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4:54 AM
April 23, 2010


Jahungira Kandapaera

Member

posts 7

1

Post edited 4:55 AM - April 23, 2010 by Jahungira Kandapaera


The Greatest Hopes

 

Lying in bed paralysed

Pains all over the body

You will live in pains for good

Inflexible to resist danger

No ripple

 

You have positive hopes

Dream for better

You will live in dreams

You are dead while alive

No hope from others

 

So hungry and malnourished

There lay a table

Too far, so close

So weak!

You have to be legerdemain

But how if I am half dead

 

They say there is a progress

Without a meaning

Improvement without signs

You messed up big times

You screwed up a lifetime saviour

 

I will die hoping for better

It’s hard to believe that my own shyness

Its killing me

 

By: Jahungira Kandapaera

7:21 AM
May 2, 2010


Jules

Member

posts 91

2

I think you use a lot of good, active imagery—I believe this may be your strong point. I can really picture the predicament.


However, the wording lacks luster. It's a little too simple in word structure; that is, for me it reads a little more like a story. This is one of the primary reasons many poets put some concentrated focus on meter. The beat needs to be steady even if the words don't rhyme.


Also, the lines “Lying in bed paralysed. . . Pains all over the body” makes it hard to believe right off in the first part due to the contradiction - paralyzed and having pain.


I like the section but could think of some more artistic ways to put it:

 

“So hungry and malnourished

There lay a table

Too far, so close

So weak!

You have to be legerdemain

But how if I am half dead”

 

It's not bad but you could make it great.

 

Here is a song by Neil Peart about growing old. I think you should see what I'm getting at. This song really gets into the mind of an aged person.

 

Losing

The dancer slows her frantic pace
In pain and desperation
Her aching limbs and downcast face
Aglow with perspiration

Stiff as wire, her lungs on fire
With just the briefest pause
The flooding through her memory
The echoes of old applause

She limps across the floor
And closes her bedroom door…

The writer stare with glassy eyes
Defies the empty page
His beard is white, his face is lined

And streaked with tears of rage

Thirty years ago, how the words would flow
With passion and precision
But now his mind is dark and dulled
By sickness and indecision

And he stares out the kitchen door
Where the sun will rise no more…

Some are born to move the world
To live their fantasies
But most of us just dream about
The things we'd like to be
Sadder still to watch it die
Than never to have known it
For you, the blind who once could see
The bell tolls for thee…

 

—Rush

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