From 643d9ceb308c206a6e572c7c555168ff0ca60bc1 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Case Duckworth Date: Fri, 27 Mar 2015 15:40:42 -0700 Subject: Fix #5: Verse typesetting Thanks to the pandoc-discussion thread at , line breaks in verse have been converted to s, which enables the CSS to style them with hanging indents, given a too-small viewport. This commit also includes a makefile edit to reflect this change, and the Haskell source and executable of the pandoc filter. --- riptide_memory.html | 12 ++++++------ 1 file changed, 6 insertions(+), 6 deletions(-) (limited to 'riptide_memory.html') diff --git a/riptide_memory.html b/riptide_memory.html index 9a79575..f276a87 100644 --- a/riptide_memory.html +++ b/riptide_memory.html @@ -36,12 +36,12 @@
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Inside of my memory, the poem is another memory.
The air up here is thin, but the wind blows harder
than anywhere else I know. It threatens to rip
my body away, like an angel of death, to the stars.

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In Arizona, I thought I would forget the rain,
forget its sound on a roof like a hard wind, forget
its smell like a far away ocean. Luckily for me
it rains here. Luckily, because I forget too easily.

-

In a dream, my father is caught by a riptide off-shore.
He’s pulled far out, far enough that the shoreline’s
a line in his memory on the horizon. I can see him
swimming, hand over hand, pulling his small weight

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back to land. I see him as another shipwreck victim,
coughing sand and seawater, beard woven with seaweed.
I see him laying there a long time. I see all this
as he tells me the story, years later, the riptide

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only a ghost in his memory, I only a child falling
asleep. My mother’s making mayonnaise rolls
in the kitchen, a recipe I’ll send for years later,
in Arizona, in the monsoon season, when my thirst

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pulls me back home, my memory’s lonesome twinkle
like stars above the mountains. I’ll send for it
and try to make them, but in the thin air they’ll
crumble into dust like desert air, like a memory.

+

Inside of my memory, the poem is another memory.The air up here is thin, but the wind blows harderthan anywhere else I know. It threatens to ripmy body away, like an angel of death, to the stars.

+

In Arizona, I thought I would forget the rain,forget its sound on a roof like a hard wind, forgetits smell like a far away ocean. Luckily for meit rains here. Luckily, because I forget too easily.

+

In a dream, my father is caught by a riptide off-shore.He’s pulled far out, far enough that the shoreline’sa line in his memory on the horizon. I can see himswimming, hand over hand, pulling his small weight

+

back to land. I see him as another shipwreck victim,coughing sand and seawater, beard woven with seaweed.I see him laying there a long time. I see all thisas he tells me the story, years later, the riptide

+

only a ghost in his memory, I only a child fallingasleep. My mother’s making mayonnaise rollsin the kitchen, a recipe I’ll send for years later,in Arizona, in the monsoon season, when my thirst

+

pulls me back home, my memory’s lonesome twinklelike stars above the mountains. I’ll send for itand try to make them, but in the thin air they’llcrumble into dust like desert air, like a memory.