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Buckskin and Bear Fat (Poetic Prose)

Had I listened as the chickadee sang of winter's coming, I would have let my line stay cast a bit longer on those lazy summer days, or netted a few more salmon in the cold spring waters. But I was mustered in the deck of love's cards, feeling my own drizzle within lake shimmer and skies as blue as Egyptian Lapis.

Oh she was a beauty, all tanned and tall, red and black wool shirt, those short denim shorts and hiking boots that made her hips lift and fall just a bit more than required. I often wonder if she knew – probably. She was a smart cat.

I chuckle when I recall, but as it were, she could not stay as her time was short and that other world called her back.

Here, one becomes a true king over his domain, and there is no difference between 1810 and 2010 save the soft hum of a trolling motor near the river mouth where motors are still allowed.

Smoke curls from my log cabin chimney scenting the air with fresh pine and dry poplar, and my stew pot is filled with potatoes and carrots shaded and cooled in a homemade root cellar. My small bits of jerky added for flavor would be enough for now. I could add more meat and fish in the later months when the snows set in and hunting would be more difficult.

I don't find I will be leaving here too soon as there is nothing much left for me out there. A few letters from my estranged brother perhaps, and tax bills. No, I'd just as soon feel this place a bit longer, trapped in a time warp with nothing but buckskin and bear fat to chew when Orion shines in a cold dark sky and all I have are my wits, an oil lamp and my memories.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 

Comments

A new string to the bow here Pam, this is great. I like the sense of it and the descriptions set to put you in that environment. I will look forward to seeing how this evolves. A book perhaps?

Chez
"The perfect woman perpetrates literature as she does a small sin: as an experiment, in passing, to see if anybody notices it - and to makes sure that somebody does." - Nietzsche

Thank you. Would that I could - a book.
Have a couple in the works but it seems I get side-tracked.
Time to buckle down and get writing.

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This is great writing. Loads of vision to my mind with scenery and scents abound. Yes you can continue this book as your beginning is off to a great start. I really liked the feel and sense I got from reading this.

Great job

Mona

Thank you Mona. Your encouragement is always welcomed. ~Pamela

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Wanted to take a little extra time to look in on one of your "older" posts.
I rather don't want to say anything because I wasn't blown away. Let me do this one thing at a time so you don't misunderstand me.
I truly don't fathom "poetic prose". Some of that is my fault. I believe you offered me some links to various descriptions concerning it, but time has been such a task master lately that I haven't used the opportunity.
So when I say I'm bewildered, it's about the differences between prose and poetic. This little piece was prose to me through and through. Your language probably doesn't know how to turn an ugly phrase, so it is "poetic" in that sense.
My particular problem with this piece is that you might be better off if someone could criticize it. "The truest form of flattery"...and all that. I can't think how to explain myself, so I will simply use the term that comes to mind knowing that it sounds a bit rude, but the page was kind of "fluffy". It wasn't bad, but it wasn't good. The language was gorgeous, but little was said. No action, no philosophy, no powerful emotions explored. A little bit of all, but not enough of any.
I'm not making a whole lot of sense and it may be that I'm just missing some crucial piece of information that is keeping me from "Buck Skin and Bear Fat".
It would be far more insulting for me to NOT share what I "got" from the poem, but I don't like what I'm telling you.
Maybe sometime when you're not too busy you can help me to understand what I missed and what I'm missing generally in poetic prose.
wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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I will work on clarity in this piece and perhaps a bit more "poetry{ in the prose. *wink*
This form is new to me so I practice - a lot. Thank you for your insight and thoughts. Most appreciated. ~Pamela

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author comment

Interesting write, it seem like it was some ones list of things they enjoyed as they became old and could not enjoy them as before. Kind of like seeing the stars until our vision is gone. All that's left is the memories, with pictures in our heads. A little un-daring to me, as if something was missing. I think you could have said more to make it jump off the page. I'll watch and wait where you take this, I am sure you can. That's how I see it.
Alot of beautiful words.

Regards,
Eddie

LIFE ISN'T ABOUT WAITING FOR THE STORM TO PASS
IT'S ABOUT LEARNING HOW TO DANCE IN THE RAIN.
VIVIAN GREENE

Hmmm - I don't really think it is a list of sorts, but I will work on clarity in this piece which should help readers to understand the intent a bit more. There are memories, true, but they are there to present the scene. So - more clarity is probably the key in this one. Thank you again for your thoughts. Most appreciated. ~Pamela

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The title is kick-arse, Pamela.

It's been a while since I've written any poetic prose, so maybe I'll post and old one and a new one and we can help one another... sometimes that's the best way of *practicing*.

However, there are authors whose writings are in my opinion, pure gorgeous poetic prose, regardless of the subject. James Baldwin, essayist is one.

~A

It is good to know your thoughts and ideas.
I look forward to reading your prose.

~Pamela

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author comment

and vivid. Interesting use of buckskin as two words.

vexations

Thank you.
It is indeed "buckskin" and I have updated accordingly.
SO glad you caught that for me and appreciate it very much.

I am pleased you enjoyed this bit of prose.

Thanks again
~Pamela

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