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DreamEvil
Member Elite

since 1999-06-22

Posts 2396

0 posted 1999-07-18 01:40 AM

Nearing dawn the tempestuous night redoubled it's fervor growing ever slower in it's mighty gyrations. Turgid and thick in it's protestations, with an almost audible crack the horizon snapped open it's silver eye.

The brightening silver glow illuminated the year's first crisp fallen snow like the sheddings of angel's wings or lover's kisses. The trees were bare, reaching for the sky with wanton abandon and feverish eagerness.

That essential quiet that marks the start of each newborn day with the chilling revelation that the earth is one day closer to death, makes it's way into the world with every breath.

The appearance of a gentle hollow reveals itself with infinite regret, to the aborning morning that will follow yet lies nestled in the content of first passion's afterglow.

Within this hidden grove lies a child that died, in misery, before her time. So, lonely the ghost wanders in obscurity begging for Heaven to set her free from the ties that bind.

Dawn and twilight, opposites in potency, are the only times the substance of ethereal flesh can be. It becomes a reminder of those who will never find her, so lost is she.

Yet the simple contentment and radiant wonder she sees, more than compare to the disease of reason that holds her through each season, tearing her heart asunder.

The ghost in the hollow cannot follow her burning desire to be free, since the ties that bind have realigned, trapping her in the lonely hollow for all time.

With the burgeoning light, she fades from sight, granted a reprieve until the beginning of night again reveals her frightened delight to empty eyes, for there is no one there to see the denial of her plight.

©1999 DreamEvil

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Being paranoid is the biggest reason I'm still around to practice my paranoia.
DreamEvil©

Ron

Administrator

Member Rara Avis

since 1999-05-19

Posts 8669
Michigan, US

1 posted 1999-07-18 05:53 AM

I've read a lot of your work, DreamEvil (probably everything you've posted), and I'm continually impressed with your powerful imagery and eloquently beautiful use of the English language. This poem is a bit of a departure from your usual, in that it has no rhyme scheme, but it certainly evidences the imagery and language.

Now maybe it's me (we'll see what the other, more knowledgeable poets say), but I always seem to have a problem with your choice of format. The line breaks (and it's especially evident in your rhyming poetry) seem to be determined more by an arbitrary margin than by any sense of rhythm or purpose. To me, that seems to make the poem unnecessarily difficult to read and in some cases (this poem, specifically) hard to follow the theme.

Here's a direct quote from one of my favorite references that will probably better explain what I'm trying to say:

Although poetry takes advantage of sound and other senses through rhythm and related devices, including images and allusions, what truly differentiates poetry from other genres is that poetry's basic unit of measure is the line, which can ultimately be broken down into feet. The root meaning of verse (another word for poetry) means "to turn" and that is what a line of poetry does: it turns or steers one line to the next.

An exceptionally well-crafted poem may use these turns, also known as line breaks, to: mirror the action within the poem, build suspense, break phrases or units of thought, or simply speed up or slow down the poem's rhythm.

Again, maybe it's just me, but your poetry seems to fall somewhere between traditional verse and a prose poem (which is certainly a valid format). Now, maybe this is intentional. Maybe it's something of a trademark you like, or simply the format that says what you want to say. I'm not sure. If you have purposely disavowed the use of line breaks for a reason you feel is valid, I can certainly accept that. I'll still continue to read your poetry for all of its other strengths. But if you've never really investigated the power that line breaks can lend to your work, it's something you might consider.

[This message has been edited by Ron (edited 07-18-99).]

DreamEvil
Member Elite

since 1999-06-22

Posts 2396

2 posted 1999-07-18 11:55 AM

In all honesty, I write how it flows, Lady deVine has me working with more structure. Line breaks I had not considered, but I will now. Thanks, Ron.

------------------
Being paranoid is the biggest reason I'm still around to practice my paranoia.
DreamEvil©

Poet deVine

Administrator

Member Seraphic

since 1999-05-26

Posts 22612
Hurricane Alley

3 posted 1999-07-18 12:18 PM

Your poem with some breaks:

Nearing dawn the tempestuous night redoubled
it's fervor growing ever slower
in it's mighty gyrations.
Turgid and thick in it's protestations,
with an almost audible crack
the horizon snapped open it's silver eye.

The brightening silver glow
illuminated the year's first crisp fallen snow
like the sheddings of angel's wings or lover's kisses.
The trees were bare, reaching for the sky
with wanton abandon and feverish eagerness.

That essential quiet that marks the start
of each newborn day with the chilling revelation
that the earth is one day closer to death,
makes it's way into the world with every breath.

The appearance of a gentle hollow reveals itself with infinite regret,
to the aborning morning that will follow yet
lies nestled in the content of first passion's afterglow.

Within this hidden grove lies a child that died, in misery,
before her time. So,lonely the ghost
wanders in obscurity begging for Heaven to set her free
from the ties that bind.

Dawn and twilight, opposites in potency,
are the only times the substance
of ethereal flesh can be.
It becomes a reminder of those who will never find her,
so lost is she.

Yet the simple contentment and radiant wonder she sees,
more than compare to the disease
of reason that holds her through each season,
tearing her heart asunder.

The ghost in the hollow cannot follow her
burning desire to be free,
since the ties that bind have realigned,
trapping her in the lonely hollow for all time.

With the burgeoning light, she fades from sight,
granted a reprieve until the beginning of night
again reveals her frightened delight to empty eyes,
for there is no one there to see the denial of her plight.

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