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~Weathered



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Thu May 05, 2011 3:40 am
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Dreamwalker says...



A/N: Another attempt at poetry? I think so!

~Weathered

She says the world's a scary place--
Of candid horrors; shockingly grotesque.
A pretty theory though dilapidated,
As if wholly rendered by not ones love,
But the vivid nimbus, cussing bolts,
Whilst the voice of thunder booms,
Hatred unlike any; thick as sleet.

She says theres no room left.
Not that there was much in the first place.
With so much rain, an overshadowing veil,
One cannot pass through endless fog.
A screen filtered by dim rage,
Too cruel to be justified,
By any means of weather.

I wanted to tell her that she was wrong.
Sordid words filled my lips,
Plump with all the hate once spewed.
In a world where love is hazed,
I should have spoken of what is good.
The sweet simplicity of white-tipped waves,
Or the steady drum of one’s own heart.

But when one bores this storm-beaten skin,
The ridiculous obsession with believing,
In the fresh clinging of dew in a fragrant spring,
Becomes as hopeless as the lie worth concealing.
Charming but impractical; naivety.
Though to see her smile, well,
The swift crimson sunrise could not compare.

Idealistic but improbable.
That sunrise barely worth believing in.
Last edited by Dreamwalker on Thu May 05, 2011 3:56 am, edited 1 time in total.
Suppose for a moment that the heart has two heads, that the heart has been chained and dunked in a glass booth filled with river water. The heart is monologuing about hesitation and fulfillment while behind the red brocade the heart is drowning. - R.S
  





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Thu May 05, 2011 3:48 am
fireheartedkaratepup says...



She says the world's a scary place--
Of candid horrors; shockingly grotesque

Pretty good, but some typos.

A pretty theory though dilapidated,

What? There's nothing seperating this from the last line, so I couldn't tell that you'd started a new thought at first. Try some punctuation, at least.

As if wholly rendered by not ones love,
But the vivid nimbus, cussing bolts,
Whilst the voice of thunder booms,
Hatred unlike any; thick as sleet.

Interesting wording, here. Cussing bolts? I think I might like it....


But when one bores this storm-beaten skin,
The ridiculous obsession with believing,
In the fresh clinging of dew in a fragrant spring,
Becomes as hopeless as the lie worth concealing.

I understand the last line is describing "the ridiculous obsession with believing" (and I think it should be "this") but that was hard for me to grasp because of the "fresh clinging dew" line.


Idealistic but improbable.
That sunrise barely worth believing in.

The first line should either have a comma or a hyphen, in my opinion.


Overall, this was pretty good. It just needs a bit of polishing.
"Ok, Lolpup. You can be a girl worth fighting for."
--Pengu
  





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Thu May 05, 2011 3:56 am
OwlsFly says...



Hello there! I'm going to start out by saying I really enjoyed your poem. I'm not good with nit picky stuff, so I'm just going to stick to things I know.
First of all, I just would like to say how much I loved this line of your poem.
The sweet simplicity of white-tipped waves,
Your word choice was excellent, and it made me think of waves and how you were relating them to your poem. It just stuck out in a positive way when I was reading it. I also like the overall message you were trying to convey to the reader, and by my standards you did that very well.
At some points, your word choice also made the flow struggle a bit, but it was a good struggle. It showed a pretty wide vocabulary, but also made it bit hard to read, especially when I was reading it inside my head. What can I say though, I loved it.
I'm not sure if this helped you at all. But, I did like it a lot, and judging you by this poem you're a great writer. This made me want to read more of your work. (:
Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. ~E.L. Doctorow
  





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Thu May 05, 2011 5:06 am
Stareamer says...



I really enjoyed your poem, although the spellings a bit off, its great.
^_^Mz.L!v37if3+^_^
  





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Thu May 05, 2011 8:49 am
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Rydia says...



Hi there!

Alright so you've got some nice images and word choices here but I think you need to work a little more on those nuances of poetry which build the atmosphere. Your flow's a little weak and all the rhymes at the end are too much after the lack of them throughout the rest of the poem and they don't fit your rhythm. I'm going to give you some comments on a line by line and then try to explain more at the end:

She says the world's a scary place--
Of candid horrors; shockingly grotesque.
A pretty theory though dilapidated,
As if wholly rendered by not one's love, [This is the first line that really threw me. Until here you're good, though you might want to consider dropping all the capitalisation. That has more of a place in structured poetry such as sonnets, not in modern free verse. Now then. What I think you should do here is switch it to 'not by one's love' and then add a 'by' in the next line, after but. That would make it flow a little better.]
But the vivid nimbus, cussing bolts, [Very pretty words here but the image is so vague. What is this vivid nimbus? And what does it have to do with cussing bolts? There's not enough substance to the line and when you break it down, you're talking about a vivd light/ halo and blots that are being either opened or closed since they're making noise. I just can't catch your meaning.]
Whilst the voice of thunder booms,
Hatred unlike any; thick as sleet. [Not sure that I like this last line.]

Next stanza is okay, though it's a little mild and uneventful. Remember that in poetry every word has to count and every line has to add something and every stanza has to advance the poem.

I wanted to tell her that she was wrong.
Sordid words filled my lips,
Plump with all the hate once spewed.
In a world where love is hazed,
I should have spoken of what is good.
The sweet simplicity of white-tipped waves,
Or the steady drum of one’s own heart. [This stanza keeps rolling back on itself. The second line under-cuts the first too suddenly without any smooth transaction from the intention the reality. I think you'd be better with moving lines four to seven up and then you can have 'But sordid words...' which would flow more naturally. If you did this, I would then suggest starting the next stanza with And.]

As I said already, the rhyming in the next stanza is too much but other than that I like it and the last two lines of the poem are great.

Alright then, back to what I was saying earlier. I'd like to see some more literary techniques here like purposeful enjambement, alliteration, onomatopeia. That last one especially since this is a poem about weather and you could make so much use of the change in the sounnds of the words. They could be soft, calm and lilting during the 'I should have spoken of what is good' part and then heavy and crashing for the next. It's things like that which build the tone and atmosphere of the piece and currently yours is a little flat and steady.

Well I won't over do it but if you've got any questions, feel free to send me a pm and I hope this helps a little,

Heather xxx
Writing Gooder

~Previously KittyKatSparklesExplosion15~

The light shines brightest in the darkest places.
  





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Mon Aug 01, 2011 2:46 am
greg925 says...



This was good. Like the metaphors in this. Sounds like a poem about a lost love.
  





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Mon Aug 01, 2011 3:32 pm
Demoness says...



Heeii, Demoness here to inflict her opinion on this piece!

This was fairly enjoyable... more than so, it was quite amazing. The rythm and flow was a bit off at places but it didn't disturb my overall impression of this piece which I thought held great descriptions and imagery! Someone mentioned metaphores and that made me have to read it again and well.. NICE WORK!

Good Luck & Keep Writing

// Demoness
"Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice." - Robert Frost
  








Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength.
— Corrie Ten Boom