[This post is still under construction.]
The last few weeks have been a blur of activities. Does your brain hurt from non-stop mentation? Mine does and did. As Countess Dowager [Dame Maggie Smith] spouts in Downton Abbey,
March 2, 2015 Try:
The Poem is a Maze
M A Z E – as if a tangle that one must unsnarl diligently
Meandering routes, wicked hedges, loopy grids conceal veiled routes to bliss
Real traps, imagined wanderings, criss-crossing this labyrinth
2) Images Draft 1
Young Love at the Cafe
Pale frostbitten faces
Lean young bodies
Swathed in thick coats - black, grey, and more black
Layers shed, as young dates sit
At gleaming square tables
Knee-high socks in leather boots
Flannel shirts fight with flimsy cotton lace
And chiffon, whips past me
A cold stream slithers down my aching shoulders
Down to my parched finger tips
"Brown sugar coffee!"
The barista shouts, not once, but thrice
Five thirty-five, the monstrous black clock declares
With its stark white hands
Diners, flushed in intimate chatter
Screaming rock music
Piped in, drowns out the java maker. No one
Claims the hot brew
It waits on the steel counter
Searching for a number
Etched in folded steel tags
Will it match mine, or yours
Taut necks stretch, yearning
"Cometbus," "Patterson"?
On round flat metal plates they arrive
Whetting appetites, real and imagined
An au lait all drunk up
The elderly couple stands, screeching metal stools against concrete
Layers up, and departs into the cold
The last few weeks have been a blur of activities. Does your brain hurt from non-stop mentation? Mine does and did. As Countess Dowager [Dame Maggie Smith] spouts in Downton Abbey,
"All this endless thinking, it's very over-rated!"But poetic imagination is not. To the uninformed, I'm learning to use metaphors in poetry writing, hence this Bidart draft. To Randy and my poetry friends, here are my practice drafts:
 |
| Candle with short wick |
The Poem is a Lamp
L A M P - radiating light in petrifying darkness, erratic
In its glow. As wispy candle burns into stumpy wick,
Or raging campfire the sacrifice of sweet wooden smoke
Gulps, swallows, the black night
Or raging campfire the sacrifice of sweet wooden smoke
Gulps, swallows, the black night
Earnest, ardent, the promise of hope, victorious, breaks the hold of the unknown
March 2, 2015 Try:
The Poem is a Maze
M A Z E – as if a tangle that one must unsnarl diligently
Meandering routes, wicked hedges, loopy grids conceal veiled routes to bliss
Real traps, imagined wanderings, criss-crossing this labyrinth
2) Images Draft 1
Young Love at the Cafe
Pale frostbitten faces
Lean young bodies
Swathed in thick coats - black, grey, and more black
Layers shed, as young dates sit
At gleaming square tables
Knee-high socks in leather boots
Flannel shirts fight with flimsy cotton lace
And chiffon, whips past me
A cold stream slithers down my aching shoulders
Down to my parched finger tips
"Brown sugar coffee!"
The barista shouts, not once, but thrice
Five thirty-five, the monstrous black clock declares
With its stark white hands
Diners, flushed in intimate chatter
Screaming rock music
Piped in, drowns out the java maker. No one
Claims the hot brew
It waits on the steel counter
Searching for a number
Etched in folded steel tags
Will it match mine, or yours
Taut necks stretch, yearning
"Cometbus," "Patterson"?
On round flat metal plates they arrive
Whetting appetites, real and imagined
An au lait all drunk up
The elderly couple stands, screeching metal stools against concrete
Layers up, and departs into the cold
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