Well, Robert sends a silly link on how to write a love poem... first come the candles and their scents... then taking vowels away, and it gets worse and worse.
If I say, like Jesse Fourmi, "I heaven you" -- one gets closer.
He sees that (in the Lost Horse Press, New Poets Series, p. 41, Final Descent into Maui....)
as "I embrace you, wholly,/ as if inside a shell."
I'm using as inspiration Anne Bradstreet...
To My Dear and Loving Husband
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee,
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let's so persever,
That when we live no more, we may live ever.
-- Anne Bradstreet
To my dear and Loving Husband
If ever one were two, it's me and you,
and you and me, but don't think unnecessarily
that I think myself the more important gold in the hold
but merely holed, as we are goaled to be whole, cajoled
to we as two halves, swelling to lift any bar
of what we are.
But I can't get this right.
Just, imagine. I blue-spring-sky you
With everything good
That makes you happy
that sunshine moves its hips
And laughs until
Every belled flower on earth rings
blessing its springtime buttons
until they burst.
.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Poem for April 19 and 20 -- Somayyah
Working on this poem, inspired by a story my son shared about a woman theatened by two policemen so that her husband would withdraw his complaint about them.
Complaint
What we call groan
rope straining
between boat and wharf
better describes
that taut heart tether
that pulls at its mooring
vessel constrained or released
without our consent.
What we call sigh
better describes
wind caught in the sail
our lungs tightened
to bear expectations,
only to expel the unbearable
as gulls scream and circle.
What do we call complaint
in this land of blind happiness
restricted to the few?
A woman is near a wharf
where the fellucas are tethered
groaning
below the scream of circling gulls.
She will have acid thrown into her face
and her husband will have every bone broken.
The policemen will consider that this
should take care of the complaint against them.
They have not decided what to do about
the 13 year old son.
**
Other poem (4/19)
SOMAYYAH
Somayyah
Somayyah is walking
near the train station in Ramses Square
where there used to be a colossus
and where feminist Huda Shaarawi
shocked the public in 1923.
Now It’s 2010, and you can imagine
the scream of train whistle, city scramble.
This isn’t Springtime in Northeast America
where forsythia shoots into bright stars
and bells of hyacinth turn your head
but Cairo, where my son
is translating this report.
Two policemen
accost a woman called Somayyah.
They light cigarettes, blow smoke
into her eyes. One pins her down
the other rips off her veil
and a sudden flash of metal
bursts as he says
Today, we’ll just shave your head
and you will tell your husband
to retract his complaint.
They curse her husband
with each lock of her hair
spilled to the street.
Next time, they say,
if your husband does not cooperate
we will douse your face with acid.
But that is not enough
they stub out their cigarettes
on her chest.
And my son tells me,
as he proofreads the words,
how he can smell the burnt cotton,
singed skin.
Complaint
What we call groan
rope straining
between boat and wharf
better describes
that taut heart tether
that pulls at its mooring
vessel constrained or released
without our consent.
What we call sigh
better describes
wind caught in the sail
our lungs tightened
to bear expectations,
only to expel the unbearable
as gulls scream and circle.
What do we call complaint
in this land of blind happiness
restricted to the few?
A woman is near a wharf
where the fellucas are tethered
groaning
below the scream of circling gulls.
She will have acid thrown into her face
and her husband will have every bone broken.
The policemen will consider that this
should take care of the complaint against them.
They have not decided what to do about
the 13 year old son.
**
Other poem (4/19)
SOMAYYAH
Somayyah
Somayyah is walking
near the train station in Ramses Square
where there used to be a colossus
and where feminist Huda Shaarawi
shocked the public in 1923.
Now It’s 2010, and you can imagine
the scream of train whistle, city scramble.
This isn’t Springtime in Northeast America
where forsythia shoots into bright stars
and bells of hyacinth turn your head
but Cairo, where my son
is translating this report.
Two policemen
accost a woman called Somayyah.
They light cigarettes, blow smoke
into her eyes. One pins her down
the other rips off her veil
and a sudden flash of metal
bursts as he says
Today, we’ll just shave your head
and you will tell your husband
to retract his complaint.
