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badger11

Nook

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badger11

revision6

 

Each weekend we trek our cliff path and peg
the fret and noise to dry in sea breeze,
and if a scatter of tiny bones are found,
we know that endings are edges only a foot away.
And when stumbling on a nook in salt-cracked rock,
we slide our limbs into the curves, share a flask of tea,
feast on ginger cake until, like soles buried in sand,
we're netted, dragged and tugged from a vermilion tide
of sky back to the rack of terraced houses.

Each weekend we flee the chatter of screens,
the hum of central heating, the kids that kick a ball
against next door's graffiti wall. We drive beyond
our valley that's blistered with bracken,
pockmarked with burnt out cars, and past
the bruised lungs of an open cast mine. All
are left behind. In clockwork motion we trek and peg
the line again and again away from the rack of houses.

===========================================
revision5

Each weekend we trek
our cliff path and peg
fret and noise to dry
in sea breeze, and if
a scatter of tiny bones
are found, we know
that endings are edges
only a foot away.
And when stumbling on
a nook in salt-cracked
rock, we slide our limbs
into the curves, share a flask
of tea, feast on ginger cake.
Until, like soles buried
in sand we're netted,
dragged and tugged
from a vermilion tide
of sky back to the rack
of terraced houses.

Each weekend we flee
the chatter of screens,
the hum of central heating,
the kids that kick a ball
against next door's graffiti
wall. We drive beyond
our valley that's blistered
with bracken, pockmarked
with burnt out cars, and past
the bruised lungs
of an open cast mine. All
are left behind. In clockwork
motion we trek and peg
the line again and again
back to the rack of houses.

 

 

====================================================================================

 

revision4

 

Each weekend we trek
our cliff path and peg
fretful noise to dry
in sea breeze, and if
a scatter of tiny bones
are found, we know
that endings are edges
away. And when stumbling
on a nook in the salt
-cracked rock, we then
slide our limbs into
the curves, share a flask
of tea, feast on ginger
cake. Until, like soles
buried in sand we're netted,
dragged and tugged
from a vermilion tide
of sky back to the rack
of terraced houses.

Each weekend we flee
the heart throb electrics
of the fridge, the hum
of central heating, the kids
of eighteen that kick a ball
against next door's graffiti
wall. We drive beyond
our valley that's blistered
with bracken, pockmarked
with burnt out cars, and past
the bruised lungs
of an open cast mine. All
are left behind. In clockwork
motion we trek and peg
the line again and again
back to the rack of houses.

 

 

 

revision3

 

Each weekend we trek our cliff path and peg
townie noise to dry in sea breeze, and if a scatter
of tiny bones are found, we know that endings
are edges away. And when stumbling on a nook
in the salt-cracked rock, we then slide our limbs
into the curves, share a flask of tea, feast on ginger
cake I've baked. Until, like soles buried in sand
we're netted, dragged and tugged from a tide
of vermilion sky back to the rack of terraced houses.

Each weekend we flee the heart throb electrics
of the fridge, the hum of central heating, the kids
of eighteen that kick a ball against next door's
graffiti wall. We drive beyond our valley now
blistered red with bracken, pockmarked on
occasion with burnt out cars, and past the bruised
lungs of an open cast mine. All we leave behind
in clockwork motion we trek and peg the line
again and again and back to the rack of houses.

 

=================================================================

 

revision2

 

Each weekend we trek our cliff path and peg
the fret to dry in sea breeze, and if a scatter
of tiny bones are found, we know that endings
are edges away. And when stumbling on a nook
in the salt-cracked rock, we then slide our limbs
into the curves, share a flask of tea, feast on ginger
cake I like to bake. Until, as soles buried in sand
we're netted, dragged and tugged from a tide
of vermilion sky back to the rack of our terraced house.

 

=================================================================

 

revision

 

Each weekend we flee the heart throb
of the fridge, the hum of central heating, the kids
of eighteen that kick a ball against next door's
graffiti wall. We drive beyond our valley
now blistered red with bracken, pockmarked
from burnt out cars, and past the bruised lungs
of an open cast mine. All we leave behind.

Each weekend we trek our cliff path and peg
the fret to dry in sea breeze, and if a scatter
of tiny bones are found, we know that endings
are edges away. And when stumbling on a nook
in the salt-cracked rock, we then slide our limbs
into the curves, share a flask of tea, feast on ginger
cake I like to bake. Until, as soles buried in sand
we're netted, dragged and tugged from a tide
of vermilion sky back to the rack of terraced houses.

=============================================================

 

 

original

 

Each weekend we flee the heart throb
of fridge, the hum of central heating, the kids
of eighteen that kick a ball against our graffiti wall.
We drive beyond these hills blistered red
with bracken, pockmarked from burnt out cars, past
the bruised lungs of an open cast mine.
Each weekend we hike a cliff path and peg the fret
of noise, let townie hassle dry in sea breeze and when
we find a scatter of tiny bones, know that endings
are never far away. And when stumbling on a nook
in the salt-cracked rock, we then slide our limbs into the curves,
and share a flask of tea, feast on the ginger cake you like
to bake. Until, as soles buried in sand are taken, we're netted
dragged and tugged from a tide of vermilion sky
back to the house, the terrace of dust-breath health.

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dcmarti1

I kinda, sorta like the original.

 

Just sayin.

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badger11

Thanks ok Marti.

 

all the best

 

badge

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Tinker

Hi Badge, I may be totally off base here but I think I see what you are trying to do in the revisions. The shorter lines create a kind of staccato rhythm imitating the flash of images but it doesn't work for me. I agree with Marti, the original reads easier and simply sounds better. Your imagery as always is spot on but gets chopped up by the shorter lines. I think that is what bothers me most about the revisions, the chopped lines disrupt the images.

 

I'm curious, since you share the progress by posting the revisions, I would like to know the thought process behind them. Normally I would never ask this but I've observed you pushing the envelope many times, experimenting with delivery. I am intrigued.

 

~Tink


~~ © ~~ Poems by Judi Van Gorder ~~

For permission to use this work you can write to Tinker1111@icloud.com

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Benjamin

I also like the original though I think the piece would benefit from a syllabic structure. Stanza lines of 12/7/10/8 come to mind which, with some adjustments could add an urgency and settled form to the piece. Perhaps something like: " Weekend: our time to flee the throbbing heart of fridge/ and hum of central heating./ Away from late-teen kids who kick their ball/ at our graffiti fashioned wall."

It's just the way I look at things overall and my sincere suggestion is just one of numerous syllabic structures. Regards. Geoff.

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badger11

Thanks for your thoughts Geoff and Tink. I read short lines fluidly/vertically and it is a format that magazines often prefer. Longer lines ask me for stress or syllabic patterns, which I don't want. Generally the edit was to emphasize repetition and to unravel knotty areas that readers were confused by.

 

all the best

 

badge

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Benjamin

Agree with Tink: revision 6 hits the spot, is lucid and feels just right. Diligence certainly has its rewards. Well done!

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badger11

That's very kind of you both to return and comment. Very much appreciated.

 

all the best

 

badge

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