<All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept
For miles inland,
A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept.
Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle,â¦>
aha! tall heat and short-shadowed cattle...such subtle
yet strong markers of time...
imagine a wide angle shot of a meadow, with grass and
only shadows of cattle...for some reason the cows
themselves are absent (air-brushed out by some anti
beef fanatic perhaps)...perhaps its a multiple
exposure shot...so you see the unchanging meadow and
these shadows waxing and waning...
--- jane bhandari <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:
>
> No Ronnie dear,
>
> It's not a poemette, just the last stanza from an
> earlier one...I was talking about the process of
> whittling down a poem to its bare bones. Though
> actually it does work even when divorced from its
> partner.
>
> I had posted a poem earlier about yellowing leaves,
> but puhleeeze...you should assume they have
> yellowed!!!! It's in the nature of dead leaves to be
> sere and yellow, you just don't have to keep saying
> so. What's nice about poetry is the amount of stuff
> you can leave unsaid...The best pornography is the
> kind that leaves lots to the imagination - and that
> goes for almost everything else. To be too explicit
> is to leave the reader with nothing to do but absorb
> your image, which insults his intelligence. He
> should be able to add a couple of layers of his own.
>
> I hated Shelley as a teenager, so embarassingly
> romantic. And those picturesque cobblestones are
> extremely slippery and death on stiletto heels. As a
> teenager I lived in a small town in the Lake
> District (beloved by Shelley, Wordsworh, Keats,
> Coleridge, etc, etc) at the peak of the Beatles and
> stiletto heels...I think boys still blushed, in
> those days.
>
> I prefer Eliot to shelley, but even his view is
> quite romantic, especially the bit about the cab
> horse. Which period was he writing about? Perhaps a
> childhood memory of a grimy London suburb. Try
> Philip Larkin's The Whitsun Weddings, very sixties,
> and to me, more evocative of my romantic years.
> I quote the second stanza:
>
> All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept
> For miles inland,
> A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept.
> Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and
> Canals with floatings of industrial froth;
> A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped
> And rose: and now and then a smell of grass
> Displaced the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth
> Until the next town, new and nondescript,
> Approached with acres of dismantled cars.
>
> (Philip Larkin: The Whitsun Weddings)
>
> Um. Hope you liked it.
> Jane
>
> ronnie banerjee <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:
> Jane - do i get a bit of Shelley in ur new(?)
> poemette-
>
> "O West wind
> thou breath of Autumn's being
> thou from whose unseen presence
> the leaves dead are driven
> like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing...."
>
> Great poem Jane! but i would rather have the leaves
> littered on a cobbled windswept pavement. and the
> leaves have to be yellowing isn't it? and the
> pavement slightly wet..
> remember Eliot?
>
> the winter evening settles down
> with smells of steaks in passageways
> Six o'clock
> the burnt out ends of smoky days
> and now a gusty shower wraps
> the grimy scraps
> of withered leaves about your feet
> and newspaper from vacant lots
> the showers beat
> on broken blinds and chimney pots
> and by the corner of the street
> a lonely cab horse steams and stamps
> and then the lighting of the lamps..
> regards
> Ron
>
>
> After the first gales, leaves lie across the grass
> Like corpses, whispering death in ghostly voices,
> And the wind keens through the empty branches,
> Sharpening their edges against the bitter sky,
> Cutting it into a grey shroud for dead summer.
>
>
>
>
> ---------------------------------
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> holiday snaps for FREE with Yahoo! Photos. Get
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