They curse her husband
with each lock of her hair
spilled to the street.
Next time, they say,
if your husband does not cooperate
we will douse your face with acid.
But that is not enough
they stub out their cigarettes
on her chest.
And my son tells me,
as he proofreads the words,
how he can smell the burnt cotton,
singed skin.
O Pen : 4/19/ 2010 -- C. Dale Young/ Claudia Emerson
How does a community perceive an individual?
A community of boys – a mean gang… then, trying to raise money to make amends…
What is a joke?
Is it a joke that our expectations of a joke turn out to be hard work…
and just what is hard work?
Song allows us to think about what a bad feeling is like.
How a goat called Broken Thorn Sweet Blackberry with eyes like wild fruit, silky hair dark as well water will sing, and the heart dies of that sweetness…
How this dark image will haunt the boys, the little girl, all of use.
“"Song" is beautiful in it's mystery and sense of legend and ambiguity of place and time and somehow that all comes together with something other than meaning somewhere inside me where knowing is not expressed in words. It's like your quote from Mary Kinzie about the stuff of poetry having 'half meaning' -- a way of using words to express something that is not said in the words themselves but conveys meaning just the same.” – a contribution from a reader.
It segues beautifully into “Torn”. But first, what does poetry allow us to do? It allows us to ponder how to negotiate passages, find patterns that underlie the unruliness of life.
Curious that C. Dale Young picked Yeats, "Second Coming" for Poetry Daily's April Poet's Pick -- how he had to memorize it in HS, and loved it, without fully understanding it.
**
C. Dale Young –
“Poem” is wonderful, except for one word: people took offence at “clatter” of hummingbird. How the wings buzz, hum, and the bird turns into a B-52 bomber, but the wings do not clatter.
Line… how in painting line divulges the image – so two, the poetic line…
point of view –
you can read only the middle line and it makes sense until the last line of the penultimate stanza and last stanza – how “The sound and the line… are everything)
To demonstrate:
The water breaking / better describes/ the sound of hummingbirds / what we call the horizon/is merely a line above… / … what we call personal,/ … quite unimportant / that which ways welcome.
Another way of enjoying the poem is to look at the metric pattern some might say this way:
WHAT we CALL RAIN
the WAter BREAKing
itSELF into SMALLer SELVES
aGAinst a STOne MAYbe,
The A of What, Call, Water, Small; aGAinst, may; the alliteration of the WH, ll, and S’s; the long A sound of Rain/Break; “itself” a syncopated surprise, as if the enjambment and stanza break annotate the syntax. –
What we call rain against a stone --- is a sound, unlike the sound of hummingbirds for the most part unheard – i.e. we don’t really hear beyond the sound.
George Oppen: “The meaning of a poem is in the cadences and the shape of the lines and the pulse of the thought which is given by those lines.”
James Longenbach: if poetry were to wear an ID bracelet, it would be made out of sonic links, or “the sound of language organized into lines”
**
In Torn: the words are cut.. the narrow alley an ever-patient dangerous passage, and all the healer can do stitch by patient stitch, is to try to restore beauty. Try for perfection, stitch up even the ones who might tear the protagonist.
**
Claudia Emerson -- her book “Figure Studies” does indeed make you think about what we neglect, throw away, in the first poem. Amazing what happens when you put a mannequin in the Motor shop.
Having attended an all-girl’s school, I loved her idea of creating poems about one — she calls it a “surreal sequence featuring girls in a boarding school, followed by a second less-neatly sequenced group of poems exploring women figures in isolation.” We enjoyed all the points of view. She chose slant-rhymed couplets because they look so deliberately made, just as the education is deliberately constructed. For synchronized swimming, note the POV of the surface tension; the personnification of the scull.
We talked also of restraint how she gives line “half-meaning” -- especially in “What they want” -- all the possibilities for “they” which at the end is “we”. The Two parts: auction and the outer appearance of this woman; and then the woman implied in the doll -- The dialogue line in italics: where/ how many days/ my word / my God/ the coffin closed / of course / can you imagine / how sad she died alone — where all the voices meld together like chattering crows picking over the remains.
