From 2764ce38ff89667fc4073fb66cdd634caaffd613 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Case Duckworth Date: Thu, 12 Mar 2015 13:01:16 -0700 Subject: Fix #9 - ekphrastisize some poems For ekphrastic articles, add `ekphrastic` node to YAML metadata. This node includes subnodes `image`, `title`, `alt`, `link`, and `class`. `image` provides a link to the local image--just include the file name with the extension, not the folder (all images should be in /img/.) `title` provides the title of the image, and the alt-text, if there is no `alt` node. `alt`, if it exists, provides the alt text for the image. `link`, if present, wraps the image in an `` tag--it should point to the source web page of the ekphrastic image. `class`, if present, sets the class(es) for the image, for styling. In this commit, I've set `ekphrastic` on the four articles that have them so far: 'The Death Zone,' 'AMBER alert,' 'The moon is gone,' and 'Man.' I've also updated .template.html with the changes, and updated README.md to reflect the changes in YAML structure. --- deathstrumpet.html | 13 ++++++------- 1 file changed, 6 insertions(+), 7 deletions(-) (limited to 'deathstrumpet.html') diff --git a/deathstrumpet.html b/deathstrumpet.html index 56bdd8f..fbd52d1 100644 --- a/deathstrumpet.html +++ b/deathstrumpet.html @@ -43,13 +43,12 @@ -
-

He didn’t have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing,
top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine
begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.

-

He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining
it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized
it was a terrible metaphor.
He practiced for six hours a day—what else to do?

-

Death looks at himself in the mirror as he plays.
The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules.
Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving
but he’ll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.
Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.

-

He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later.
He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy
since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.
The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.
He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there,

-

there’s only a little boy with dead eyes. So far so good.
He’s playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him
and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid’s good.
Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand.

-
+ +

He didn’t have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing,
top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine
begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.

+

He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining
it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized
it was a terrible metaphor.
He practiced for six hours a day—what else to do?

+

Death looks at himself in the mirror as he plays.
The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules.
Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving
but he’ll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.
Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.

+

He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later.
He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy
since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.
The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.
He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there,

+

there’s only a little boy with dead eyes. So far so good.
He’s playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him
and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid’s good.
Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand.