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 Post subject: Re: Poetic Prose
PostPosted: Fri Jun 29, 2012 11:24 am 
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Wow - how did you get your reply into my post???

Ray, see below (Pete)

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 Post subject: Re: Poetic Prose
PostPosted: Fri Jun 29, 2012 11:34 am 
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Ray, Marion moderates the poetry forum, and so can edit other people's posts.

All us mods can, so if you see somebody saying anything that's incredibly stupid or offensive, just assume they pissed off a mod :D

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 Post subject: Re: Poetic Prose
PostPosted: Fri Jun 29, 2012 12:04 pm 
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I don't know what I did there, Ray. It was an accident!


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 Post subject: Re: Poetic Prose
PostPosted: Fri Jun 29, 2012 12:28 pm 
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Ahh, it makes sense now, thanks Pete.

A paranoid man might check all his previous posts now. But not me, oh no...

Just remember the words of Uncle Ben (Spiderman's uncle, not the sauce guy). :)

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 Post subject: Re: Poetic Prose
PostPosted: Fri Jun 29, 2012 12:40 pm 
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I seem to recall Spider-man's uncle Ben got killed in the very first issue of the comic, so yeah, of course I'm going to pay attention to anything he said :twisted:

On a serious note, Marion probably clicked the edit button when she meant to click quote, and didn't realise.

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 Post subject: Re: Poetic Prose
PostPosted: Fri Jun 29, 2012 1:17 pm 
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I'm getting scared to touch ANYTHING!


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 Post subject: Re: Poetic Prose
PostPosted: Fri Jun 29, 2012 1:42 pm 
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Have moved Spidey to the poetry forum, Ray
Oh, the power I never knew I had!

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 Post subject: Re: Poetic Prose
PostPosted: Sun Sep 21, 2014 4:03 pm 
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Extract from Hilary Mantel’s ‘The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher’ from the short story collection of the same name.

Who has not seen the door in the wall? It is ther invalid child’s consolation, the prisoner’s last hope. It is the easy exit for the dying man, who perishes not in the death-grip of a rattling gasp, but passes on a sigh, like a falling feather. It is a special door that and obeys no laws that govern wood or iron. No locksmith can defeat it,, no bailiff kick it in; patrolling policemen pass it, because it is visible only to the eye of faith. Once through it, you return as angels and air, as sparks and flame. That the assassin was a flicker in its frame, you know. Beyond the fire door he melts, and this is how you’ve never seen him on the news. This is how you don’t know his name, his face. This is how, to your certain knowledge, Mrs. Thatcher went on living till she died. But note the door: note the wall: note the power of the door in the wall that you never saw was there. And note the cold wind that blows through t when you open it a crack. History could always have been otherwise. For there is the time, the place, the black opportunity: the day, the hour, the slant of the light, the ice cream van chiming from a different road near the bypass.


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 Post subject: Re: Poetic Prose
PostPosted: Thu Jul 09, 2015 10:54 pm 
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From Cleopatra's Sister by Penelope Lively: 'A narrative is a sequence of present moments, but the present does not exist, or exists only as a ripple that runs right through the story, a procession of contingent events leading tidily from birth to death. A lifetime is so conveniently structured: it begins and it endsIt can be seen as a whole, dismantled and analysed, and can be diagnosed as an uneasy balance between the operation of contingency and decision, with the subject tottering between the two from the cradle to the grave. Which is the stuff of history itself, a conjunction so capricious that it hardly bears contemplation by those unfortunate enough to get mixed up in the process.'


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 Post subject: Re: Poetic Prose
PostPosted: Fri Sep 25, 2015 6:24 pm 
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How could the wind be so strong, so far inland, that cyclists coming into town in the late afternoon looked more like sailors in peril? This was on the way into Cambridge, up Mill Road past the cemetery and the workhouse. On the open ground to the left the willow trees had been blown, driven and cracked until their branches gave way and lay about the drenched grass, jerking convulsively and trailing cataracts of twigs. The cows had gone mad, tossing up the silvery weeping leaves which were suddenly, quite contrary to all their experience, everywhere within reach. Their horns were festooned with willow boughs. Not being able to see properly, they tripped and fell. Two or three of them were wallowing on their backs, idiotically, exhibiting vast pale bellies intended by nature to be always hidden. They were still munching. A scene of disorder, tree tops on the earth, legs in the air, in a university city devoted to logic and reason.

The Gate of Angels
Penelope Fitzgerald.


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