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Post by Ivan Carswell on Dec 27, 2007 16:57:47 GMT -5
Seldom had a vacant chair declared so bleak a sight as yours revealed that sombre morn. Now rarely does a day begin with eyes aware, eyes that fly in emptiness, too chary lest they touch and rest upon your empty chair.
‘Tis too sad a meeting; tears spring from wounded depths before the mind insists – composed belief weans aching eyes from graven grief. The Wake, they said, put you to a proper rest but left your chair and we who stayed quite unprepared for this. © 26 December 2007, I. D. Carswell
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Post by Bobby Slais on Dec 29, 2007 9:02:01 GMT -5
Beautiful sounds and flow Ivan, so wel written this is. Maybe the first two or three lines are the weakest part and might do for a bit of revision, this bit... "echoed cruel and clear as did upon that sombre morning" and the word "spectre" in the first line kind of throws me... otherwise, very strong and readable. Enjoyed my friend!
Smiles! Bobby
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Post by Ivan Carswell on Dec 30, 2007 20:10:12 GMT -5
Bobby, thanks for the thoughts. The poem initially came from a sombre, soldier's event - which, while common enough, was never easy to rationalise.
It later grew to embrace the passing of much loved family members. In this (just now revised) iteration it is properly generic, less reflective of the morbid fascination/fear it grew out of.
Back then an empty chair was a real spectre we had to deal with - while living in the hope that ours wouldn't be the next one. Regards, Ivan
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Post by scriptamanent on Jan 11, 2008 1:49:05 GMT -5
yep, beautiful sounds and flow, and loved the second stanza. cheers
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