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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Reflections At Day's Enddots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Soul-Hugger
    ASL Info:    33/F/Canada
    Elite Ratio:    8 - 409/221/65
    Words: 88
    Class/Type: Poetry/Misc
    Total Views: 888
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 551



    Description:
       Believe I have something here but could really use some help. Thanks in advance to anyone who comments:) P.S. It's supposed to be centered and formatted, but I have yet to figure out how...


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

    dotsReflections At Day's Enddots
    -------------------------------------------


    I learned today
    that weathered paint has a smell.

    It is earth and sun and shifts of rain
    distilled to haunting. It is quiet snow.

    It is the breath of those who walked between
    these walls, the faded vibration of their footsteps.
    It is the ghosts I travel through unknowing.


    Now I lie awake, listening to the trees outside the window
    as they shake with storm, flatten against the walls, scrape against the panes.
    Does everything become like wind?




    Submitted on 2011-12-10 16:42:29     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      I absolutely disagree with jacob on the storm line. I think 'shake with storm' is the best line in this whole piece. And I maintain that the articles before walls and panes are appropriate, because you are talking about specific trees (those outside the window), not trees in general.

    Uhhh I couldn't figure out how to critique this properly so I rewrote sections of it and changed line breaks to better suit my own personal preferences. Take it with a huge barrel of salt, or ignore it entirely if you're not interested in things like this.



    I learned today
    the smell of weathered paint:

    earth, sun. Shifts of rain
    distilled to haunting. It is quiet snow.

    The half-lingering breath, the ghosts
    I travel through unknowing.

    Now I lie awake, listening to the trees
    shake with storm, flatten like a palm
    against the walls, scrape against the panes.
    Does everything become like wind?



    Though if this were truly my poem, I would end it as 'Everything becomes as wind.' Mainly because I don't like question-endings. But uh yeah. I have no idea if this is helpful or not, sorry if it isn't. I did like this poem, I think it's got a nice feel and voice to it. The closing thought is a bit of a shocker, and that's lovely. It socks you straight in the face and doesn't apologize.
    | Posted on 2011-12-11 00:00:00 | by saartha | [ Reply to This ]
      a wind is here and then it is gone..it disturbs slightly or with much force, just like our lives.

    the ghosts we live through and after...trying to live up to ones who came before us...haunted maybe by what we fail to accomplish....

    we hope to have some effect with our existence...

    my help won't be much..because i just love this piece...short and sweet and says it all in nice tight fashion..in the "shake" line....i would put a "the" before storm...or better yet, leave the next two "the's" out altogether...

    "shake with storm, flatten against walls, scrape against panes"

    and those last two parts could be conceived in a collective sense...against all the walls i come up against in life...all the pain i suffer.

    this is so good, erin.

    "weathered paint"

    you have a unique voice..and it is so natural.

    jacob
    | Posted on 2011-12-10 00:00:00 | by jacoberin | [ Reply to This ]


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