arkanegarant
New member
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2012
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Byelorussian
- Home Country
- Belgium
- Current Location
- Canada
In Memory of Mary Newton Bruder
I hear participles weeping
as they dangle over her grave
wet as the soggy sentences
of students who pour over textbooks.
I see the company stationary
forced to a standstill.
Who can it turn to,
from whence will it seek advise?
Will it be able to continue on?
Neat little subjects and objects
stand two abreast
like an honor guard in the cemetary,
loyal as slaves sent to follow
their master out of the world.
The affect would amuse her
but at this point in time
I can no longer illicit
her secret smile,
the baptism of her soft blue pencil.
Poem by Margaret Menamin
There are no less than 8 issues with this poem.
Here is my variant:
I hear participles are weeping
as they dangle over her grave
wet as the soggy sentences
of students who pour over textbooks.
I see the company stationary
forced to a stand still.
Who can it turn to,
from whence will it seek advise?
Will it be able to continue on?
Neat little subjects and objects
stand two abreast
like a honor guard in the cemetery,
loyal as slaves who have been sent to follow
their master out of this world.
The effect would amuse her
but now
I can no longer illicit
her secret smile,
baptism of her blue pencil.
What did I miss?
Thanks a lot!!!
I hear participles weeping
as they dangle over her grave
wet as the soggy sentences
of students who pour over textbooks.
I see the company stationary
forced to a standstill.
Who can it turn to,
from whence will it seek advise?
Will it be able to continue on?
Neat little subjects and objects
stand two abreast
like an honor guard in the cemetary,
loyal as slaves sent to follow
their master out of the world.
The affect would amuse her
but at this point in time
I can no longer illicit
her secret smile,
the baptism of her soft blue pencil.
Poem by Margaret Menamin
There are no less than 8 issues with this poem.
Here is my variant:
I hear participles are weeping
as they dangle over her grave
wet as the soggy sentences
of students who pour over textbooks.
I see the company stationary
forced to a stand still.
Who can it turn to,
from whence will it seek advise?
Will it be able to continue on?
Neat little subjects and objects
stand two abreast
like a honor guard in the cemetery,
loyal as slaves who have been sent to follow
their master out of this world.
The effect would amuse her
but now
I can no longer illicit
her secret smile,
baptism of her blue pencil.
What did I miss?
Thanks a lot!!!
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