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badger11

Passing Through

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badger11

revision3

Crab apples provided the ammunition:
your sniper aim, those bruises
- darting, chasing, finding our joy.

After, once we washed our hands, Gran
made us sit at the table.
She treated us to Welsh cakes heaped
on a cracked plate.

Our faces flushed russet red with warfare.
The cakes tasted the best -
almost burnt. The bakestone glistened.

Keys turn beneath these leaves.
I hear a flight of wings, an emptying of nests.
You in that uniform.
Me clapping as loud as I could.

 

 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

revision2

 

The crab apple trees provided the ammunition:
those bruises of fun -
darting, chasing, finding a breathless joy.

After, once we washed our hands, Gran
made us sit at the table.
She treated us to Welsh cakes heaped
on a cracked plate.

Our faces flushed russet red with adventure.
The cakes tasted the best -
almost burnt. The bakestone glistened.

Keys turn beneath these leaves. I hear
a flight of wings, an emptying of nests.
You in that uniform.
Me clapping as loud as I could.

 

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

revision

The crab apple trees provide the ammunition:
those bruises of fun -
darting, chasing, finding a breathless joy.

After, once we washed our hands, Gran
made us sit at the table.
The freshly made Welsh cakes still warm
on a cracked plate.

Our faces glowed russet red with adventure.
The cakes tasted the best.
Almost burnt. The bakestone glistened.

Keys turn beneath these leaves. I hear
a flight of wings, an emptying
of nests, a breeze of familiar voices.

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

original

The crab apple trees provide the ammunition:
those bruises of fun -
darting, chasing, finding a breathless joy.

After, once we washed our hands, Gran
made us sit at the table.
The freshly made Welsh cakes still warm
on a cracked plate.

Our faces glowed russet red with adventure.
The cakes tasted the best.
Almost burnt. The bakestone glistened.

Keys turn beneath these leaves. I hear
a flight of wings. You in that uniform.
Me clapping as loud as I could.

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Tinker

Oh Badge I loved this.   We didn't have crab apples, we used dirt clods.  There was a very large empty lot on our block where we played.  We'd grab a hand full of the long grass in the field and pull it up and the end would be weighted with clods of dirt. The neighborhood kids would create trenches and sneak through the tall grass and lob those bombs back and forth at one another.  My Mom couldn't understand how we got so dirty.  I have to read this to my brother, he'll remember.  The first 3 stanzas are nostalgic, joyful.

I can almost smell the warm Welsh cakes or my version of them. My Mom made a Prune cake that she would cut in squares with just a little powdered sugar on top that came to mind immediately. The only cake she served warm.  Well I could say, it got eaten up before it got cold.  I still have the recipe.  Yum.

I thought the last stanza well written with clear imagery but I couldn't connect the images with the rest of poem.  I'm guessing the "we" was you and a brother.  The more I try to connect the dots I'm led down a tragic path.  The older brother you played with under the tree now going off to war, your hero and it ends abruptly there.  I'm hoping not with a loss.  The poem suggests nothing but joy but the end drops off and scares me. 

Hoping I'm wrong.  But thanks for the step back.  Maybe I'll pull out my Mom's old recipe.  But that does mean baking from scratch.  Who does that anymore?

~~Tink

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badger11
Quote

I thought the last stanza well written with clear imagery but I couldn't connect the images with the rest of poem.  I'm guessing the "we" was you and a brother.  The more I try to connect the dots I'm led down a tragic path.  The older brother you played with under the tree now going off to war, your hero and it ends abruptly there.  I'm hoping not with a loss.  The poem suggests nothing but joy but the end drops off and scares me. 

You were correct in your interpretation Tink and right in feeling the contrast was too bleak an outcome. There are enough shadows in the world without creating more!

I have made Welsh cakes - closely supervised - the fun part is using the bakestone.

 

Quote

here was a very large empty lot on our block where we played.  We'd grab a hand full of the long grass in the field and pull it up and the end would be weighted with clods of dirt. The neighborhood kids would create trenches and sneak through the tall grass and lob those bombs back and forth at one another.  My Mom couldn't understand how we got so dirty.

:laugh:

 

all the best

badge

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tonyv

A nostalgic look at a more innocent time. I appreciate the discussion; I had not drawn the same conclusion about the uniform, though I can see it now. Even so, I do not envision the worst possible outcome, but taken within that context, the contrast of such worst-case scenario with the innocence is heightened by the clapping. The "Twilights"-esque revised last stanza depersonalizes the poem a bit but makes it more universal. As I said in a topic recently, the author will remember exactly what the poem means to him. Nice work.

Tony

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badger11

Thanks Tony. I've returned to the original, though I have tried to steer away from worst-case scenario.

best

Phil

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