Sunshine: I absolutely was mesmerized by the coming-alive descriptions of N'Arlans
as you experienced it. This was and is a beautiful write, but the choppiness made
it hard to read. I hardly ever do this: suggest that someone change any part of their poetry, but i sincerely put some thought in this and think the poem benefits from
putting them together, and changing just a few of the 'helping' words a bit.
I printed this out, came up with 5 sheets; too long for a four-word line poem
and the last thing you would want to do is visually aggravate the reader when
you are after asthetic imagery. Pared down, it comes down a little over two pages, same content.
Please, if i offended you, forgive me. This poem was just toooo good
not to offer some assistance. In my humblest of opinions of course.
Complaints can be sent to email@example.com. *smiles*
Please accept my offering as the most sincere form of flattery!
This could be publicized, and probably should be!
Sheraton on Canal St.
The diary says we arrived safe to our room,
here at the Sheraton.
Small room - 24th floor,
as we are only to be tourists here.
Mississippi flows long and lean
outside our window,
busy with ship's traffic,
memories only a great river
can lay claim to.
Bourbon Street on Christmas Night:
not a typical evening in the French Quarter.
Only the architecture remains in focus
of what once was
Too many niceties of the day
bring about fake realism
But the food is good.
The chronicled data attests that
we did a lot of window shopping there
on Royal Street;
admired the St. Louis Cathedral;
found Faulkner's home.
But what I recall in my spirit,
with no notes required,
was where the steamboat
paddled us to
a location of civil strife,
where heart's blood gave life to ground,
in a very small field
in a very important moment
for love of country.
As the past curled tendrils
around my feet
planting me in yesterday...
for in this very month, 184 years ago
Andrew Jackson met a victory
at Chalmette's field
and as my gaze swept the battlefield
it was far too, too easy to see
the men in uniform,
and not in uniform,
laying their lives down
under a winter sun of 1812.
Flags raised, drums drummed,
yells, curses, screams,
scent of blood
smells of powder spent
sounds of objects
other than life.
there was a crossing there,
a space of time where, for a moment,
my feet were planted in the past,
the sounds roared in my ears
the visions of men against men
on a small plot of acreage,
for a large political reason
resounded desperately in my soul
memories which have not yet let go,
nor have I stopped hearing
as I turned and returned to
Sheraton on Canal St.
[This message has been edited by ShadowRider (03-17-2002 03:03 PM).]