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. --- last-passenger.html | 9 ++++----- 1 file changed, 4 insertions(+), 5 deletions(-) (limited to 'last-passenger.html') diff --git a/last-passenger.html b/last-passenger.html index 76652cd..4e69cde 100644 --- a/last-passenger.html +++ b/last-passenger.html @@ -37,11 +37,10 @@ -
-

Memory works strangely, spooling its thread
over the nails of events barely related,
creating finally some picture, if we’re
lucky, of a life—but more likely, it knots
itself, catches on a nail or in our throats
that gasp, as it binds our necks, for air.

-

An example: today marks one hundred years
since your namesake, the last living passenger
pigeon, died in Cincinnati. It also marks
a year since we last spoke. Although around
the world, zoos mourn her loss, I’m done
with you. I mourn no more your voice, the first
sound I heard outside my body that reached
into my throat and set me ringing. But that string—

-

memory that feels sometimes more like a tide
has yoked together, bound your voice to that bird,
the frozen, stuffed, forgotten pigeon—my heart
is too easy, but it must do—to blink, to flex
its unused toes, slowly thaw to the wetness
of beating wings, fly to me again, and alight,
singing full-throated, on my broken shoulder.

-
+ +

Memory works strangely, spooling its thread
over the nails of events barely related,
creating finally some picture, if we’re
lucky, of a life—but more likely, it knots
itself, catches on a nail or in our throats
that gasp, as it binds our necks, for air.

+

An example: today marks one hundred years
since your namesake, the last living passenger
pigeon, died in Cincinnati. It also marks
a year since we last spoke. Although around
the world, zoos mourn her loss, I’m done
with you. I mourn no more your voice, the first
sound I heard outside my body that reached
into my throat and set me ringing. But that string—

+

memory that feels sometimes more like a tide
has yoked together, bound your voice to that bird,
the frozen, stuffed, forgotten pigeon—my heart
is too easy, but it must do—to blink, to flex
its unused toes, slowly thaw to the wetness
of beating wings, fly to me again, and alight,
singing full-throated, on my broken shoulder.