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. --- index.html | 37 ++++++++++++++++++------------------- 1 file changed, 18 insertions(+), 19 deletions(-) (limited to 'index.html') diff --git a/index.html b/index.html index 7a37824..fc76a38 100644 --- a/index.html +++ b/index.html @@ -37,25 +37,24 @@ -
-

100 lines about the author (Amber): alert!

-

And the angel, to Abraham, on seeing the panorama
of the Apollo 11 landing site: “Ars poetica: art, an axe,
the big dipper and the boar. The boy on the bus is building.
Call me Cereal or Cold Wind.”

-

Creation myth: dead man = the death zone =
Death’s trumpet. Dream early.

-

Elegy for an alternate self: an epigraph,
ex machina and exasperated; Father feeding
the raven, finding the lion, setting a fire.

-

Look: hands!
A hard game: hardware.
(How it happened?)
How to read this hymnal:
“I am.” “I think it’s
you (but it’s not).”

-

I wanted to tell you something in bed—
the initial conditions of January’s joke are l’appel du vide.
The largest asteroid in the asteroid belt is the last bastion,
the last passenger leaf, the leg liking things.

-

Listen: love as God loves, better
than a love song, man.

-

The moon is drowning. The moon is gone,
and in its place: a mirror. The mountain’s
moving sideways, something about all music
being performances of 4′33″ in places
where other bands happen to be playing. Listen:
no nothing, no notes, nothing is ever over.

-

On formal poetry, options:
an ouroboros of memory, Paul, philosophy,
phones, or planks. A litany for a plant.

-

Something about the nature
of poetry and time: prelude, problems, proverbs.
Punch is the purpose of dogs.

-

A question: if a real writer reports on
the riptide of memory, does Ronald McDonald
wear rough gloves or a sapling?

-

Seasonal affective disorder is part of the sense of it.
The serengeti is a shed. The shipwright
builds the sixteenth chapel in snow.

-

Let’s start with something simple:
spittle on the squirrel sitting stagnant.
Statements stayed on the bus too long.

-

A stump is not a swansong is not a swan, Song.
Swear the table of contents is a tapestry.
Telemarketers swear that the night we met, I
was out of my mind.

-

The sea and the beach, even the ocean overflows
with camels. Time looks up to the sky,
to Daniel on the toilet writing “Toothpaste,”
a treatise on underwear and wallpaper.

-

We played those games too.

-

When I’m sorry I wash dishes in the window, thinking
about words and meaning. I feel worse,
looking over at you, than when I’m writing
an x-ray in yellow.

-
+ +

100 lines about the author (Amber): alert!

+

And the angel, to Abraham, on seeing the panorama
of the Apollo 11 landing site: “Ars poetica: art, an axe,
the big dipper and the boar. The boy on the bus is building.
Call me Cereal or Cold Wind.”

+

Creation myth: dead man = the death zone =
Death’s trumpet. Dream early.

+

Elegy for an alternate self: an epigraph,
ex machina and exasperated; Father feeding
the raven, finding the lion, setting a fire.

+

Look: hands!
A hard game: hardware.
(How it happened?)
How to read this hymnal:
“I am.” “I think it’s
you (but it’s not).”

+

I wanted to tell you something in bed—
the initial conditions of January’s joke are l’appel du vide.
The largest asteroid in the asteroid belt is the last bastion,
the last passenger leaf, the leg liking things.

+

Listen: love as God loves, better
than a love song, man.

+

The moon is drowning. The moon is gone,
and in its place: a mirror. The mountain’s
moving sideways, something about all music
being performances of 4′33″ in places
where other bands happen to be playing. Listen:
no nothing, no notes, nothing is ever over.

+

On formal poetry, options:
an ouroboros of memory, Paul, philosophy,
phones, or planks. A litany for a plant.

+

Something about the nature
of poetry and time: prelude, problems, proverbs.
Punch is the purpose of dogs.

+

A question: if a real writer reports on
the riptide of memory, does Ronald McDonald
wear rough gloves or a sapling?

+

Seasonal affective disorder is part of the sense of it.
The serengeti is a shed. The shipwright
builds the sixteenth chapel in snow.

+

Let’s start with something simple:
spittle on the squirrel sitting stagnant.
Statements stayed on the bus too long.

+

A stump is not a swansong is not a swan, Song.
Swear the table of contents is a tapestry.
Telemarketers swear that the night we met, I
was out of my mind.

+

The sea and the beach, even the ocean overflows
with camels. Time looks up to the sky,
to Daniel on the toilet writing “Toothpaste,”
a treatise on underwear and wallpaper.

+

We played those games too.

+

When I’m sorry I wash dishes in the window, thinking
about words and meaning. I feel worse,
looking over at you, than when I’m writing
an x-ray in yellow.