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Romple · 11-26-2005, 01:14 PM

Save constructive criticism for when you are within striking distance, please. Meanwhile, if you'd like to build up a greater reserve of it (I would very much like to hear it, by the way) this is another 'one'.

PS I'm think of submitting my essay on the word 'that' to York Notes. Hat. Splat. They'd probably make me editor.

PPS I am not happy with the clash of ch-c in the first line. Any suggestions would be gratefully received.

PPPS If you read Larkin you don't need to point out my plagarism.

'Ship To Shore'

Adrift, a wayward buoy which caught the wind;
The traceless blue will freeze this time. What for…?
Well it just has to; swept our shore,
The ashes where we made to sing,

Burnt sands now carve in dread a shape that casts
Memorial shades; from here, at least, the screams
Felt forceless clouds. A riot, it seems
We’re cursed to say we knew the last;

But, still unvoiced, we ceaseless cast our gaze
Within, without the breaks. In followed years
The heather’s gone; perhaps our prayers,
Their trip to Hell, had salt to say…

Well hell! Two salty pinpricks shade the coast,
Except that someone saves the drowning thing,
Like dogs shake off the rain, to bring
Us – our stored hours – from your ghost.

11-26-2005, 01:14 PM	#4 (permalink)
Romple Upright	How now Save constructive criticism for when you are within striking distance, please. Meanwhile, if you'd like to build up a greater reserve of it (I would very much like to hear it, by the way) this is another 'one'. PS I'm think of submitting my essay on the word 'that' to York Notes. Hat. Splat. They'd probably make me editor. PPS I am not happy with the clash of ch-c in the first line. Any suggestions would be gratefully received. PPPS If you read Larkin you don't need to point out my plagarism. 'Ship To Shore' Adrift, a wayward buoy which caught the wind; The traceless blue will freeze this time. What for…? Well it just has to; swept our shore, The ashes where we made to sing, Burnt sands now carve in dread a shape that casts Memorial shades; from here, at least, the screams Felt forceless clouds. A riot, it seems We’re cursed to say we knew the last; But, still unvoiced, we ceaseless cast our gaze Within, without the breaks. In followed years The heather’s gone; perhaps our prayers, Their trip to Hell, had salt to say… Well hell! Two salty pinpricks shade the coast, Except that someone saves the drowning thing, Like dogs shake off the rain, to bring Us – our stored hours – from your ghost.