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What follows is a vingette blending poetry and prose. It is a style experiment for a book I am considering. I would like any feedback on the style, readability, story, etc. Anything that strikes you about it that you can share is appreciated.

CIGARETTE

I only smoke cigarettes when I'm with Mali. She throws a pack, I'm in. Then we talk. Words and cigarettes - it's part of what makes us a couple. Get it?

Our conversation is spare. But every word is important, every second precious, until it's time to part. Alone, we share separate emptiness.

Together, it's always the first time. The first time for everything. In her striding toward, first recognition between strangers who are already more. First conversations that must be rectified.

She withdraws, dazed by named and nameless fears. I see her loss; my mistake.

Silence of days, then the 'Dear John', honest as hell. I repent, plead foolish. All true so why not? She reads my words, sees my soul, changes her mind.

And sillion shine.

The first time. Is that what a woman remembers, or a man? I am transfixed, drawing her to me. She is driven, still at play. By fate? Destiny? Folly?

Possibly. In my story…

…sun-bleached serapes, netted candles, rose petals. Latin on the audio, hers. No one but us. No one knows, will ever know. She drinks good merlot splashed with peach soda. I humor her but prefer the four-twenty. "What is it?" I test, showing crystal buds.

"Rabbit turds?" Haughty smirk a dare, passed on. She doesn't partake, she tells. Not her style. "Something about the smoke . . . and the scene." She doesn't like it. A shadow, cast by old memories.

She is afraid.

Still, when offered she takes first toke, makes a face, snake-bit release. Unfazed, hands over the spliff in one fluid, interpretive gesture that includes herself. Understood. I pull it long and deep. Then we kiss, and she slowly breathes me in.

A step away, her back against the wall. Lidded eyes watch mine. Languid, slips straps from bare shoulders. Waits.

The first time. In the zoo car-park after dark, like teenagers. "I'm not going to do anything in the car." But we know.

"I want a cigarette." Two corners to the convenience, my dime. Smoking Slims against the loading dock, the words come.

Norman Maser © 2008

Edited by Carnival
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Difficult to critique form as form is the one aspect of poetry I love the most. I thought this was great, and read as you described it would.

A book with one story line or a compilation of different stories?

Just to clarify, all the different forms of poetry are what I love about it the most. I read John's comments and I think he understood more as to your goal than I did.

Edited by McnaughtonPark
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Hey Norm

Interesting. :) I enjoyed it, which is always good, but I wondered if a slightly more poetic layout was used, helping break up the prose aspect a little more, if that might help.

I took a similar approach to writing a song a number of years ago. Prose lines spanning what ended up as 3 of the 4 lines in a verse. Putting it in a more lyrical structure helped establish a more lyric like understanding and readers were better able to find the rhythm of the piece then.

I think that is what i found hardest here. The rhythm of the poem. Loved the basic storyline and flow.

Hope this helps..

Cheers

John

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cool one..... strong story line.....

this style reminds me of the poem "Pity the Nation"......by Khalil gibran......

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