09-18-2013, 04:27 PM
Editing notes.
Here's my first pass at turning the whole into a conchalonn. Not totally happy with some of my connecting rhyme sounds. Also as I feared it seems to have grown somewhat and I am struggling to see where I can edit without loosing the integrity of what i wanted to say. So for now I am happy that i think I have captured my original thought / idea to write a poem about the process and struggles of writing a poem and that i have taken control over some of the images that the poem was writing and kept my snow field & climber images balanced with my starlings at sunset images. I be interested to hear your thoughts on this new direction as it is quite a departure from the original in places.
I feel the imperfections,
ions in each unique wood flake,
aching under silent fields of snow;
onerous gram weighted peeks and troughs.
Offers of pristine carbon dated sheets
eat at tired thoughts that slide,
idle in freefall, foot prepped they stretch;
etched clouds of sun-downing starlings.
Lingering they cling; half formed ideas,
earless dreary droplets on bare branches.
Essence starved, highly metalled, they drip
rippled dross that cools on the un-tilled field.
Eldritch forces shield the pressed perfection,
on which fragments of calm collide and splinter.
Terse aborted concepts leap sky-born,
ornate in flight they swirl in flightless flocks.
Oxygen boosted the fledglings flee,
easing off the aborted roost; a reflective river
verse that swirls in random bursts of unborn images,
gestated under a clouded sun-lit canopy.
Peels of thoughts switch and swoop low;
own the virgin field of snow, by virtue of a kiss.
Issues melt, the fluid thought compacts,
acts upon a single, graphite drop and falls.
Alternate climatic creative waves; twice
ice hard dead upon the page are left unread.
Edited, the final decent is progressive and smooth;
the imperfections are covered and soothed.
Here's my first pass at turning the whole into a conchalonn. Not totally happy with some of my connecting rhyme sounds. Also as I feared it seems to have grown somewhat and I am struggling to see where I can edit without loosing the integrity of what i wanted to say. So for now I am happy that i think I have captured my original thought / idea to write a poem about the process and struggles of writing a poem and that i have taken control over some of the images that the poem was writing and kept my snow field & climber images balanced with my starlings at sunset images. I be interested to hear your thoughts on this new direction as it is quite a departure from the original in places.
I feel the imperfections,
ions in each unique wood flake,
aching under silent fields of snow;
onerous gram weighted peeks and troughs.
Offers of pristine carbon dated sheets
eat at tired thoughts that slide,
idle in freefall, foot prepped they stretch;
etched clouds of sun-downing starlings.
Lingering they cling; half formed ideas,
earless dreary droplets on bare branches.
Essence starved, highly metalled, they drip
rippled dross that cools on the un-tilled field.
Eldritch forces shield the pressed perfection,
on which fragments of calm collide and splinter.
Terse aborted concepts leap sky-born,
ornate in flight they swirl in flightless flocks.
Oxygen boosted the fledglings flee,
easing off the aborted roost; a reflective river
verse that swirls in random bursts of unborn images,
gestated under a clouded sun-lit canopy.
Peels of thoughts switch and swoop low;
own the virgin field of snow, by virtue of a kiss.
Issues melt, the fluid thought compacts,
acts upon a single, graphite drop and falls.
Alternate climatic creative waves; twice
ice hard dead upon the page are left unread.
Edited, the final decent is progressive and smooth;
the imperfections are covered and soothed.