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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: never fall in love with a trapeze artistdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Kristen Gudsnuk
    ASL Info:    21/f/CT
    Elite Ratio:    5.62 - 182/229/86
    Words: 195
    Class/Type: Poetry/Love
    Total Views: 1284
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1339



    Description:
       I... think it might have been true... ?


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsnever fall in love with a trapeze artistdots
    -------------------------------------------


    the graveyards in spain were more like filing cabinets
    dried dusty bones decomposing in a drawer
    engraved with a dewey decimal,
    maybe a withered flower taped on

    he stopped
    pointed out a specific drawer
    his wife made herself scarce
    (went to visit sis)
    and in the asthmatic heat,
    he wiped a tear that didn't appear
    but he felt should have
    after all, he had loved her, hadn't he?

    it was so long ago that
    he sometimes doubted
    she had ever existed
    had he read a poem of a fair maiden
    with limbs like poplars?
    with dark brooding eyes that
    betold some inner depth and anguish?
    had he read an article about
    a beautiful dead girl
    and confused the scraps of memory?

    he glanced at the rain-washed miniature
    foggy, but still- dark hair,
    two dark orbs,
    staring into his soul,
    had she been real?
    was he there the night she died?
    yes, with a flower!
    first, watered by the persipration
    of his teenage hands
    then wrung, and thrown,
    and stomped!
    and forgotten!

    a dead cocoon, she was
    oh, what could have been, he thought
    not real enough,
    not real enough.




    Submitted on 2006-06-13 14:08:22     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

    Rate This Submission

    1: >_<
    2: I dunno...
    3: meh!
    4: Pretty cool
    5: Wow!




    ||| Comments |||
      I don't know much to say because this was a terrific piece. I mean..the word usage astounds me truely.

    Hey all, I'm just trying to get my reciprocation up. I'm down in the -'s pretty far. So, don't feel the need to comment on my work. I'm trying to get back into the swing of things at Elite. Think of it as a favor from me to you! Thanks for the read!
    <3BCute
    | Posted on 2006-08-24 00:00:00 | by BCute | [ Reply to This ]
      Wow, I really enjoyed this! (That sounded morbid as he.ll. LOL)

    I found the lack of capitolization a bit distracting. But it seems to be the way most people are writing these days. Still, if you'd like suggestions let me know.

    The is the first time I've seen a writer tackle death in this way. A very cool concept. And you have a great sense of movement throughout the whole piece.

    A sad flashback, a nice way to bring it home for your readers.

    Take Care,

    Chell
    | Posted on 2006-06-13 00:00:00 | by Chell | [ Reply to This ]
      the graveyards in spain
    were more like filing cabinets
    dried dusty bones
    decomposing in a drawer
    engraved with a dewey decimal,
    maybe a withered flower taped on...

    he stopped
    pointed out a specific drawer
    his wife made herself scarce
    (went to visit sis)
    and in the asthmatic heat,
    he wiped a tear that didn't appear
    but he felt should have
    after all, he had loved her, hadn't he?

    it was so long ago that
    he sometimes doubted
    she had ever existed
    had he read a poem of a fair maiden
    with limbs like poplars?
    with dark brooding eyes that
    betold some inner depth and anguish?
    had he read an article about
    a beautiful dead girl
    and confused the scraps of memory?

    he glanced at the rain-washed miniature
    foggy, but still- dark hair,
    two dark orbs, staring into his soul,
    had she been real?
    was he there the night she died?

    yes, with a flower!
    first, watered by the persipration
    of his teenage hands
    then wrung, and thrown,
    and stomped!
    and forgotten!
    a dead cocoon, she was
    oh, what could have been, he thought
    not real enough,
    not real enough.

    I tampered with your lineation slightly (and offered a few obvious suggestions as to how to make this long block of text a little more reader friendly). Frankly, I can't think of anything glaring that needs correction (though I have to admit the title reminds me less of circus performers and more of an emotionally unbalanced man tortured by a delusion; sanity is a mighty slim line to cling to).


    Sorry I must damn you with more than faint praise (cursed comment spectrum in all its glory), but you've left me no choice.

    Well done, KG.
    Take care.
    Bill.
    | Posted on 2006-06-13 00:00:00 | by rws | [ Reply to This ]
      A clever and original topic and well stated to top it off. good job. great job, in fact.
    Jessica
    | Posted on 2006-06-15 00:00:00 | by parabola | [ Reply to This ]
      I agree with Bill, what can I say> This is my kind of bloody poem!!!

    Praise only from me, sensational!

    be happy

    Graeme
    | Posted on 2006-06-13 00:00:00 | by wewak11 | [ Reply to This ]
      That's a cool concept. I can't say that I've seen anything like that on this site before. I like that, an old (er) man visiting the grave of a would-be first love, at least, so it would seem. Do we all make up those moments, those blissful memories that help to carry us forward when bliss is hiding?

    I like your language, how you stack your phrases and sentences.

    "engraved with a dewey decimal,
    maybe a withered flower taped on"

    It reads like it feels, a trembling memory of a memory. Everything seems so crisp and sharp until you get up close and can't make out the exact numbers or lines, where the light actually cuts off. Then you realize just how fuzzy all that clarity has been. As it is, the past is sort of a mirage that we choose to quanitify, to give names and dates and places, all the while only having a meek grasp of the truth of it all. So what if she didn't really exist, if she wasn't the right person? Would that make the memory any less real?

    My only suggestion would be:

    had he read a poem of a fair maiden
    with limbs like poplars
    and dark brooding eyes that
    betold some inner depth and anguish?

    though I don't think it's necessary by any means. This is already a well thought out and well constructed piece. Excellent write.

    James

    | Posted on 2006-06-13 00:00:00 | by FallenGrace | [ Reply to This ]


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