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Listening at the Statue to the Fallen

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Do you remember how the bronze bouquet
Would sway in the wind on Angel Hill?
Those blue-green leaves against the grey
Skies are held aloft to this day still -
Though never still - the city’s thrum
Plays a chord on them for its own ear
Enticing those alive to come
Embrace the dead remembered here.

And here our grass-stained jeans would kneel,
Our bark-rough hands would press the stone.
Braving the wind we would hear the words
Sung aloud for all who ever feel
Or ever felt - you are not alone
We wished or thought we heard.

Radiant ►

Comments

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Siren

Sat 17th Jan 2009 11:14

Cheers, Steve. The poem is about Angel Hill in Boggart Hole Clough in North Manchester, which is right near where I grew up. The Angel is a bronze statue on a big stone plinth erected in remembrance of the first world war fatalities. I had to try and get all this into a short sonnet and I was advised on this one by Michael Symmons Roberts.

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garside

Fri 16th Jan 2009 18:12

our bark-rough hands would press the stone

really like the rhythm of this line and the words allow an image that is almost tangible - as i read it, it is as if i can feel the coolness of the surface of the stone

steve

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Siren

Fri 16th Jan 2009 16:33

Thanks Chris, much appreciated. One of my more heartfelt pieces, definitely. I'd never thought about l.9 in terms of a personification of clothing. Thanks for pointing that out.

Si

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Chris Dawson

Thu 15th Jan 2009 23:51

Dare I say? - I was very moved by this, excellent work. I do have one tiny, really small criticism though - nothing emotional - just something that stood out for me .... jeans don't kneel, not unless they're really overdue for a wash anyway.
Cx

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