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    dots Submission Name: Purple Dendrondots

    Author: shoggoth
    ASL Info:    24/m/croatia
    Elite Ratio:    4.74 - 80/84/30
    Words: 345
    Class/Type: Poetry/Misc
    Total Views: 922
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2034

       Actually, it's a prosaic poetry piece..somewhere more poetry than prose, and in other places more prose than poetry :)))

    I haven't been writing for a while, so any comment would be great!

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

    dotsPurple Dendrondots

    Undressed with rainy winds, stunned and unnoticeably shivering, she stands within her own shadow. Her steps are not movement - they blend with the changes of light that bends around her like a sheet of transparent silk. Her shadow completely approximates her body.

    As the air settles and rain suspends in mid-air, a silent echo of sleepy sifts creeps to her ears. Abruptly, the claustrophobic and colourless sky breaks a spasm that reverberates in her milk-soft bones. It is winter, wielding wildly it's frosty breath, freezing the frozen over and enkindling the alight.

    The perfection of the snow beneath her gives way to the soles of her feet - they throb with coldness so vigorously that, although unwounded, they seem to leave red tracks on the white gleaming ground. Like a walk of the tip of a fire-flame on a fluttering crystal veil.

    As she reaches the hazing river, snowflakes and icy air tie a knot around her fading silhouette, smelting it to an undividable glass mosaic. Murmur fades in. The turgid and raging water thunders in front of her with untameable brawl - and under it thunders even louder the silence, humming it's own superior tune. She feels it like the spikingly algid ground on which she stands. Only silence has not spikes, but smooth, long and delicate fingers.

    She puts out the palm of her hand and raises her head as if waiting for something to fall to her from the blindingly luminescent sky. Then, as she gazes back at her palm, a few snowflakes gather on her fingers and she manages to catch sight of their imperfect branching structure, before they quickly melt down from the heat of the blood that roars under her skin just like the river before her. She freezes the image in her mind unwillingly, and closes her eyes to feast on it's beauty. As she closely observes it within her mind, she realizes the intertwining structures of the snowflakes resemble a face. A warm human face, in all their coldness.
    Not any face.

    Submitted on 2007-03-25 19:58:40     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      First... a nit pick. it's should be its. It's mean's 'it is' and that isn't what you're trying to say here. It's something I personally have had to frequently remind myself of after getting that note from almost every writing teacher I've ever had. :)
    Prose poetry is something I've only recently come across and really started to understand, but I think you manage it well here. There is an under weaving of image and motif that comes thorugh to create a very poetic happening within the piece.
    Generally when I write something like this, which is rare since I'm still not comfortable with it, I try to eventually turn it into something more lineated... more like verse, but that usually means getting rid of things and trimming down the language and the images and I don't think that would necessarily work here. You could try, but you might end up loosing a lot of what is going on in the peice as well. Ultimately its a personal choice, though I think it would be interesting to set this up next to a lineated version of the work and compare the two at some point.
    | Posted on 2007-03-26 00:00:00 | by DavidHirt | [ Reply to This ]

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