A community of boys – a mean gang… then, trying to raise money to make amends…
What is a joke?
Is it a joke that our expectations of a joke turn out to be hard work…
and just what is hard work?
Song allows us to think about what a bad feeling is like.
How a goat called Broken Thorn Sweet Blackberry with eyes like wild fruit, silky hair dark as well water will sing, and the heart dies of that sweetness…
How this dark image will haunt the boys, the little girl, all of use.
“"Song" is beautiful in it's mystery and sense of legend and ambiguity of place and time and somehow that all comes together with something other than meaning somewhere inside me where knowing is not expressed in words. It's like your quote from Mary Kinzie about the stuff of poetry having 'half meaning' -- a way of using words to express something that is not said in the words themselves but conveys meaning just the same.” – a contribution from a reader.
It segues beautifully into “Torn”. But first, what does poetry allow us to do? It allows us to ponder how to negotiate passages, find patterns that underlie the unruliness of life.
Curious that C. Dale Young picked Yeats, "Second Coming" for Poetry Daily's April Poet's Pick -- how he had to memorize it in HS, and loved it, without fully understanding it.
**
C. Dale Young –
“Poem” is wonderful, except for one word: people took offence at “clatter” of hummingbird. How the wings buzz, hum, and the bird turns into a B-52 bomber, but the wings do not clatter.
Line… how in painting line divulges the image – so two, the poetic line…
point of view –
you can read only the middle line and it makes sense until the last line of the penultimate stanza and last stanza – how “The sound and the line… are everything)
To demonstrate:
The water breaking / better describes/ the sound of hummingbirds / what we call the horizon/is merely a line above… / … what we call personal,/ … quite unimportant / that which ways welcome.
Another way of enjoying the poem is to look at the metric pattern some might say this way:
WHAT we CALL RAIN
the WAter BREAKing
itSELF into SMALLer SELVES
aGAinst a STOne MAYbe,
The A of What, Call, Water, Small; aGAinst, may; the alliteration of the WH, ll, and S’s; the long A sound of Rain/Break; “itself” a syncopated surprise, as if the enjambment and stanza break annotate the syntax. –
What we call rain against a stone --- is a sound, unlike the sound of hummingbirds for the most part unheard – i.e. we don’t really hear beyond the sound.
George Oppen: “The meaning of a poem is in the cadences and the shape of the lines and the pulse of the thought which is given by those lines.”
James Longenbach: if poetry were to wear an ID bracelet, it would be made out of sonic links, or “the sound of language organized into lines”
**
In Torn: the words are cut.. the narrow alley an ever-patient dangerous passage, and all the healer can do stitch by patient stitch, is to try to restore beauty. Try for perfection, stitch up even the ones who might tear the protagonist.
**
Claudia Emerson -- her book “Figure Studies” does indeed make you think about what we neglect, throw away, in the first poem. Amazing what happens when you put a mannequin in the Motor shop.
Having attended an all-girl’s school, I loved her idea of creating poems about one — she calls it a “surreal sequence featuring girls in a boarding school, followed by a second less-neatly sequenced group of poems exploring women figures in isolation.” We enjoyed all the points of view. She chose slant-rhymed couplets because they look so deliberately made, just as the education is deliberately constructed. For synchronized swimming, note the POV of the surface tension; the personnification of the scull.
We talked also of restraint how she gives line “half-meaning” -- especially in “What they want” -- all the possibilities for “they” which at the end is “we”. The Two parts: auction and the outer appearance of this woman; and then the woman implied in the doll -- The dialogue line in italics: where/ how many days/ my word / my God/ the coffin closed / of course / can you imagine / how sad she died alone — where all the voices meld together like chattering crows picking over the remains.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
poem for April 18
My inspiration today was from Nicholson Baker, "The Anthologist" where he draws lines --
what about an anthology of one-liners? That will be tomorrow's poem.
For today:
inspiration from Sir Walter Raleigh
77. His Pilgrimage
GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage; 5
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body's balmer;
No other balm will there be given:
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heaven; 10
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
There will I kiss
The bowl of bliss;
And drink mine everlasting fill 15
Upon every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before;
But, after, it will thirst no more.
