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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: The Gardenerdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Wolfwatching
    ASL Info:    28/Male/Ireland
    Elite Ratio:    7.52 - 98/142/127
    Words: 302
    Class/Type: Poetry/Serious
    Total Views: 67
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1915



    Description:
       


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

    dotsThe Gardenerdots
    -------------------------------------------


    To the bricked-up house at the end of the world,
    No windows, no roof, a place for things gone wrong
    And now a place for someone's restless, sleepless contrivance;
    The light points fingers across the starred sheet of sky
    In the darkening folds of its iris
    The cold comes in with shudders of the morning.
    It's visitors; whether merchants or thieves,
    Perhaps an agent to survey the bones
    Inhaling in the painted white-brick rib-cage
    Of this dwelling; but I decide at the end
    This can be no-one else but a gardener
    A gardener whose roses are out of season,
    But then he tells me "No. No. It is the shadows
    Are coming across the lawn so blooming fast you see
    There's no time to plant,
    And we have no-one looking out
    No-one sees the lawn,
    Just miles and miles of fractured road
    Through which I think someone was watching me,
    But as for now I'm looking for my shadow,
    And the smashed windows and the abandoned stone
    And the unbelievable augury of this morning's crawl
    This stuttering memory has become my home."
    The sun sets. No more can I walk up his garden path
    Or mine, where faint unamable flowers chatter
    Morning to night, inquisitors
    Take up different voices across the patio
    But "who are you, that you said..."
    "And who am I?" "No who am I? Who am I
    Who is the mover of these stones,
    And in some fallen garden shed whose bones?"
    More hard stuff has gone round, more fertiliser
    More dashed hopes and miracle growth,
    Than ever I could have laid for certain footing;
    In the bricked-up house there's no end to the world
    Nor man who tries to hide himself in soil.







    Submitted on 2021-10-03 15:58:15     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      I felt visually there as a spectator in the distance as you told your poem. At one moment I almost thought the shadows could time lapsed the way you explained of the visitors, either being merchants or thief’s, and then when the gardener spoke of the shadows coming across the lawn so fast. The growing and withering of the things around this forever lost home.
    This was captivating and sounded like something I’d read out of a novel of short stories.

    Thank you for sharing,
    Faid
    | Posted on 2021-10-10 00:00:00 | by faideddarkness | [ Reply to This ]
      Good, but might I suggest you write a version utilizing the best medieval English (or even somewhat Irish, considering). Can you do like Shakespeare, or how are we with Irish or perhaps even Shelta? Drive it deep and solid into the historical ground. I think it deserves that kind of flavor/atmosphere.

    Don't be shy about writing in rhyme, 'tis the language of the Spirits and it is that time of year.

    Lloyd
    | Posted on 2021-10-04 00:00:00 | by Blue Monk | [ Reply to This ]


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    January 10 07
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