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The Mere Tide Poems

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Old 11-03-2016, 09:19 AM
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Default The Mere Tide Poems


So there's also rhyming goes on in the novel but might as put it here. Obviously not a whole lot of context but Ill typically include a few lines ere the poem and maybe even a few lines after.

Whats ye sees?

The pilot poured her tumbler full and drank.

This is my garden. It is not so wide. It is not quite ready but it has a patient gardener and it forms slow and sure its rows of metal and barbed vines. But what insects dwell here? That are so many. That burrow from the sun. We must be rid of them. See how they make their nests? With wisdom and assurance? They will resist their going. But mine is a patient gardener and he sculpts just so. And it is April. And while many another garden blooms after the dance of bees roses marigolds bonnets tulip chamomile mine is a pyre made ripe by flies.


Last edited by bluewpc; 11-06-2016 at 04:18 PM..
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Old 11-03-2016, 02:29 PM
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The pilot hasn't made an appearance in this one yet. Should we be expecting her?

Oh, and can you please stop fucking off and write a little faster? I want to see what happens next.

Last edited by Elisa/win; 11-05-2016 at 10:36 AM..
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Old 11-03-2016, 04:11 PM
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Yeah you should be but not anytime soon. MT is divided into three different tones I guess you could say and the first radical shift is the reintroduction of the pilot. As for writing faster well... I take my time

Edit edit edit. Back when I first started writing, many years ago at this point, I would often take little sabbaticals but I would generally give little behind the scenes posts and while I haven't done that in years I suppose theres nothing wrong with doing it now.

So this poem was inspired by The Great War and Modern Memory by Paul Fussell and specifically his mention of a issue of The Wipers Times December 25, 1917:

It must be remembered that the planting of Toffee-apples on the border
of your neighbor's allotment will seriously interfere with the ripening of his gooseberries.


But I am glad you enjoy it.

Last edited by bluewpc; 11-04-2016 at 01:29 AM..
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Old 11-05-2016, 06:21 AM
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That's a nice little bit of writing.

Not sure what it's about. It seems kind of cynical or nihilistic or maybe it's about someone who is satisfied with or protective of a different view or aesthetic.

I'm tripping up a bit on "many another." That sounds a bit backward to me.

It has a nice rhythm. I'm a fan of alternating longer lines and ones that are short and punchy. (I also like very long sentences typically considered "run-on" punctuated by shot ones or fragments.)

You could easily format this as a more traditional poem and milk a bit more out of it, but it's fine as is.

Cheers.
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Old 11-06-2016, 05:43 AM
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Hey thanks Meyers.

Edited the poem a little bit. It might be a bit wordy towards the end but ill pare it down over the weeks to come. Actually its not quite to my liking but no worries. The problem lines are They are so many...far from the sun...

It gives a fuller picture but maybe should be done away with and I think I will do away with them but for now it can stay. Probably what needs to be done is the combination of those two sentences. I think sative is the word here.

Last edited by bluewpc; 11-06-2016 at 04:02 PM..
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Old 11-07-2016, 07:03 AM
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The imagery works very well. WWI is exactly what came to mind when I read it. The next question: is the garden a metaphor for war, or vice versa? I'm guessing the answer is in the novel, which we are supposed to want to read? Ah, but you are clever.
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Old 11-09-2016, 09:01 PM
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@Ink thanks for the kind comments. I will leave the interpretation up to you all but I do have the final version of the poem here:


This is my garden. It is not so wide. It is not quite ready but a patient gardener it has and slow and sure forms its rows of metal and barbed vines. But what insects dwell here? They are so many. That trench their ground, that burrow from the sun. We must be rid of them. See how they make their nests? They will resist their going. They will protest. But mine is a patient gardener and he sculpts just so. And it is April. And while many another garden blooms after the lackadaisical dance of bees roses marigolds bonnets tulips and chamomile an appetizing vision to delight any eye mine is a pyre made ripe by flies.

Last edited by bluewpc; 11-13-2016 at 06:50 PM..
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Old 11-25-2016, 09:06 PM
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So smack me down ive done it Shakespeare shall rise from his grave and skewer me epigonic proditor that I am. This is the skeleton of a new poem ill be working on for I think some many months but ill post up each iteration as I go along to give some idea of process. If it works to my mind itll be at the end about a half page long


All her talks is a trial ta keep on memory. An theys more she said then can hold to. She quoted this:

An all the worlds a stage an goes by ages. An it dont. Pukin is the right start but it lasts throughout an some soldier early an never git no maid nor school or git their butchering in infancy. An somes old young sans sense but to disease. An next reigns injustice no life no hope no peace no rest an on to plow through the failing years winning nothing to death an a sally to hell.

Last edited by bluewpc; 11-25-2016 at 09:09 PM..
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Old 03-16-2017, 09:26 PM
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A man does not enter the world sans purpose. He is born into a form and he is the essence in the form. Thus it is not to be thought that a man is as a statue waiting to be sculpted, indeed that is a man but he is the last man. The true man is as a light embedded in the stone struggling to be free and should he succeed then in that hatching he will be as a shining guide to the petitors, themselves like constant stars, but to the last men, the statues in the stone, to him they will be blind for even when they have been sculpted they still reside in the stone.
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Old 03-25-2017, 09:25 PM
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And so at last the dreamer having failed slept and woke of his dream and because no voice thundered out the tattered lighted chords nor whispered windwise through the whited gloom cried he forsake me evermore and in one thrust of his curved horn gored one third the world of them that were born.
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