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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Antanas Frederichdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: geherald
    ASL Info:    26/male/PA
    Elite Ratio:    5.07 - 132/127/42
    Words: 519
    Class/Type: Poetry/Legend
    Total Views: 1373
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 3303



    Description:
       written of a revision prompt for a poetry class, the original was a lot different, but this is the direction i was asked to take it... let me know what you people think, its kinda odd, i know, but i like it... though i should like it, i wrote it about 5 minutes ago


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

    dotsAntanas Frederichdots
    -------------------------------------------


    There at his desk
    sits the great and wonderful,
    Antanas Frederich. The poet
    extraordinaire. Hunched,
    like that poor soul in Victor Hugo’s classic,
    over an ancient typewriter,
    a vintage 1905 Hammond No. 12.
    He bought the damn thing
    for a lot less than it’s worth
    a few weeks past from some old shmuck
    on EBay.
    He sits pounding out his latest masterpiece,
    “this one is for the ages,” he exclaims
    to no one in particular.
    The room falls silent yet his words
    continue echoing through the high-ceilinged halls,
    long since abandoned by children now grown
    and living across the country,
    from where they no longer journey home
    to see this great poet,
    who was not exactly a failed father, but
    nor was he ever a finalist for world’s greatest.
    When the echoes cease
    and silence again haunts the forsaken corridors
    he dwells upon the lose of his wife,
    his lady, his babies’ mamma, his one true love.
    But she died 20 years ago,
    succumbing, after a 15 year battle,
    to the cancer riddling her body;
    the chemo never succeeding in killing it all.
    So he goes on, pounding away
    on the No. 12.
    Page, after page, after page
    he writes. Breaking now and again
    to pick up his worn copy of Kerouac’s
    On the Road and skim the pages
    of Jack’s own masterpiece, fighting
    for inspiration, for insight, for freedom
    to write exactly what he wants
    to write, not what THEY want him
    to write.
    The THEY, those guys, the ones who
    make all the rules,
    make anyone famous, and
    make all the money before doling out the writer’s share.
    On he writes,
    poem after prose after story after essay.
    On life, on love, on peace, on war.
    And when he gets hungry
    he heads to the kitchen,
    which is only one room over,
    but the echoes of his footsteps
    up and down the hallway haunt
    the old house, like the ghosts of his past
    finally catching up to this old man
    on the eve of the completion of his final work.
    From the fridge he grabs a plate
    of Tofu left over from last night’s dinner
    and he shakes his head at thought of an old farm boy
    eating organic vegetables and soy and tofu.
    But when his wife was sick,
    the Docs said no more indulging in
    a lifelong diet of steroid laden
    beef and pork.
    So he went vegan cause that was all she cooked
    and when she died
    he kept at it in her memory.
    So with his plate in one hand,
    he slowly touches the picture of her
    hanging in the hallway,
    next to the pics of all the kids and grandkids,
    and he turns back to his desk to write some more.
    “Only 2 more pages to go,” he whispers
    not wanting to disturb the ghosts
    of the old house.
    And on the 1905 Hammond No. 12,
    he once again pounds away,
    letters forming words forming sentences forming poems.
    The poet extraordinaire,
    Antanas Frederich,
    sits at his desk, his greatest work
    now complete.




    Submitted on 2006-04-04 23:44:52     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

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    ||| Comments |||
      You know I just don't feel for this guy, Now lets
    say the intent is to portray him as just another
    faceless poet pouring his lifeblood out on page
    after page of blank white paper ignoring at times even
    those he loves in order to complete his masterpiece
    well its like you have outlined the story but as the
    reader I want to feel something and its just not happening.
    Now I don't think you should cut this down, it fails
    for me because the emotive nuances are missing,
    the little personal details his thoughts and dreams,
    perhaps a bedside scene he remembers with his
    dying wife. A tear-filled tiff with his son before he
    leaves to join a monastery (something) that makes me
    feel for this guy, something that hits me in the gut.
    Pounding in rage tearing at his cloths bemoaning
    the fates that have robed him of all he loves, he hurls
    his typewriter through the stained glass window
    standing amidst the shattered glass so like his broken
    life he rails at an uncaring god, and then in this
    his darkest hour, his muse arrives, scrabbling for a pen
    he begins to write. You know be a little dramatic flesh
    things out. even faceless poets have feelings and interesting lives
    you have all the elements of a grand drama in here, go
    with them, hey he could be half mad by this point
    have him make a trip to drug store and scare the
    crap out of an old lady or the neighbor kids,
    have him walking down the street gesticulating to
    the air and conversing with his dead wife, make him
    interesting. Anyway I hope this helped.
    Dale.


    | Posted on 2006-05-02 00:00:00 | by DaleP | [ Reply to This ]
      Hey,
    I liked the overall structure and pace of your poem. It was a great descriptive piece. Though I think you could probably cut it down, the length is very daunting for a reader and I think it can actually hinder your work because people start to feel it a bit of a chore when reading. Also, I think there are just a few phrasings and words, I would change:

    a few weeks past from
    some old shmuck on EBay. [think it works better as two lines]

    The room {falls silent} [don't really this phrase, I think you could find something more original] yet his words
    continue echoing through the high-ceilinged [this should be 'high-ceiling' i think] halls,

    long since abandoned by children
    now grown[,] living across the country,
    [thinks this works better as two lines, helps the flow]

    who {was not} [maybe 'wasn't' instead?]exactly a failed father, {but} [miss out]
    nor was he {ever} [miss out] a finalist for world’s greatest.

    he dwells upon the {lose} [should be 'loss' I think] of his wife,

    succumbing, after a 15 year battle,
    to the cancer riddling her body;
    the chemo never succeeding in killing it all.
    [this bit seems too plain and factual for me. how did he feel here? what did she feel? I think you could inject better images here]

    to write exactly what he wants
    {to write} [miss out] not what THEY want him [to]
    {to write.} [miss out]
    {The}THEY, those guys, {the ones who
    make all the rules,} [replace with 'the rule-makers]
    {make anyone famous, and
    make all the money before doling out the writer’s share.}
    [again, don't like this bit cause it seems to cliché and plain for me]

    of the old house. [cut this line, I think it's pretty obvious]

    letters forming words forming sentences [forming poems.] replace with 'forming'
    The poet extraordinaire[...]
    Antanas Frederich
    [sits] at his desk, his greatest work
    now complete.

    Anyway, I did like this one, in spite of my criticism. Hope it helps. Thanks for the read.

    JoKing.







    | Posted on 2006-04-05 00:00:00 | by JoKing | [ Reply to This ]


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    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.


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