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    dots Submission Name: Kaile (version II)dots

    Author: Erchomenos
    ASL Info:    19/F/Montreal
    Elite Ratio:    5.19 - 260/85/19
    Words: 325
    Class/Type: Poetry/Misc
    Total Views: 1003
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2049

       Lelik suggested that I try making "Kaile" (which is prose) into a poem instead, and this is what resulted. Not sure what I prefer... I cut stuff and fiddled with a few lines and this is the result. A little experiment...

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

    dotsKaile (version II)dots

    Black hair; in it, the
    white flower of mourning.
    Its heady scent followed everywhere,
    reminding always of what
    had been lost, forgotten.
    Kaile, last girl on Earth.

    Wild animals caused her no harm;
    sensed intuitively her rarity—after this,
    no more. Extinct. Forgotten.
    The lions stayed away.

    She had named herself.

    To her, Kaile was infinite sadness;
    grief unexpressed for the Before
    she had never known. She wore it with
    a quiet dignity, the way she wore her flower:
    in the hope that it was worthy of those who
    had come ahead of her,
    shaping metal and earth to whims and fancies,
    subduing all without thought.

    Kaile lacked that authority.

    The animals caused no harm,
    nor did they love her,
    hate her,
    fear her.
    Nor did the mountains,
    nor the waters,
    nor the forests.
    Living was not a difficult thing.
    She thought the ground soft;
    she had never known any other bed.

    Days spent in grief and nights, dreamless.
    She tracked down the remnants of Before,
    marvelling alone.
    The roads, the art, the clever canals, the Parthenon,
    the desolate buildings clawing at the sky.
    The emptiness pronounced by
    what had once not been empty.
    The monuments proudly—but silently—
    proclaiming, “We were here,
    and we did not want to be forgotten.”
    It made the loneliness
    open within her, to see
    photographs and sculptures,
    tools and instruments,
    doors waiting to be unlocked
    by keys in buried pockets.
    In time, after she was gone,
    they too would disappear,
    she and them
    and the concept of “artifact.”
    So she would give them what she could:
    she would not forget,
    even if she could not comprehend.

    Submitted on 2004-06-14 23:18:10     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      After reading the poem, I needed to go back and read the original as i feel is intended and appreciated by the author in the case of a rewrite. I'm not going to say which I liked better because that would be like comparing motorbikes and bicycles. They both have their charms. I think the fact that you can take one piece of work and turn it into something completely different and maintain it's integrity is a credit to yout ability as a writer. Great job.
    | Posted on 2004-06-15 00:00:00 | by Mister Fizzle | [ Reply to This ]
      I really enjoyed the reworked version. Has a greater presence to it than the prose version. It is still rather long though. May not be much you can do about that...good write.
    | Posted on 2004-06-15 00:00:00 | by Lelik | [ Reply to This ]

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