I throw my hands

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I throw my hands

Postby Saturn » Fri Feb 09, 2007 12:41 pm

One more for old times' sake:

I throw my hands

I throw out these hands
Stretch them with a will.
I try to reach out for you,
Yet empty find them still.

I grapple with only air
In my desperate grasp.
I wake as from a dream,
And for sleep again I ask.

For now I only see you
In Night's steely breast.
Only then can I hold you,
My love, against my chest.

And if you could reach me
Now that we are apart,
Would you meet my gaze
And give me back my heart?
_____________
"Oh what a misery it is to have an intellect in splints".
Saturn
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Postby dks » Fri Feb 09, 2007 6:24 pm

Oh, I dearly like this--it's not too sing-songy in it's scheme. You still manage to impart that raw immediacy--the quality I so love in your work, Stephen.

I particularly like this:

I grapple with only air
In my desperate grasp.
I wake as from a dream,
And for sleep again I ask.


And this:

And if you could reach me
Now that we are apart,
Would you meet my gaze
And give me back my heart?


I love the way you ended this...the switch in tone is barely there, but there all the same--a whisper, if you will.

I'm glad you are writing much recently...my muse is probably angry with me, for I'm quite an idiot lately...
:oops: :roll:
"I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the Truth of Imagination."
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Postby Saturn » Fri Feb 09, 2007 11:38 pm

dks wrote:it's not too sing-songy in it's scheme. You still manage to impart that raw immediacy--the quality I so love in your work, Stephen.



It was written in literally five minutes today - it just hit me and I had to write it down, [or increasingly these days] type it out.

It wasn't supposed to rhyme at all at first.
I don't usually favour rhyme any more, but the second verse happened to have that half-rhyme [false rhyme perhaps? I bow to your knowledge of literary terms, for I have none] I rather liked so I went back and changed the other three.

It was a bit of an attempt to write in an early Coleridgean, or even somewhat gentler Byronic tone, a juvenile effort perhaps; as ever, but one which belies the depth of feeling behind its outward simplicity.

Think of Byron's 'When We Too Parted', if you know the poem [and if not, read it] and you'll see what I was aiming at here.
"Oh what a misery it is to have an intellect in splints".
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