Hi gary,
I'm wondering if thereis a meandering of tense in S1 - words like 'might'
and 'were' work ok for me, but I feel a clash with the active nature of
'when I stroll'. I might be all over the place with this though - just
struck me that way, and I'm aware that it may be deliberate on your part.
I had a couple of other thoughts, but the more i consider them the less
certain I am of what I've seen. I think it's a good piece of work gary and
it has me wondering at a few places and a few levels.
Cheers,
Frank
>I Might Wear White
>
>Between Pentecost and Yom Kipper,
>I might wear white,
>a ice cream suit worthy of Sam Clemens on London's stage
>or a frame for Brady's Cross of Gold,
>if white were fashionable
>enough
>for the women not to point and whisper
>when I stroll to and fro.
>
>I might don a robe
>of unbleached lamb's wool,
>held together with hemp rope , ivy vine
>or leather belt,
>rough spun cloth good enough
>until I enter yonder rolls
>while the women pray words seldom heard and point heavenward
>as I dunk and sputter.
>
>Clothed in white,
>I might go to sea in rusty ships or leaky skiffs,
>one ear strained to hear
>the rapids boil,
>the other your babble
>of parasols and fashion
>as the women on the shore droll on
>about when white is right.
>
>Topped with a spinner
>trimmed in red and blue,
>I might wear a linen suit and wide bow tie
>to picnic
>on the grassy knoll -
>peaches, cream and lobster claws consumed
>as the women in the park hawk lemon ice
>and French postcards to read when it is dark.
>
>I shall wear white flannel trousers,
>rolled to my knees and stroll among the surf
>peach pits tossed to crabs,
>crosses traded for sanded dollars,
>parasols adrift on the wind,
>postcards wrapped in cellophane, safely tucked away
>to show the women while they scrub grass stains
>from my outer garments.
>
>The inner lost when stole
>by a painter
>in need of rags to clean his brushes.
>
>*
>
>If I looked inside me I might find
>a small dog,
>the yapping kind, Chinese,
>a kitten starved
>or parakeet that lost a voice it never knew it had.
>
>A disciple unsure
>The Word he has been given
>is not the Devil's folly
>or he is worthy
>of the attention a Word brings.
>
>And they wander the sands
>in search of Moses
>and water
>as they trail
>behind Lawrence's abandoned camel.
>
>A lawyer
>who sues for innerwear
>in hopes
>the outer will given freely
>without the expense of open court and bribed judges.
>
>And the women
>sit and sip their tea,
>sit and point and gossip
>of you and me
>anxious for home and French postcards.
>
>As inside
>I walk upon the beach
>in unrolled white trousers
>wet with surf
>and brown with sand and kelp.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>January guest Nat at: http://gardawg.homestead.com/gardawg.html,
>
>Submissions: http://www.writershood.com/index.html
>
>Poets for Peace. ¡Poemas sí, balas no!
The Tales of Faust poetry page can be found at:
http://www.hotkey.net.au/~flp/F_index.htm
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