Sharon, I love these words -
how old
women have carried firestones for years,
from camp to camp, nestled against their
bellies. My bones are dry kindling, my flesh
sweet oil.
I did like the entire poem, but felt you could increase its impact more by
shortening it, tightening it - Keep this version but edit another with an
eye to rich phrases; cut the rest; forget the so-called form; and work with
what remains. Verse liberated. I wouldn't presume to do that for you, but
please give it a go. You have this version, safe and tidy, so nothing will
be lost if you feel nothing has been gained, but I think the poem would gain
from sustaining the high-pitch of its most inventive moments, even at the
'cost' of its instant accessibility (wouldn't worry me - a poem is a poem,
not an easy or vignette).
Andrew the Innocent
On 29/12/2007, sharon brogan <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
> OK, it's an old poem ... but still. If I can remember (sensuality, that
> is)
> I'll try to do a new one this week.
> April, Almost May
>
> After you left, days of summer came
> too early, forcing blooms that will shrivel
> in the next, inevitable, frost. I sleep and sleep
> through the long heat. Afternoon shadows
> slant across the grass. Women pass by in pale
> dresses, bare skin. I close the shutters
>
> against the sun. Later, rain. Snow
> high and spare in the mountains. Aspens
> greening by the river. Wild geese fly low,
> dark wings skimming the water. I always
> know what time it is where you are. Flowerbeds
> fill with tulips, red and yellow, and blue,
>
> blue iris. The river rises, dark and loud.
> My flannel sheets are damp in the morning;
> I fold them away, bring out the cotton.
> A pair of mallards sit together on a floating
> log on the muddy water. I watch patterns
> of light on the ceiling, white plum blossoms.
>
> Yesterday, I went to the nursery, brought home
> pansies, petunias, sweet william. The river
> runs faster, birch trees stand in the water
> at its edge. Under the dark surface, something
> rises, sinks, tumbles in the current. This is how
> it feels to love someone else's darling.
>
> Light moves through the rooms, darkening
> with clouds. I sit alone in my beautiful
> house. I do not dream. I remember
> your hands in my hair. I think about
> the translucent sky; the fast river; the rocks
> along the bank, wet and mossy; how old
>
> women have carried firestones for years,
> from camp to camp, nestled against their
> bellies. My bones are dry kindling, my flesh
> sweet oil. Blue flames flicker along my arms,
> across my flowered sheets. Shadows move
> on the bedroom walls.
>
> --
>
>
> ~ SB | http://www.sbpoet.com | =^..^=
>
--
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/aburke/
|