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Monday, December 3, 2007
Writing and Visual Imagination: Paired Dialogue Poems
Post your paired dialogue poems here by Friday, December 7.
4 comments:
Anonymous
said...
I remember learning about Absinthe Drinker last year! And I remember the other two (the one where the guy only has one leg creeps me out) but I can't remember the name of the other two paintings. And that Richard Estes painting is amazing; I looked up some of his other paintings, and they're all really awesome! :)
4 comments:
I remember learning about Absinthe Drinker last year! And I remember the other two (the one where the guy only has one leg creeps me out) but I can't remember the name of the other two paintings. And that Richard Estes painting is amazing; I looked up some of his other paintings, and they're all really awesome! :)
I sit and wait, if only for death.
The darkness seeps into my eternal soul
Unfathomable, the width and breadth,
of the black contagion's toll.
My blood runs cold
as I recall our life
of opulence, of silver and gold,
cut short by disease and strife.
As the end inches ever closer,
smoke billows from the highest peak.
Withered since the day they dosed her.
My wife forever melancholy and bleak.
They came, they killed, they spread pestilence
across our paradise of wealth and class.
Our life of decadent eminince
shattered like brittle glass.
Drinking for the Past
Is this the end?
Is this the end?
For I cannot bear the future.
Something needs to bend.
That look of gloom she gave
is like a heavy burden
that I don't care to save.
He sees my melancholy look,
the one I always seem to give.
He reads me like a reference book,
my emotions flow into his sieve.
Her once-lucid smile,
used to hold my heart.
My lover from the Emerald Isle,
her deep emotions, torn apart.
Should I have ever come from home
to dark and dreary England?
The verdant fields, the darkened loam,
given up for such a worthless brigand!
I miss the days of our young love,
whence we embraced in eternal passion.
Our relations now, are free of
love, the old memories burnt and ashen.
The absinthe rolls straight down my throat,
burning out the good recollections.
In my stomach, the acid floats
prohibiting my sad reflections.
Petty Fights
My dearest Judith, I’m dying to speak with you
O contrare, Edwardo; I thought you were dead
A head in a basket, once filled with bread
You cunning cat, you sly snake, slit my throat
Yet cowardice at heart, may I note
Cowardice, I, just a stain on, my blouse
Think yourself lionhearted, just a meek mouse
Oh, I’ll miss these petty fights, but do not fret me queen
Where you look there I’ll be,
Turn away I am there,
You will never rid of me…
O contrare
I’m already rid of thee
Lauren Southworth
Brian Finney
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