Too long? It's followed by a line that's then far "too short" ... I was
basically working loosely off a seven beat frame (yes, sometimes it's six
beats, which I think depends on the number of light syllables in the line),
but because of the ceasura I wanted that line longer - eight beats - and
you'll notice that the following line snaps back to five. Which balances it
for me (Shakespeare does the same kind of compensation in his dramatic
writing) and gives it, well, rhythmic drama and emphasis, I suppose, which
is what I wanted at that point anyway, because the poem turns. Losing that
"but" wouldn't make much difference rhythmically, it's an off-beat anyway,
and I would lose alot of the artifice of "conversational" flow I was looking
for. And it would give the following clause an implied colon, an emphasis I
didn't want there, I wanted the run-on effect.
Not defending, btw, just explaining.
All the best
A
On 4/27/07, Jennifer Compton <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
> yes sure - but just one line too long! it would drive me crazy
>
> ----Original Message Follows----
> From: Alison Croggon <[log in to unmask]>
> Reply-To: "Poetryetc: poetry and poetics" <[log in to unmask]>
> To: [log in to unmask]
> Subject: Re: Ode
> Date: Fri, 27 Apr 2007 09:51:22 +1000
>
> Thanks Jennifer. I worked a lot on getting the rhythm right - I wanted it
> to
> be both lyrical and "broken"; I don't seek "perfect" lines, but something
> else. If I speak it out loud, it works for me!
>
> xA
>
> On 4/27/07, Jennifer Compton <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> >
> >well i really like this - it has narrative greed - and logic
> >
> >one picky thing to say - one line is just too long, the clump of glass
> >line
> >- maybe take the 'but' out
> >
> >a sad poem and a poem for the spirit of the times - just like watching TV
> >these days
> >
> >cheers jen
> >
> >----Original Message Follows----
> >From: Alison Croggon <[log in to unmask]>
> >Reply-To: "Poetryetc: poetry and poetics" <[log in to unmask]>
> >To: [log in to unmask]
> >Subject: Ode
> >Date: Fri, 27 Apr 2007 00:21:56 +1000
> >
> >Since everyone's posting poems, I'll post one too. I don't think I've
> >posted
> >it before...I wrote it a couple of months ago, and it's still my most
> >recent
> >poem. I only write poems these days when I can't prevent myself from
> doing
> >so.
> >
> >xA
> >
> >Ode
> >
> >
> >We were woken too early, before the moths had died in the streets,
> >when buds had barely hardened in the frost, when stars are hurtful
> >and famished. They took us through gardens and past the halls
> >where once we had lingered, past the houses and doused markets.
> >Our footsteps echoed back like iron. Of course we were frightened,
> >that was a given, of course we remembered photographs we had studied
> >that then had nothing to do with us. The empty light of morning
> >made anything seem possible, even freedom, even God. We stumbled
> >on familiar roads, and everything turned away from us,
> >lamp-posts, windows, signs. They weren't ours any longer. Even the air
> >greeted us differently, pinching our skin to wake us from its dreams.
> >
> >
> >*
> >
> >
> >Words of course were beyond us. They were what killed us
> >to begin with. They were taken away from the mouths that loved them
> >and given to men who worked their sorceries in distant cities,
> >who said that difficult things were simple now and that simple things
> >no longer existed. It was hard to find our way, we understood
> >the tender magic of hands, we knew the magic of things not spoken,
> >but this was a trick we couldn't grasp. It lifted the world in a clump of
> >glass
> >and when everything came back down the streets had vanished.
> >In their places were shoes and clotting puddles and sparking wires
> >and holes and bricks and other things that words have no words for
> >and that silence swelling the noise until you can't hear anything at all.
> >
> >
> >*
> >
> >
> >It's said that the dead don't dream, but I dream of flowers.
> >I could dream so many flowers – lilies like golden snow on water,
> >hyacinths the colours of summer evenings or those amaranths they call
> >love-lies-bleeding. I dream of none of those. I dream instead
> >of wind-blown roses that grew in our shabby yard, of daisies
> >glimpsed through the kitchen window, of marigolds that glowed
> >through nets of weed. But most of all, I dream of red anemones
> >that never grew in my garden. They rise on slender stalks,
> >their seven-petalled heads bobbing and weaving in the wind.
> >Wind-flowers, Pliny called them, because they open only in the wind,
> >and the wind scatters their petals over every waste in the world.
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >--
> >Editor, Masthead: http://www.masthead.net.au
> >Blog: http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com
> >Home page: http://www.alisoncroggon.com
> >
> >_________________________________________________________________
> >Advertisement: Its simple! Sell your car for just $30 at carsales.com.au
> >
> >
> http://a.ninemsn.com.au/b.aspx?URL=http%3A%2F%2Fsecure%2Dau%2Eimrworldwide%2Ecom%2Fcgi%2Dbin%2Fa%2Fci%5F450304%2Fet%5F2%2Fcg%5F801577%2Fpi%5F1005244%2Fai%5F838588&_t=754951090&_r=tig&_m=EXT
> >
>
>
>
> --
> Editor, Masthead: http://www.masthead.net.au
> Blog: http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com
> Home page: http://www.alisoncroggon.com
>
> _________________________________________________________________
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--
Editor, Masthead: http://www.masthead.net.au
Blog: http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com
Home page: http://www.alisoncroggon.com
|