over-waought and slack - probably not, more like one or two glasses of
red -- hic!
On 12/27/05, Alison Croggon <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Thanks Janet and Roger
>
> Hmmm. Can something be slack and overwrought at the same time??
>
> I wasn't trying to write a "character" - I just wanted that moment where
> someone looks up and you see despair in their eyes like a kind of
> luminosity. It seems to me there's something wrong with the
> lineation/prosody in the final stanza. Maybe a bit overwritten in those
> final lines, but not sure, if I could get the rhythm right maybe I'd get
> away with it.
>
> Cheers
>
> A
>
> On 27/12/05 10:57 PM, "Roger Day" <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
> > too many words, seems a little slack, over-wrought maybe
> > like the first two lines
> > feels very dover beach-ish
> > this character, he seems to have lost his powers, but i can't care
> > about him, about why he lost his powers, about what moves him. there
> > seems to be no connection about the light that moves him, and what has
> > gone before
> > i know you want to be mysterious but i don't think you've given us
> > enough of the right kind of detail
> > you seem to rely on the fact that he's an angel - hints of which are
> > mentioned 3 times so maybe ramming the point a little too much -
> > religious mythology, to fill in the back-ground details otoh the last
> > verse seems to have urgency, more power than the rest of the power
> >
> > most of it is a bit sub-buffy, a bit too gothic
>
>
> >> He notes the wind sharpening his throat
> >> every time his hand touches his collar.
> >> Monsters hoop their tails and vanish
> >> in the distant ocean, undeciphered.
> >> Once he could dilute their roars by clapping
> >> the clear sun up and asking it to dance
> >> but now he hears them on the edge of hearing
> >> always, a sullen tide withdrawing
> >> from an empty room.
> >>
> >> Flute of a dead god, he lingers
> >> where water nags old bones and rusty tins.
> >> The cold swarms like fire. He waits there
> >> until the cold is cold.
> >>
> >> Angel, how numb your shoulders are,
> >> how they sag under the feathers
> >> that pull you down to the dark rim
> >> of a darkening earth. And when you lift your eyes
> >> from the burdened water, they gleam
> >> briefly, a light that no light gives you,
> >> not the blazing steel ships nor the quiet
> >> moon nor even the orange flare
> >> of a match, your eyes gleam
> >> cold with the agony of presence.
> >>
> >
>
> Alison Croggon
>
> Blog: http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com
> Editor, Masthead: http://masthead.net.au
> Home page: http://alisoncroggon.com
>
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