Writingpoetry

[ Join Free! ]
(No Spam mail)

dotsdots
nav
  • RolePlay
  • Join Us
  • Writings
  • Shoutbox
  • Community
  • Digg Mashup
  • Mp3 Search
  • Online Education
  • My Youtube
  • Ear Training
  • Funny Pics
  • nav



    nav
  • Role Play
  • Piano Music
  • Free Videos
  • Web 2.0
  • nav



    << | >>
    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Glimpses of St Andrew’s Park - revidots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: comradenessie
    Elite Ratio:    6.5 - 626/539/110
    Words: 658
    Class/Type: Poetry/Misc
    Total Views: 1707
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 4921



    Description:
       The top version owes everything to phil askew - I love it and thanks so much. I intend leaving both versions on because after complaining that my first version of this poem lacked salt the following poets came to my rescue David Hirt, lukewarm and Icarus, alterlife. I have had some amazing help with this poem and I thank everyone.



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

    dotsGlimpses of St Andrew’s Park - revidots
    -------------------------------------------


    Mothers under
    sky-blue sunshades
    at square wooden tables
    covered with patchwork cloths
    of pink and lilac
    sip tea from china cups
    rimmed with gold
    like the edges of their daydreams.

    A long-haired collie -
    dignity on soft padded paws,
    ignores the scent
    of homemade Madeira cake
    and melting milk chocolate
    to trot after schoolboys
    with free flowing limbs
    in numbered yellow and green tee-shirts
    pretending to be heroes of the World Cup.

    In the red-railed playground
    a little girl falls
    and grazes her knee.

    Her howls cacophonic
    with the high pitched twitter
    of sparrows and blackbirds
    in mottled green
    Sycamore branches -
    where hard beaks gouge
    in combat jacket bark
    for luscious grubs
    to thrust down the throats
    of fluffy-down chicks.

    Her mother kisses the knee
    and wipes away her tears.

    Amid this serenity
    my daughter sits beside me.
    I watch her write
    of patriots and freedom.
    She dreams of green grass
    and an Ireland united
    beneath a tricolored flag.

    Across the path
    an escaped push-chair
    rolls down-slope
    and almost crashes
    into the cafe's foldaway seats;
    the boy inside opens
    his strawberry ice-cream smeared mouth
    and screams
    as his father averts disaster
    just in time, then quiets him
    with promises of something sweet.
    I look to the leafy canopy,
    reflect on fledglings
    learning to fly,
    and think
    how quickly the grass grows
    at this time of year.


    A teenager sings words
    lost to the distance,
    but his voice,
    the constant strum of his guitar,
    the clapping of friends,
    and the tap, tap,
    tapping of fingers
    on the skin of a drum
    fill the park with a unifying rhythm.


    ............................................................................................

    Glimpses of St Andrew’s Park -

    Mother's sit under
    sky-blue sunshades
    at square wooden tables

    covered with patchwork clothes
    of pale pink rose garden
    and lilac gingham,

    sipping hot tea
    from white china cups
    rimmed with gold

    like the edges of a daydream.


    A long haired collie--
    dignity on soft padded paws,
    ignores the sweet lemon scent

    of homemade Madeira cake
    and milk chocolate melting
    in this brief taste of Summer.


    He trots by after-school boys
    in numbered buttercup-yellow
    and meadow-green tee-shirts:

    released to exuberant freedom
    with free-flowing limbs
    they relish the warmth

    and pretend to be
    Wayne Rooney
    or Ronaldinho--

    heroes of the coming World Cup.

    A little girl falls
    and grazes her knee
    in a red-railed playground:

    her howls cacophonic
    with the high-pitched
    twitter of sparrows,

    and blackbirds unseen
    in mottled green
    sycamore branches--

    where hard beaks gouge
    in combat jacket bark
    for luscious grubs

    to thrust into
    open throats
    of fluffy-down chicks.

    A mother kisses the knee
    of her little girl
    wipes away the tears.

    My daughter sits beside me
    I watch her write
    of patriots and freedom.

    She dreams of green grass
    and an Ireland united
    beneath a tricolour flag.

    Across the path
    an escaped push-chair
    rolls downslope

    and almost crashes
    into the black metal legs
    of a café’s foldaway seats;

    the boy inside
    opens his strawberry
    ice-cream smeared mouth

    and screams,
    but his father
    diverts disaster just in time

    then quiets him
    with sweet promises
    for sometime soon.

    (Tea is 75p, coffee £1).

    I look to the leafy canopy
    Reflect on fledglings
    learning to fly

    and I think how quickly
    the grass grows
    at this time of year.

    A teenager sings words
    lost to the distance
    as he plays guitar;

    but his voice,
    the strum of guitar,
    the clapping of friends

    and the tap, tap,
    tapping of fingers
    on the skin of a drum

    fills the park with rhythm.




