No sane, mature, writer ever displays a work in progress. I guess that says a lot about me. I have long been aware that some people will praise the writer for every letter and dot, while others will do the opposite, instead of reserving judgement for the final product. It can be disconcerting to the writer to the extreme. There are sometimes unexpected consequences: A while back I allowed a portion of my novel in progress to get on the internet. A publishing agent saw it and requested a whole copy ms. on his desk for review. I had to apologize to the man and explain that I am too painfully slow a writer to have my ms. up for consideration any time soon. I don't want to discourage a2kers from looking in and being helpful, however. Otherwise, why have the thread at all?
Hi, Finn. Nice to see you here.
I like your revision of edgar's lovely, compelling poem, but I would take a look at the meter.
Edgar, of course you should display a work in progress. It's a testing ground for all of us.
When the poem is completed it will convey that the falling beings are dead and therefore experience absolutely no fear, pain, etc.
Edgar, your poem makes me want to read the book. I am not enough of a writer to offer any advice; but===I liked your use of "two angels fell' instead of "these two." I await the finished poem with lovely anticipation.
The book was ambiguous. One was left to conclude they were aliens who looked like angels, or they well may have been angels. The scientists had no way of judging.
It should be obvious that I am not content with my beginning, since it has been essentially like that for about five months. But, I balk at being told how to write it. That part is for me alone to determine.
Are you looking for suggestions on what reads smoothly vs what seems stilted, etc.? I was wondering if you would want others to rewrite for you.
Diane
I just intended to use this thread for a workshop in which to build a few poems. The original premise was that anyone else with a poem to work on would be welcome to come here to work also. Comments are welcome from interested persons, but no help writing desired.
It's what I thought. Good luck. I look forward to seeing your improvements and to reading other poems being worked on.
Hi Letty
I see so many of my old friends from Abuzz have sought (and found) greener pastures.
BTW, the version of edgar's poem that is contained within my posting is his own. I wouldn't presume to colloborate on a poem unless specifically requested.
Finn,
I remember you as a fine gentleman from Abuzz. Welcome to a2k, finest forum site on the net (in my umble hopinion).
Good morning, Edgar, Diane, Finn.
Finn, I realize they were not your words, but merely suggestions, as was mine about the meter.
Edgar, keep turning those words on your poetic lathe.
Hi, letty. I'm having a lot of non a2k related distractions these past few days. As soon as I settle down I intend to get back to work.
High above swirls of clouds
Way above blue angry planet
Angels plunging through shrouds
Of mist to concrete and granite
Their wings
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Crimson and black swirl the clouds
Over the fearful angry planet:
Dead, they, plummeting through shrouds,
Like stones, to concrete and to granite,
To lie, splayed, with limbs driven through,
Shattered pinions
Edgar
Edgar, words that immediately popped into my head after reading your poem in progress were "captured in a gossamer net."
This is a lovely thread.
BBB
BBB
I was working by editing to keep down scrutiny. It may take me six months more to get anywhere with this, if at all.
Well written edgar, I love your theme. In my first impression upon reading it, I sense the woman in the poem is a lost mother figureĀ
I don't quite perceive her as a lost love.
You are perceptive, colorbook. It is a mother figure. I have not put the poem in its final form as yet.
Final version, I think.
Children of the Ward
I watch the children playing,
See them dancing in the yard.
I hear the words they're saying,
Like a fancy Christmas card.
The moments that betray them
Are the moments caught off guard;
Yet the dragons cannot slay them,
Not these children of the ward.
I hear their mothers calling
As they empty out the yard,
Echoing their footsteps,
Like bells tolling in my heart.
I gaze upon the portrait
Of my brother who's been gone:
Time itself cannot prorate
The memory and the song.
To see you I would kiss you;
And give hugs until you groan.
Mama's off to find you,
I must go it all alone -
I've been across some borders,
To describe my private hell;
In deep and shallow waters,
Like a bucket in a well.
Each story has an anchor;
Yes I dragged mine through the bay;
I was lucky just to find her,
Fortunate she went my way.
The sun is like a prism:
See it straining through the glass.
My mind's not like a prison;
I'm no prisoner to the past.
There's a beauty in the foment,
And a rage to top the crest;
Got to have myself a moment,
So I'm ready for the rest.