** MY POEM
Sunday
-- with a nod to Sir Walter
Repeat all day,
"scallop shell of quiet"
how the music opens and closes
like a dollop of cream, island
belled as eyelet
melting on the coffee
held in a porcelaine cup.
A scallop of quiet,
to remember the gift
of a newborn’s smile,
the don, don, don
of an old churchbelled day
scallop shell of silence
to sharpen ears, shorten the distance,
of pilgrimage to La Compostelle.
St. Jacques and his coquille,
the surprise of oreille,
the French for ear pillowed
in labials purring in the sea.
I don’t want to forget today.
How in the twist before daylight,
A robin was piping to the beat of rain,
how the boy in church
was waving a white rose as if conducting air,
offering it to his sister's nose,
while the sermon spoke about our earth,
How we have failed and are failing
to use imagination failing
to offer a sacred scallop
of connection.
I imagine closeness in the tight folds
of an ear where two kids
Sounds like tickets.
Tickets for two, for talking,
For taking 4 words like
saying 4 words like
scallop shell of silence
called into action:
to scallop
to shell,
to quiet.
-- Kitty Jospé
what about an anthology of one-liners? That will be tomorrow's poem.
For today:
inspiration from Sir Walter Raleigh
77. His Pilgrimage
GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage; 5
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body's balmer;
No other balm will there be given:
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heaven; 10
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
There will I kiss
The bowl of bliss;
And drink mine everlasting fill 15
Upon every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before;
But, after, it will thirst no more.
** MY POEM
Sunday
-- with a nod to Sir Walter
Repeat all day,
"scallop shell of quiet"
how the music opens and closes
like a dollop of cream, island
belled as eyelet
melting on the coffee
held in a porcelaine cup.
A scallop of quiet,
to remember the gift
of a newborn’s smile,
the don, don, don
of an old churchbelled day
scallop shell of silence
to sharpen ears, shorten the distance,
of pilgrimage to La Compostelle.
St. Jacques and his coquille,
the surprise of oreille,
the French for ear pillowed
in labials purring in the sea.
I don’t want to forget today.
How in the twist before daylight,
A robin was piping to the beat of rain,
how the boy in church
was waving a white rose as if conducting air,
offering it to his sister's nose,
while the sermon spoke about our earth,
How we have failed and are failing
to use imagination failing
to offer a sacred scallop
of connection.
I imagine closeness in the tight folds
of an ear where two kids
Sounds like tickets.
Tickets for two, for talking,
For taking 4 words like
saying 4 words like
scallop shell of silence
called into action:
to scallop
to shell,
to quiet.
-- Kitty Jospé
Adamschick and Mirror
It sounds like magic. Adam's chick -- and Eden and beginnings and what is mirrored --
which world is it in which we think we are living.
Marvin Bell selected Carl Adamshick's debut collection for the 2010 Walt Whitman Award.
"His voice is instantly engaging. Sophisticated ear; continuous feeling for measure.
A clarity of complex feelings".
The Solitude of an Apricot -- indeed mouth watering whether you say the "a" as in "apt" or "a" as in hay. We remarked the doubling: away, beyong, back, place placed, Sweet.
Isolated, "Sweet with a stone." is a sentence that bears repeating, sw -- st; ee to O
opening and closing in. And just what is sweet ? "The tender rearrangement of what is missing,like certain words, a color reflected off water a few years back."
And how would that mean to each person in a room? And suddenly there is possibility for time travel -- and what does that mean to someone? What is sweet "with the concession of a few statements, a few lives it will touch without bruising."
What a line. Does this change the way you eat an apricot?
What else has a stone -- what stones can be abandoned, to savor that much more sweetness.
Our flag on the otherhand was over the top. All the shoulds, the imperatives, which of course make the final lines stand out in relief.
Let it be insignifcant
and let its insignificance shine.
I love these 3 lines. "Our flag should be a veil/that makes the night weep/when it comes to dance,/
**
Mirror: Mark Strand
The parallel words of a white room and a party going on...
and what's in the mirror. Flashback. Layers of reality to read, re-read.
