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Literature Text
A very still static
whispers through the snowfall:
only minutes left, only moments to go.
A pencil quietly scratches a sonata.
See our puppets dance
in our cardboard theater.
On October the seventh, 1926,
a hush fell over the crowd,
and a little boy rustled his mother's skirt -
so cold, Momma, so cold -
and an old man in his bed
woke with a murmur -
God is dead.
The horses are thunder
in our cardboard theater.
A flock of birds crackles like wildfire,
like fresh paper -
like lightning along power lines.
Momma, listen -
the gods are speaking.
Our puppets dance a dance
of storms and pounding chaos.
The final race begins
with no sound but a heartbeat -
echo of stone on mountain stone,
smallest splash on the surface of the ocean.
Our little cutout people
run themselves ragged with screeching.
The din only ends
when we topple with exhaustion.
We become silent alabaster beings.
Momma, I am frozen -
hear me crackle.
Breathe in the rustle
of snowflake on snowflake.
whispers through the snowfall:
only minutes left, only moments to go.
A pencil quietly scratches a sonata.
See our puppets dance
in our cardboard theater.
On October the seventh, 1926,
a hush fell over the crowd,
and a little boy rustled his mother's skirt -
so cold, Momma, so cold -
and an old man in his bed
woke with a murmur -
God is dead.
The horses are thunder
in our cardboard theater.
A flock of birds crackles like wildfire,
like fresh paper -
like lightning along power lines.
Momma, listen -
the gods are speaking.
Our puppets dance a dance
of storms and pounding chaos.
The final race begins
with no sound but a heartbeat -
echo of stone on mountain stone,
smallest splash on the surface of the ocean.
Our little cutout people
run themselves ragged with screeching.
The din only ends
when we topple with exhaustion.
We become silent alabaster beings.
Momma, I am frozen -
hear me crackle.
Breathe in the rustle
of snowflake on snowflake.
ALRIGHT so: day 3 of NaPoWriMo
based off of Prompt 4 from #transliterations
really kinda fun but HARD...and idk what to make of the final product. the word that comes to mind for me is WEIRD
critique:
1. what do you think of my use of punctuation? in particular, I use it repeatedly to attempt to produce a voice for the little boy. Is this clear?
2. the poem was supposed to be centered entirely around sound. are there places where I don't that weaken the poem? are there any places where you feel like i need to take more advantage of other senses?
3. as always, what do you think of the imagery, and does it flow well enough?
4. further thoughts!
PS. I definitely had the Elton John song 'Levon' stuck in my head while writing this, haha!
#theWrittenRevolution critique: [link]
based off of Prompt 4 from #transliterations
really kinda fun but HARD...and idk what to make of the final product. the word that comes to mind for me is WEIRD
critique:
1. what do you think of my use of punctuation? in particular, I use it repeatedly to attempt to produce a voice for the little boy. Is this clear?
2. the poem was supposed to be centered entirely around sound. are there places where I don't that weaken the poem? are there any places where you feel like i need to take more advantage of other senses?
3. as always, what do you think of the imagery, and does it flow well enough?
4. further thoughts!
PS. I definitely had the Elton John song 'Levon' stuck in my head while writing this, haha!
#theWrittenRevolution critique: [link]
Comments13
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This is a lovely interpretation of the prompt. While focusing in on the sounds, and describing them beautifully (I especially love the fifth stanza, about the birds) you've managed to preserve a good measure of the terror and chill of the prompt video.
It's really good work.
It's really good work.