a Poetic Prose

[yakkmeister]

Here is a poetic prose for you:

::The Rose and the garden and the Rose::

I see a dark, yet lovely flower. Petals of coal and yet soft to touch.
I hear the gutteral, tortured growl of a great hiddeous beast within the flower, it's crys billowing forth from the centre of the black rose, and the incessant beating, the thump thumping of a heart filled with darkness yet bathed in hope.

As I turn the roar twists into the deep probing moan of contra-bassoon, and the thumping yields to the wood-sweet sighs of cello. I look through a window at a world, hideous, yet beautiful in it's pristine deformity, a place of peace. I gaze through the glass seeing my own longings as a deep-rooted fig, not yet bearing of fruit. I begin to find my heart drawn to the garden, drawn by contra-bassoon and cello.

Touching the cold hard glass I am pushed into the realisation that the window is a mirror, I am in the garden. Yet the garden is still further mysterious, for within the cello and contra-bassoon floats the simple melody of voice, but not the voice of man, yet not woman, but still it speaks to me. Words of musical clarity, words I do not know, but yet I understand, and understanding is in itself a hard shell where the light of reason cannot play.
Timbre sweet and harmony joins the play of words within the garden, they speak to me. My thoughts are joined in music of the garden, on and on I speak, but not saying.

More and more of the garden speaks to me, but yet there is no sound, only the thump thumping of the blackened heart and the groaning of the rose.

::END::

http://forums.megatokyo.com/showflat.php?Cat=&Board=writing&Number=1182716&Forum=writing&Words=garden&Match=Entire%20Phrase&Searchpage=1&Limit=25&Old=1year&Main=1097004&Search=true#Post1182716
For original context.

 

[BenDare]

If this needs a label, it is "poetic prose" all right. But it seems to me more like a poem-in-the-making. It's your baby, of course, but I think it has potential for development into a first-class poem if only it will fit the form. Great imagery, though some of the meaning slips past my grasp. A little weird, but I like it.

 

[yakkmeister]

If this needs a label, it is "poetic prose" all right. But it seems to me more like a poem-in-the-making. It's your baby, of course, but I think it has potential for development into a first-class poem if only it will fit the form. Great imagery, though some of the meaning slips past my grasp. A little weird, but I like it.

It was always something of a prosey thing;
It's also about ... 2, maybe 3 years old now ...

Thanks for your comments.

 

[Rainbow.]

Its good to see people trying to write poems.
I try as well, i dont mind how they turn out as long a I LIKE them!

 

[yakkmeister]

Its good to see people trying to write poems.
I try as well, i dont mind how they turn out as long a I LIKE them!

You mentioned that you had comments on this 'poem' ?

Well? post them.

And please note that this is prose; not poetry and any critique should reflect that.
I honestly want to know what you have to say.

 

[yakkmeister]

Er... anyone going to comment on this?

Really, be as mean as you think you need to be ...

hello?

 

[katelyn]

Hello.

Okay, okay, I'll take the bait.

Warning: I'll be tougher than usual since I know you can handle it.

I see a dark, yet lovely flower.
Petals of coal and yet soft to touch.

The second line kind of threw me. There is a seeming surprise that the petals are soft, when I did not see a reason to assume any differently. Is it because of the reference to a hard substance (coal)? I took it as just a reference to the color, not to the texture.

I hear the gutteral, tortured growl of a great hiddeous beast within the flower, it's crys billowing forth from the centre of the black rose, and the incessant beating, the thump thumping of a heart filled with darkness yet bathed in hope.

This is a bit of a run-on sentence, with couple spelling/punctuation errors also. (hiddeous = hideous, crys = cries it's = its) I like the very first part of the sentence though...the description of the growl. ("gutteral" is a good, descriptive word)

As I turn the roar twists into the deep probing moan of contra-bassoon, and the thumping yields to the wood-sweet sighs of cello. I look through a window at a world, hideous, yet beautiful in it's pristine deformity, a place of peace. I gaze through the glass seeing my own longings as a deep-rooted fig, not yet bearing of fruit. I begin to find my heart drawn to the garden, drawn by contra-bassoon and cello.

I'm not a musician at all, so I'm sure I don't get the full effect of this passage. The second sentence is again a run-on. Rephrasing it in the following way would correct the errors:


I look through a window at a world: hideous, yet beautiful in its pristine deformity; a place of peace.

Touching the cold hard glass I am pushed into the realisation that the window is a mirror, I am in the garden.

Replace the comma with a semi-colon to get rid of the run-on.

Yet the garden is still further mysterious, for within the cello and contra-bassoon floats the simple melody of voice, but not the voice of man, yet not woman, but still it speaks to me.

Great concept within this text. The phrasing of the first section feels a bit awkward to me...I would change "still further" to something else. Perhaps "even more?"


I would change "yet not woman" to "yet neither of woman" for a better flow.

Words of musical clarity, words I do not know, but yet I understand, and understanding is in itself a hard shell where the light of reason cannot play.

I like what is being conveyed here. The only change I would make is replacing the word "yet" with another word that would convey the same meaning...like "somehow" or "still." The only reason I suggest this change is that by this point, the word "yet" seems overused in your piece.

Timbre sweet and harmony joins the play of words within the garden, they speak to me. My thoughts are joined in music of the garden, on and on I speak, but not saying.

I am a little confused at what you are trying to say in the second sentence. Do you perhaps mean: My thoughts join in with the music of the garden. On and on I speak, but not saying. When you say "joined in" I'm not sure what that means...whether you mean your thoughts intertwine or they are somehow audible within the music.

More and more of the garden speaks to me, but yet there is no sound, only the thump thumping of the blackened heart and the groaning of the rose.

Again, cut the "yet." Also, I would change the last comma to an ellipsis (...), but that may just be personal preference.



I enjoyed reading this. It plays with the emotions and takes the reader on a strange and interesting journey. Thanks for sharing it!

 

[yakkmeister]

Thankyou.

Runons were ever the bane of my existance.
As I mentioned the piece is quite old; I believe that I have grown somewhat since then. (or so one should hope)
However (age being no excuse) I will apply your suggestions and we'll see how it turns out.

As ever my spelling is banal.

Here is a revised version;

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

::The Rose and the garden and the Rose::

I see a dark, lovely flower. Petals of hard coal; yet soft to touch.
I hear the gutteral, tortured growl of a great hideous beast within the flower, its cries billowing forth from the centre of the black rose; an incessant beating. The thump thumping of a heart filled with darkness yet bathed in hope.

As I turn the roar twists into the deep probing moan of contra-bassoon, and the thumping yields to the wood-sweet sighs of cello. I look through a window at a world: hideous, yet beautiful in its pristine deformity; a place of peace. I gaze through the glass. Seeing my own longings as a deep-rooted fig; not as yet bearing fruit. I find my heart drawn to the garden, drawn by contra-bassoon and cello.

Touching the cold hard glass I am pushed into the realisation that the window is a mirror; I am in the garden. The garden is a mystery; within the cello and contra-bassoon floats the simple melody of voice, but not the voice of man, yet neither of woman, but still it speaks to me. Words of musical clarity, words I do not know, but I understand them, and understanding is in itself a hard shell where the light of reason cannot play.
Timbre sweet and harmony joins the play of words within the garden, they speak to me. My thoughts join with the music of the garden, on and on I speak, but not saying.

More and more of the garden speaks to me, but still there is no sound... Only the thump thumping of the blackened heart and the groaning of the rose.

::END::

 

[katelyn]

As I said, I enjoyed reading this piece. Maybe you'll share something more current with us sometime. And maybe I'll get some of my writing up here someday.