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Awakening

Posted on September 24, 2011

New tendrils stretch in the blush of sunrise
as strings of dewdrop pearls glimmer
on silken strands spread by faery hands
Whispering winds an ancient aire murmur,
the bitter cold stone of winter consuming
’til my spirit takes flight to vertigo heights
where leaves cascade in rustling showers
of golden greens muted against painted wings
fluttering graceful by through the azure sky,
and I surrender my soul to the embrace of spring

Last edited by Visual Lullaby on September 24, 2011, 8:51 pm


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One response to “Awakening”

  1. "New tendrils stretch in the blush of sunrise
    as strings of dewdrop pearls glimmer"

    Okey-dokey, I see the sunrise, and maybe misty "tendrils" curling up towards a watery sun. Tendrils is a good word choice here.

    "on silken strands spread by faery hands"

    Typo? Fairy?

    "Whispering winds an ancient aire murmur,"

    Typo: Air?

    And now, "winds". Now I don’t quite associate that with the first scene. The first two lines I see and feel a calm. Especially the "new tendrils". Winds would make them impossible. Whip ’em up.
    I like "whispering winds" and also the "ancient air", but here -for me- the images clash a bit.

    "the bitter cold stone of winter consuming"

    If it was that cold, there would be frost and ice? No dew drops…

    "’til my spirit takes flight to vertigo heights
    where leaves cascade in rustling showers"

    Okay, now we are blurring between winter and autumn.

    "of golden greens muted against painted wings"
    Autumn.
    "fluttering graceful by through the azure sky,"

    "and I surrender my soul to the embrace of spring"

    All right, I get it. We are not season bound. It’s a snapshot of different times and scenes leading up to the happiness of spring coming. Plus there’s an added bonus of a metaphor.

    "and I surrender my soul to the embrace of spring"

    I know what you mean. Be careful though you don’t descend into the "poetic" that becomes "cliche" and hence "superficial" and even (oh, horror) "relatively meaningless".  And I don’t mean that unkindly, nor in any judgmental fashion, because I am () the worst offender in that department. I am constantly critiquing myself for stuff I write that causes some little voice in my mind to snarl at me: "Francis… Ugh! That is SOOOOO poetic!"
    So you surrendered your soul to the embrace of spring. Yup. Well. But what does it mean? What does it do? Where does it take you? Where does it take us?
    It cries for "more".

    Now here we have the challenge of great poetry. This is "good" poetry. But to rise above it and become "great" poetry, we have to assess the cynical reader. The hard bitten dufus, the soulless one, who reads with a jaundiced eye.

    This is not meant in anyway as a ‘dis-couragement". It’s meant, on the contrary, as an exhortation to you and me, to reach a little further. Twist it. Trick your reader. Dazzle the bugger.

    The odd thing is that to address the ephemeral, the eternal, the passing, the fleeting, the essential… we still have to find novel ways to do it.
    The word "soul" is almost a cliche in itself. I know what you mean, and the thought is valid, true, good, sensible… but not "soul". To hell with soul!

    Just kidding, but maybe you see my point.

    Now that’s just me, so don’t take too much notice…

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