Someone asked if this poem have been better in prose? I think the line breaks lose their energy: and the imbedded clauses would receive less note.
leaned / against; hand/fidgeted; space/that might be filled by someone/yet to arrive, who at that moment/could be started the journey/which would lead eventually to her.
Reminded one person of Joni Mitchell : Other people S parties:
passport smiles -- but look where the passport takes you.
which world is it in which we think we are living.
Marvin Bell selected Carl Adamshick's debut collection for the 2010 Walt Whitman Award.
"His voice is instantly engaging. Sophisticated ear; continuous feeling for measure.
A clarity of complex feelings".
The Solitude of an Apricot -- indeed mouth watering whether you say the "a" as in "apt" or "a" as in hay. We remarked the doubling: away, beyong, back, place placed, Sweet.
Isolated, "Sweet with a stone." is a sentence that bears repeating, sw -- st; ee to O
opening and closing in. And just what is sweet ? "The tender rearrangement of what is missing,like certain words, a color reflected off water a few years back."
And how would that mean to each person in a room? And suddenly there is possibility for time travel -- and what does that mean to someone? What is sweet "with the concession of a few statements, a few lives it will touch without bruising."
What a line. Does this change the way you eat an apricot?
What else has a stone -- what stones can be abandoned, to savor that much more sweetness.
Our flag on the otherhand was over the top. All the shoulds, the imperatives, which of course make the final lines stand out in relief.
Let it be insignifcant
and let its insignificance shine.
I love these 3 lines. "Our flag should be a veil/that makes the night weep/when it comes to dance,/
**
Mirror: Mark Strand
The parallel words of a white room and a party going on...
and what's in the mirror. Flashback. Layers of reality to read, re-read.
Someone asked if this poem have been better in prose? I think the line breaks lose their energy: and the imbedded clauses would receive less note.
leaned / against; hand/fidgeted; space/that might be filled by someone/yet to arrive, who at that moment/could be started the journey/which would lead eventually to her.
Reminded one person of Joni Mitchell : Other people S parties:
passport smiles -- but look where the passport takes you.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Portraits -- 4/22 -- a few thoughts
What does a portrait tell us? What is it that we like (or not) to remember about someone?
We discussed "The Woman's Portrait"; Szymborska
Stanley Kunitz -- the Portrait
Theodore Roethke's My Papa's Waltz
and the love poem by Ellen Bass, "To Praise."
I love Szymborska's poem (translated by Grazyna Drabik and Sharon Olds)
The Woman's Portrait.
As ever, I wonder what the original Polish says -- and whether Grazyna translated it to English, and Sharon added her touch -- and how fitting -- three women speaking about being a woman.
Yes... "must be open to choices / changing, only let nothing be changed".
a Universal woman, no matter who makes the prediction -- how some things are not of choice -- eye color, whether they fill with tears or are merry... with or without reason...
how many children she will bear.
I love the contrast of holding a sparrow with a broken wing along with a meat chopper, a compress, her own money for a long journey, and a glass of vodka.
Where is she running like that? Isn't she tired?
Oh no, only a little bit, very, it doesn't matter.
After a series of 3 options to choose from, there are now only 2:
She either loves him, or has just set her mind.
What is involved with that choice?
And the poem ends with three choices, like boxes nesting in boxes, whatever these complex connections, it is this :
for good, for bad, and for goodness' sake. -- in all senses of Goodness, and the cliche.
For Christ's sake -- for God's sake, and Godforsaken: sake -- Much of the word's original meaning has been taken over by case, cause, and it survives largely in phrases for the sake of (early 13c.) and for _______'s sake (c.1300, originally for God's sake), both probably are from O.N
**
I love that a poem is called "To Praise" -- where the definition of the verb is linked to the desire to praise everything about a lover -- the orgasmic extravagance that brings you to praise. But the title also calls us, to look at how we offer words to praise -- as in
"to a rose" -- how we are writing a letter to this idea of "preis" -- the value, the precious quality in something.
For Kunitz: the poem is about the portrait his mother rips into shreds -- how he takes three angles: the father who committed suicide; the mother who cannot forgive him for doing that -- all of which happened before Kunitz was born... Can you imagine knowing that your father had a name, a life, a story, but it is secret, "I could hear him thumping" -- as if the father the mother refuses, is in his heart... and how she punished him with that slap when he brought down the pastel of the stranger. And that word hurts. Stranger.
