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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Catholic Girldots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: saartha
    ASL Info:    27/F/US
    Elite Ratio:    4.05 - 230/385/134
    Words: 143
    Class/Type: Poetry/Misc
    Total Views: 587
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 935



    Description:
       The last stanza's a little rough. The line breaks are uncomfortable, to me. Suggestions?


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

    dotsCatholic Girldots
    -------------------------------------------


    I remember, years ago, when my mother
    would drag me tired-eyed from a warm bed
    and ungently stuff me into Sundayís sundry frills.
    We walked the two dull blocks to the church,
    her modest heels tip-tapping across the concrete.

    We knelt on the hard floor, arching our hands
    in mimicry of the beam-latticed ceiling.
    I would sneak glances, while mock-praying,
    to see the stiff edges of Motherís face softened
    by the shifting colors from the stained glass,
    soothed by the pale pink of Mary's brow
    and the white of wing-wrapped hosts.

    I was always a little afraid, at those times,
    that the smiling crystalline Jesus above us
    would smite me down in a rain of holy fire
    because I loved her more, kneeling in church,
    than at any other place in the entire world--

    She no longer looked like herself.




    Submitted on 2007-06-06 08:21:57     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      Personally, I might make the line breaks like this. :) I also underlined a few areas that could be changed to make it flow a wee bit better. Feel free to completely ignore me if what I've said feels wrong to you. Otherwise, it's a really good readable piece. Well done.

    I remember, years ago,
    when my mother would drag me tired-eyed
    from a warm bed and ungently stuff me
    into Sundayís sundry frills.

    We walked the two
    dull blocks to the church,
    her modest heels tip-tapping
    across the concrete.

    We knelt on the hard floor,
    arching our hands in mimicry
    <<of> >the beam-latticed ceiling.
    I would sneak glances,
    while mock-praying, to see
    the stiff edges of Motherís face
    softened by the shifting colors
    of the stained glass,
    soothed by the pale
    pink of Mary's brow<<,
    and ------- by> >the white of
    wing-wrapped hosts.

    at those times,
    I was always a little afraid,
    that the smiling
    crystalline Jesus above us
    would smite me down
    in a rain of holy fire
    <<because when we were in church
    kneeling, I loved her more
    than at any other place in the entire world-->>

    She no longer looked like herself.
    | Posted on 2007-06-08 00:00:00 | by tagit | [ Reply to This ]
      I like the poem for its simplicity in message. I think you got the memory of those church moments and the emotions captured in a very good way. For once I can completely follow you and relate. The Catholic guilt principle has taken its part in your experience and you described the somehow distant view of your mother in church in a very intereting way. Sometimes we need to see things in a "Different light". This is an exapmle when personal experience becomes a good poem, because the reader can relate and emphasize with the notion of the words. Good work, keep it up. The line breaks in the other comment might do something for the poem. Well done, I look forward to read more...
    | Posted on 2007-06-06 00:00:00 | by maltestrauss | [ Reply to This ]
      Hmm on the subject of line breaks I might change it to:

    I remember, years ago,
    when my mother would drag me tired-eyed from a warm bed
    and ungently stuff me into Sundayís sundry frills.
    We walked the two dull blocks to the church,
    her modest heels tip-tapping across the concrete.

    We knelt on the hard floor,
    arching our hands in mimicry of the beam-latticed ceiling.
    I would sneak glances, while mock-praying,
    to see the stiff edges of Motherís face
    softened by the shifting colors from the stained glass,
    soothed by the pale pink of Mary's brow
    and the white of wing-wrapped hosts.

    I was always a little afraid, at those times,
    that the smiling crystalline Jesus above us
    would smite me down in a rain of holy fire
    because I loved her more,
    kneeling in church,
    than at any other place in the entire world--

    She no longer looked like herself.


    I enjoyed this though. A good twist at the end. Sometimes we like the people closest to us the most when they are 'someone else' and feel guilty for it. Whether we should or not is another matter...
    Thanks for the read, hope you like my form suggestions.
    | Posted on 2007-06-06 00:00:00 | by Predator | [ Reply to This ]


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