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Critical Analysis #1
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KF
New Member
since 2000-05-12
Posts 8


0 posted 2000-05-12 05:09 PM




   The day was short.
The fire expired spitting cinders
       over the hearth
    where they had strained their faces
       towards the dying flames--
Prodding marshmallows with dry branches
watching the fire singe puffy white.
Charcoal on a stick
    hiding gooey treasures
        under a thick black skin.
They penetrated the charcoal,
    urgently smacking their lips,
        licking its ooze off graham crackers.
And now the fire has died,
    along with the goo and the sticks.
And the two, supine
    among ashes and graham cracker crumbs,
      ooze like marshmallows
        through the long night.



© Copyright 2000 Kathleen Fitzpatrick - All Rights Reserved
Elyse
Member
since 2000-04-16
Posts 414
Apex (think raleigh) NC
1 posted 2000-05-12 08:33 PM


hi KF!  youve got some good imagery here.
i might add atransitional word to these lines making it

watching the fire singe puffy white to
Charcoal on a stick

and i might add a stanza break when you swich from description of the environment to talking about what the people's actions are (after "under a thick black skin" if im not being clear)

i do really like this tho.  even tho its not really about anything  
luv Elyse




 Do I contradict myself?
Very well then . . . . I contradict myself;
I am large . . . . I contain multitudes.
-Papa Walt

KF
New Member
since 2000-05-12
Posts 8

2 posted 2000-05-12 11:18 PM


thanks Elyse--

however, i do wish to clarify that the poem is about something...the marshmallows are a metaphor to the people...i was comparing the actions of roasting marshmallows to the actions of lovers. the urgent lust, burned black.

i appreciate your input!

KF

warmhrt
Senior Member
since 1999-12-18
Posts 1563

3 posted 2000-05-13 10:42 PM


Nice metaphor, KF. You wrote of it well - the playfulness, excitement, and desire slowly dying till it's gone, though attempts, unsuccessful, are made to recapture it. Been there, done that.

Nice work, KF,
Kris



 the poet's pen...gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name ~ Shakespeare

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