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    corvus
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

Poems - 1. November in the Square

The color was of fogged windows and steel,
Or a mercury lake, across which swam
Ripples of a silent V, gliding southward
And skyward like fluttering playbills
Expunged from a theatre archway, advertising to the snow
A matinee of The Dying Swan this Wednesday at noon, a time
For girls with cigarettes to wait at the Café Rusticana,
The small orange lights of their mouths the closest thing
To stars beneath such a sky. And yet this host
Recognizes nothing that is there: the color
That din of water
Cut into streaks by wings and a knobbed head
Reckless with wild, unthinking joy.

Copyright © 2010 corvus; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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Can you believe I lost my comments lol, here I will try again.

 

 

November in the Square suggests and implies a familiarity with a time and place. The opening lines speak of the weather. Common enough. It is winter and there is a theatre on this square. There is wind maybe and there is something passing this way going south. This all leads to and alludes to a performance of the The Dying Swan. (Google to remember the ballet and the poem.) Time again. Wednesday at lunch time. The mundane. A time for girls to smoke at the Cafe Rusticana (Another google for the opera and short story?) No one notices the beauty that passes this way.

 

Is this a commentary? About the love of art? About a life changed by art? About a world that lets beauty pass for a sad moment of addiction?

 

Did you go to the ballet Corvus? Did you die in joy for a life of beauty? Did you reawake in the world?

 

These is a different review, maybe the lost first one was better, who knows

 

I like the poem. And I will give it a rep when I have one available promise.

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