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On a chill morning (Free verse) by razorgrin A stranger is standing in the driveway, clouded in plumes of frozen
breath
Last night's frost creeps into his old bones to numb his hands and feet,
yet he still stands, the morning's feeble rays breaking on his face.
His eyes are upcast toward my curtained window, rapt.
A fascinated gaze broken by my leaving the house, rounding the corner.
I level my eyes on his, a basilisk stare and a wordless conversation
ending as I drive off toward the rising sun.
Up the ladder:
#13
Down the ladder:
The Thought Of It
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 5.882353
Posted: October 16, 2002 7:17 AM PDT; Last modified: October 16, 2002 7:17 AM PDTWeighted score: 5.777174 Overall Rank: 1740 Comments:
[9]
Christof @ 195.172.133.226
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16-Oct-02/7:39 AM
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Reply
And you call my poem chilly? This is icy and sinister.
You could remove like 10 words from this poem and make it better, but ramble on.
I'd like to read about 4 more stanzas, rzrgrn. Seems to be the start of a poetic story.
Frass, I'd write more of the event, but that's all there was to it. Unless he's back tomorrow, or something.
This is not bad at all. Just one little thing -- you come out the house, turn around the corner, look at him, drive off -- wait a minute, when did you get into the car?
Excellent, excellent.
Half of you want more words, half want less. I know there's no pleasing you people. Tintagiles, i know I didn't mention getting in the car. why should I? Glad some of you are happy, though. Almost makes a really creepy start to my day worthwhile.
I think I've got to agree with Tintagiles, bunny. It's like a gaping hole in the continuity of the piece. There's no transition and the reader finds herself wondering, "Does your sidewalk drive?"
Gaping hole? Please point it out least i fall in. Looks fine to me. She could be driving anything; bike, scooter, a broom. What's the problem?
It's inexistent, if she's driving her bike, scooter, broom out of the door. She appears to be levelling her eyes on his and suddenly zooming off, with no transistion. Maybe it'S just that Limonade and I know the house in question, and that driving out the door on bike, scooter, broom, whatever would be a tad difficult. It just doesn't quite seem to fit. We're picky.
What is this mad pedantry about cars/brooms whatever? Who cares? This poem would go on forever if there was a description of every single detail and by the end of it the reader would want to baste himself in his own tears of frustration and rage. Leave it as it is Razorgrin!
All we're saying is that it seems disjointed. If the word 'drive' were changed to 'go' or some other one-syllable word saying the same thing, I believe it would work better.
It not's disjointed to me. Drive is perfect. The word puts her in a car, with foggy glass between her and stranger. I had no trouble with it. He's watching her roll out the drive, inexpressive look on his face, arms hanging down at his sides.
I don't have a problem with it either. it seems a very succinct way of ending the poem. Goddammit, I like it. But there's no accounting for taste. And thanks for your message Mrs G.
Thankee, Christof and god's wife. I also left out the transportation because how i move doesn't figure in it. It's all about the interaction between me and Old 'n' Creepy, leaving no room for other people. Or the car itself. Limonade and intagiles, be good or I'll throw pebbles at your windows in the wee hours of morning for a month.
I stand by my opinion. And sweetheart, for your pebble-throwing to have any effect, I'd have to be there, asleep. And care. And we know how rare that is. If you break the window you get to pay for it and I'll do horrible things to you. If we're not allowed to mention what we consider a slight bump in your work... Come now, dearie, as if you wouldn't mention a bump in ours if it really jumped at you.
But you mention so many outside things EXCEPT that. I fyou didn't get into such detail about your window, leaving the house, it would make sense. It's inconsistent with the rest of what you've said. As for throwing rocks at my window... have fun! The chances I'd hear you? Good. The chances I'd care? Slim to nil. You'd get bored first. Or I'd just invite you in for Schnapps...
The first four lines are extremely dandy.
thankee, Dark One. For those who care: He hasn't been back, at least not noticeably.
So much the better. Bastard.
Fantsastico !
gracias.
9
too bad yet another zero
I'm just amazed you can find the time to rank my lil' ol' poems between sending all those Jews to the showers.
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