-grey haze.
> 
> I row and row and do not stop or sink or stay aware
> of groaning oaks with branches far above,
> the gravity of air,
> of ballast of bouldered slope and sky's slate,
> the leaden clouds and rain that might
> in the next hour descend in pallid sheets,
> of words like discontented leaves
> and this body straining like an anchor in deep water.
> 
> I row and row as a way of being
> and continue to exist
> on currents I can not foretell,
> that none can save me from.
> I row and row and do not drown
> but listen as the children sing in this orbed boat
> and trail their hands along a cool and shining skin.
> 
>  It does not trouble their minds,
> nor its depths where all sink in the end,
> dimming even the brightness of a mirrored face.
> I held their hands when they first came to life,
> as I pulled them up from non-being
> from their womb of dark water
> and into the astounding light,
> whose hands in turn one day
> will slide upwards
> and away from mine.
> 
> 
> 
> Moffat, April 02
> _____________________________________
>