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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Rainfall in Carthagedots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: WolfStar
    ASL Info:    26/F/California
    Elite Ratio:    6.85 - 119/130/46
    Words: 187
    Class/Type: Poetry/Love
    Total Views: 786
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1138



    Description:
       Okay, I've been out of the loop for a long time. My writing has been all trash lately and this is only semi-rotten fruit amongst the moldy pile of refuse on my desk.


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

    dotsRainfall in Carthagedots
    -------------------------------------------


    Perhaps there is nothing unusual
    about bistre and blush
    or henna and umber ---
    colors known but too seldom spoken;
    there is no light like the light of the open eye.

    To be the ruins of Carthage,
    but for a small mote of color
    that seeps and seeks
    without will or reason,
    for only a breath before it sinks
    into the dusty bricks and wasted fields.

    To have lived to have seen the carnage ---
    the blood and the ash and the unforgiving salt;
    this is where color can be born,
    distinct before a withered universe.

    That is how I know bistre from the fallow river,
    how I can tell blush from a stale, dying sun.
    Your color hides where only hope can know to look,
    where only a soft thought can frame new wood and thatch,
    a clean river, or an endless field of wheat.

    To know this place is not without its pain,
    but it is more tangible than my lost tundra,
    more alive than my sensible music,
    more infinite in a second
    than my drifting sand can ever be.




    Submitted on 2006-11-05 20:14:32     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      This seems like a play upon some crisis time in one's life that's sprinled more with pain than joy. There's a longing to recapture but the river of life is fallow now. Thus hope finds that it must traverse on to hope's finding of clear strems and rich fields of endeavor.
    | Posted on 2006-11-05 00:00:00 | by realpoet | [ Reply to This ]
      This is unique and beautiful to read out, the imagery lush, the sonics right (to me anyway). I especially liked your opening strophe, and when something intrigues me to read on, I do.

    To be an ancient ruin implies a feeling of wanting to be alone and forgotten, yet the colour seeping from this/you implies otherwise--a paradox, one familiar as a push/pull dynamic everyone should relate to.

    This has a very classic feel to it, reminiscent of T.S. Eliot, whom I perused just yesterday afternoon and fell promptly in love with.

    I think this shall be a fave.

    Peace,

    Jase
    | Posted on 2006-11-05 00:00:00 | by alteredlife | [ Reply to This ]


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