This is impossibly enchanting, so like the setting of a bizarre dream -- not just in color and light, but in subject. Through the illusion of the glass, the curves and sharp edges of this building, especially in the top right corner, have become so tessellated and vaguely Escher-like that my eyes can't quite make sense of it all.
A thousand poets could describe a thunderstorm and each write something thoroughly unique, and uniquely beautiful. I never tire of coming upon a writer's passage depicting a storm in great detail, this one included. That violent weather inspires the word "peaceful" for you brings me a smile; I often feel the same.
Reading those first lines, of that metaphorical digging of a hole to step backward in time, felt like the most plaintive moan: what a digging (you could say) image to begin a poem with. I think we all feel this way about the more carefree days of our youth sometimes, and more often than we'd like to admit. Those deep longings don't exactly leave us as we age, but they do grow softer as our memories soften. The one good thing about nostalgia (if nothing else, anyway) is that it gives us poetry like this.
Eek! I let myself get a little caught up in the headiness and fervor of this piece, I'm also trembling with excitement for summer now. I could almost hear those birds, smell those lilacs! That steady old English-teacher lesson of show, don't tell has clearly rubbed off on your writing in the best way, don't lose that!
Thank you! :)
Thank you so much. I was a little worried about posting this because of the ways periods are seen so I really appreciate your response.
This is a truly moving and emotional piece. Thank you for blessing my mind with this beautiful work
Simon vs the Homosapiens Agenda --- Becky Albertalli
Wee Free Men --- Terry Pratchett
The Fault in Our Stars --- John Green
Far From the Tree --- Robin Benway
Thanks!
I love the perspective you took this with!
This is impossibly enchanting, so like the setting of a bizarre dream -- not just in color and light, but in subject. Through the illusion of the glass, the curves and sharp edges of this building, especially in the top right corner, have become so tessellated and vaguely Escher-like that my eyes can't quite make sense of it all.
A thousand poets could describe a thunderstorm and each write something thoroughly unique, and uniquely beautiful. I never tire of coming upon a writer's passage depicting a storm in great detail, this one included. That violent weather inspires the word "peaceful" for you brings me a smile; I often feel the same.
Reading those first lines, of that metaphorical digging of a hole to step backward in time, felt like the most plaintive moan: what a digging (you could say) image to begin a poem with. I think we all feel this way about the more carefree days of our youth sometimes, and more often than we'd like to admit. Those deep longings don't exactly leave us as we age, but they do grow softer as our memories soften. The one good thing about nostalgia (if nothing else, anyway) is that it gives us poetry like this.
Eek! I let myself get a little caught up in the headiness and fervor of this piece, I'm also trembling with excitement for summer now. I could almost hear those birds, smell those lilacs! That steady old English-teacher lesson of show, don't tell has clearly rubbed off on your writing in the best way, don't lose that!