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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
February 1, 2011
As the suggester said of this traditional fixed form piece, Where Only I am Present by *timeraider has a "rhythm that continues to cascade around my head even after reading it countless times, and a sense of warmth about something I usually find so cold and unwelcoming."
Featured by GwenavhyeurAnastasia
Suggested by Ameko-Shadowsong
Literature Text
I tread along the rain-worn streets
Of urban sprawls whose dwellers sleep
In pied quilts or a lover's fold,
Minds filled with easy, pleasant dreams.
Within the hour, young and old
Will rise for what the day might hold,
With vigor’s kiss on beating breasts,
To ward from winter's ice and cold.
The maples bow to winds' duress -
Adorned in frost, their Sunday best;
Though as for snow upon the ground,
Such sparsity does ill impress.
I cleave my path without a sound,
As if to shore the magic wound
Throughout the city's empty sweep
Where only I am present bound.
Of urban sprawls whose dwellers sleep
In pied quilts or a lover's fold,
Minds filled with easy, pleasant dreams.
Within the hour, young and old
Will rise for what the day might hold,
With vigor’s kiss on beating breasts,
To ward from winter's ice and cold.
The maples bow to winds' duress -
Adorned in frost, their Sunday best;
Though as for snow upon the ground,
Such sparsity does ill impress.
I cleave my path without a sound,
As if to shore the magic wound
Throughout the city's empty sweep
Where only I am present bound.
Literature
Ahren's Gift
Dear Ahren,
Happy Holidays, my angsty friend!
I know, I know. “Holidays?” you are wondering. “What are those?” “Happy? – pfft. No such thing. Not any more.” Well, the annual winter days of celebration are upon us, whether you recognize them or not. And happiness can come in any size or shape.
Take, for example, the box sitting before you now. Wrapped in silver foil. (More resistant to heat.) Held closed by a thin silk ribbon, shiny black. (A color we have in common, hmm?) I tied it myself. Yes, my fingers are working again; thanks for asking. A couple of years of therapy and all of my limbs now move as I
Literature
Existential Crises
There was an odd feeling that washed over her on Saturday mornings. She sat dazed between unfinished paintings, white canvases with specks of reality, and piles of unorganized papers; they seemed to magically grow and multiply as if by an imaginary stroke of the hand. Some were bills she always forgot to pay, or letters from Dylan that always ended up, with the envelope still tightly shut, in the trash. You can read a person's personality, right to its gritty core, simply by examning their trash. She had Ding-Dong wrappers, ice-cream containers, sketches of people and people that were no-longer, and a rotting carton of orange juice with a lon
Literature
My Winter
Cardinals will
drip
from the branches like
berries
and the sky will turn to smoke.
The ground crunches under your feet and it’s
Almost as if you could
sail away
across the ice.
Brandished behind screens of glass
are fists of ivory
They are covered in scratches and
bloom
from the dark like magnolia blossoms.
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Editted 11/16/2014.
© 2010 - 2024 timeraider
Comments87
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Overall Vision
Originality Technique ImpactBut I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep...
I can't help but think of one of my favorite poets after reading 'Where Only I am Present'. You've captured the season perfectly here—its quiet melancholy and its vigor both—and it strikes me as a worthy urban counterpart to Frost's snowy woods.
"The maples bow to winds' duress,
Adorned in frost, their Sunday best..."
That's just such a poignant image to me, tying in with the magic of the final stanza, and contrasting with that stanza's silence. It's the only stanza that doesn't focus on people, and yet I find it to be the heart of the poem, really bringing the city scene into focus. I don't think the poem would be complete without it.
I just love this piece, and if I had to pick out anything that might need improvement, it'd be the meter in the third lines of the first two stanzas (and possibly the poem's first line—'concrete' stressed on the second syllable?), which I can't get to adhere to a strict iambic pattern without sounding strange, no matter how many times I read them. The slightly irregular meter doesn't, however, detract from the overall sound and sheer beauty of the poem—however, I really do think the second stanza's third line would benefit from a rewrite. I'd expect 'Some with vigor, some without' or 'Some with more and some with less'—but as it stands, 'less' doesn't contrast with anything. (Of course, the first example doesn't fit the rhyme scheme, and the second doesn't say more or less what, but it's not for me to say how to rewrite it.)
But these suggestions only pertain to a small percentage of the work overall. The poem as a whole is a beautifully crafted structure that shows a command of formal technique (rhyme, meter, enjambment) and presents a rich, focused look at a winter scene—both externally (nature and the city) and internally (the poets or narrators thoughts and observations) with beauty of language. The descriptions evokes vivid images and emotional reactions, and as a seasonal or even thematic piece, it calls out to be read again and again.