    Submitted on 2006-06-14 04:04:24     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

    Rate This Submission

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




    ||| Comments |||
      "A little girl falls
    and grazes her knee
    in a red-railed playground:

    her howls cacophonic
    with the high-pitched
    twitter of sparrows,

    and blackbirds unseen
    in mottled green
    sycamore branches--

    where hard beaks gouge
    in combat jacket bark
    for luscious grubs

    to thrust down
    the throat
    of fluffy-down chicks.

    A mother kisses the knee
    of her little girl
    wipes away the tears.

    My daughter sits beside me
    I watch her write
    of patriots and freedom.

    She dreams of green grass
    and an Ireland united
    beneath a tricolour flag."

    Ok, this is the nessie I expected the first time around; contemplating not only visuals, but how they connect to her world (footballers enjoying the sheer pleasure of competition foreshadowing more sobering warriors in Iraq and elsewhere, a young girl comforted by her mother as your daughter comforts herself with visions of a united homeland, etc). Your lineation and punctuation are also more inviting, allowing the reader to absorb your thoughts/visuals in slow increments.

    Unfortunately, you've given me no nits to pick.
    Nicely done, comrade.
    Take care.
    Bill.
    | Posted on 2006-06-14 00:00:00 | by rws | [ Reply to This ]
      Ah, much improved.

    I like the way you have things grouped now. Maybe I've read too many tech manuals, but I don't like puzzling out what goes with what.

    I particularly like the little asides, the mother kissing the knee and the father promising the sweet.

    All in all you've created a beautiful mood here. Selina's appearance is a plus too.

    One critique and WOW, is this important!!! Most people, at least on this side of the pond, spell knee with only two "e"s.

    Good job!



    Steve
    | Posted on 2006-08-17 00:00:00 | by Lost Sheep | [ Reply to This ]
      you've strengthened this poem really well - the new layout really gives it the impression of a series of glimpses while bringing yourself and Sel into it gives it some personal depth that makes it uniquely yours.

    but just to be anal i've one final nitpick:

    "released to exuberant
    freedom,
    with free-flowing limbs
    they relish the warmth"

    that comma really doesn't feel necessary.

    overall, though, i think you've managed to really improve this piece. well done. smile.

    Adam.
    | Posted on 2006-06-14 00:00:00 | by Icarus | [ Reply to This ]
      Hmmm... !

    You've lengthened & strengthened this much- and added a viewpoint only glimpsed the first time 'round. So i'll tell ya what I like and what I don't... keep in mind, that's all it is... much thanks for the thanks, by the way. As usual, I can't seem to keep my thoughts seperate... they all come out in randomly, intertwined and hard to untangle and organize... I spend enough time trying to do that with my own writings... anyways, onward and outward!

    I like the new spacing better than the old- it seperates it, gives it room to breathe, so to speak- the old version i think was sort of clustered up and seemed unsure of itself. This, on the contrary, has a flair for the dramatic- the seperated, standalone lines add a bit of punch, and work well to seperate the different aspects of the different glimpses as the poem progresses.

    As far as the first bit, I think "Mother's" needs to be "Mothers," but aside from that, i love it. It reads smoothly, it sets up the poem well, and introduces the sort of glimpses referred to in the title right off the bat, including detail without confusion.

    I also love how you've tied in one mother and daughter to another, and included a personal perspective- it simply adds to the whole ever-shifting scenery.

    I love everything you've added to it- the additional scenes, the political perspective, everything.

    Ok-- final, anal-retentive, nitpicking details (because i care!) :

    I think you use the word "down" one too many times here...

    "to thrust down
    the throat
    of fluffy-down chicks."

    Maybe though it's just too soon... i think "open throats" would work well... I think there must be multiple throats and open throats ties in with the political aspect as well...anyways...

    The teenager image:

    "A teenager sits, singing words
    lost to the distance
    as he plays guitar;"

    maybe? please don't hurt me...

    I love the ending as well... but then again I play drums, so of course i would. Bloody good job!
    | Posted on 2006-06-15 00:00:00 | by lukewarm | [ Reply to This ]


    Think Feedback more than Compliments :: [ Guidelines ]

    1. Be honest.
    2. Try not to give only compliments.
    3. How did it make you feel?
    4. Why did it make you feel that way?
    5. Which parts?
    6. What distracted from the piece?
    7. What was unclear?
    8. What does it remind you of?
    9. How could it be improved?
    10. What would you have done differently?
    11. What was your interpretation of it?
    12. Does it feel original?



    107099

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.


    Google
     


    poetry

    dotsLogindots

    User Name:

    Password:

    [ Quick Signup ]
    [ Lost Password ]


    January 10 07
    131,497 Poems
    Posted

    I have 14,000+ Subscribers on Youtube. See my Video Tutorials

    [ Angst Poetry ]
    [ Cutters ]
    [ Famous Poetry ]
    [ Poetry Scams ]



    FontSize:
    [ Smaller ] [ Bigger ]
     Poetry