(What do you see?)
When I see birches bend to left and rightAcross the lines of straighter darker trees,I like to think some boy's been swinging them.But swinging doesn't bend them down to stayAs ice-storms do. Often you must have seen themLoaded with ice a sunny winter morningAfter a rain. They click upon themselvesAs the breeze rises, and turn many-coloredAs the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shellsShattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—Such heaps of broken glass to sweep awayYou'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,And they seem not to break; though once they are bowedSo low for long, they never right themselves:You may see their trunks arching in the woodsYears afterwards, trailing their leaves on the groundLike girls on hands and knees that throw their hairBefore them over their heads to dry in the sun.But I was going to say when Truth broke inWith all her matter-of-fact about the ice-stormI should prefer to have some boy bend themAs he went out and in to fetch the cows—Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,Whose only play was what he found himself,Summer or winter, and could play alone.One by one he subdued his father's treesBy riding them down over and over againUntil he took the stiffness out of them,And not one but hung limp, not one was leftFor him to conquer. He learned all there wasTo learn about not launching out too soonAnd so not carrying the tree awayClear to the ground. He always kept his poiseTo the top branches, climbing carefullyWith the same pains you use to fill a cupUp to the brim, and even above the brim.Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.So was I once myself a swinger of birches.And so I dream of going back to be.It's when I'm weary of considerations,And life is too much like a pathless woodWhere your face burns and tickles with the cobwebsBroken across it, and one eye is weepingFrom a twig's having lashed across it open.I'd like to get away from earth awhileAnd then come back to it and begin over.May no fate willfully misunderstand meAnd half grant what I wish and snatch me awayNot to return. Earth's the right place for love:I don't know where it's likely to go better.I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,And climb black branches up a snow-white trunkToward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,But dipped its top and set me down again.That would be good both going and coming back.One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
The group leader than had those in the group write about the most stunning thing we saw that morning, trying to avoid the passive voice. Here is what I came up with:
It shone from afar, as the tourists were glancing at from behind the mission. It was hard to see what areal appears from where I was standing. The hill glowedverygreen from what I could see.
The instructor insisted that the word "very" was unnecessary in this passage. At home yesterday, I then saw this:
How often do you writers out there find yourself using "very" and how often do you ever use any of the word suggested in the chart above? Some seem a little out of my league of thought. It would not occur to me to use some of these words without reading a blog post such as the one from which I obtained the graphic. I now see myself going over my manuscripts and trying to find how many times I used the word "very." Again, I'm not so sure how many of the suggested words I would dare use.
Glad you enjoyed your writing session. I love the 'make those words pop' list:)
ReplyDeleteAll of those words are familiar, and I use most of them. Sagacious? Not often. And some of them (depending on the context) could sound pretentious.
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