My Papa's waltz. The child speaking. An angry mother in the background. You can see him, as high as his father's belt -- the drunken father swaying... and how in spite of all that craziness, the "clinging to your shirt" is a double-whammy of a child's innate love and need for a father
We discussed "The Woman's Portrait"; Szymborska
Stanley Kunitz -- the Portrait
Theodore Roethke's My Papa's Waltz
and the love poem by Ellen Bass, "To Praise."
I love Szymborska's poem (translated by Grazyna Drabik and Sharon Olds)
The Woman's Portrait.
As ever, I wonder what the original Polish says -- and whether Grazyna translated it to English, and Sharon added her touch -- and how fitting -- three women speaking about being a woman.
Yes... "must be open to choices / changing, only let nothing be changed".
a Universal woman, no matter who makes the prediction -- how some things are not of choice -- eye color, whether they fill with tears or are merry... with or without reason...
how many children she will bear.
I love the contrast of holding a sparrow with a broken wing along with a meat chopper, a compress, her own money for a long journey, and a glass of vodka.
Where is she running like that? Isn't she tired?
Oh no, only a little bit, very, it doesn't matter.
After a series of 3 options to choose from, there are now only 2:
She either loves him, or has just set her mind.
What is involved with that choice?
And the poem ends with three choices, like boxes nesting in boxes, whatever these complex connections, it is this :
for good, for bad, and for goodness' sake. -- in all senses of Goodness, and the cliche.
For Christ's sake -- for God's sake, and Godforsaken: sake -- Much of the word's original meaning has been taken over by case, cause, and it survives largely in phrases for the sake of (early 13c.) and for _______'s sake (c.1300, originally for God's sake), both probably are from O.N
**
I love that a poem is called "To Praise" -- where the definition of the verb is linked to the desire to praise everything about a lover -- the orgasmic extravagance that brings you to praise. But the title also calls us, to look at how we offer words to praise -- as in
"to a rose" -- how we are writing a letter to this idea of "preis" -- the value, the precious quality in something.
For Kunitz: the poem is about the portrait his mother rips into shreds -- how he takes three angles: the father who committed suicide; the mother who cannot forgive him for doing that -- all of which happened before Kunitz was born... Can you imagine knowing that your father had a name, a life, a story, but it is secret, "I could hear him thumping" -- as if the father the mother refuses, is in his heart... and how she punished him with that slap when he brought down the pastel of the stranger. And that word hurts. Stranger.
My Papa's waltz. The child speaking. An angry mother in the background. You can see him, as high as his father's belt -- the drunken father swaying... and how in spite of all that craziness, the "clinging to your shirt" is a double-whammy of a child's innate love and need for a father
poem for April 17
Can you dance an Exclamation Point?
A nod to Carl Sandburg
Spring is playing scrabble and making up new words
by jazz-knuckled plants, all improvisation
(soft to the touch before they nettle into weeds)
trading eights of exclamations,
verbs for telling your feet to be nimbly-joy-jalla-jokull
coupled to your heart ready to shoot out of its mountain cave
with pieces of spring translating into silky-syllables
of exotic languages, A tango of coy chirrup klakippuhring
and full-throated gusto of the caged tiger sculpture
(on display at the silent auction tonight)
and everything starts to dance with the wind
Faery skursly, fey and unscarcely.
(kj poem a day : April 17, 2010)
A nod to Carl Sandburg
Spring is playing scrabble and making up new words
by jazz-knuckled plants, all improvisation
(soft to the touch before they nettle into weeds)
trading eights of exclamations,
verbs for telling your feet to be nimbly-joy-jalla-jokull
coupled to your heart ready to shoot out of its mountain cave
with pieces of spring translating into silky-syllables
of exotic languages, A tango of coy chirrup klakippuhring
and full-throated gusto of the caged tiger sculpture
(on display at the silent auction tonight)
and everything starts to dance with the wind
Faery skursly, fey and unscarcely.
(kj poem a day : April 17, 2010)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)