 |
 |
Hi A quick few words as I'm at work. Most of these are gut reactions. I find this poem a little tricksy - "mythyard home", "bulking thin", almost as if you're trying a bit too hard. They distract me. The sum of all these brilliant phrases doesn't seem to add up to something coherent, or singular and shiny. They don't seem to accumulate, although maybe that's intentional but it does leave me thinking, "well?" as if expecting some bolt from the blue. Maybe it's just me. The first verse has a stop on the end of the second line. I'm not expecting the third line. What's "so cad is my marrow"? I like "slumped rickety-stiff" espeicially. You never begin sentences with a capitalisation, and always end with a full-stop. I can't see why. Why use & when you use "of"? Doesn't february deserve a capital f? The second to last verse introduces a moral element - you the sheriff - but I can't see why or how it fits with the rest. Ditto with the "statuette stains" which is a brilliant phrase but seems parachuted in from nowhere. This poem would, I suspect, reward a deeper reading than I can give it at the present time. Roger On 3/2/07, kasper salonen <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > I know I've promised Barcelona-snaps/poems, & they're all written, but I've > gotten so little response to any work I've posted on this list that I wonder > if there's much point. > this below is something written 2 days ago. > > > half a spring > > toeing slippery on a snow-rage road > bulking thin, by a dwarf city > of black stones¯ > > the weekday silence of this mythyard home > leaks like a draft in a faded house, > slumped rickety-stiff on the hills of its growth; > and inside of my bones I feel a kill's tap¯ > > the trees are punched white with a mourning sulk. > > the wind doesn't stab me but asks me to die, > so cad is my marrow¯replies of shivers! > answering only me, in a whisper. > > I am rain-soaked cargo in a drought of frost, > so dirty is this snowside with flecks spat > from wheels whining crummy & nameless > & so unfinished this road¯ > > a tin star grips toward my glove, not fallen > or sent from beyond this fence of a tranquil bay > for once-liquid graves¯soot reeled to heaven & back. > feeling for a holster > I find a pocket damp. > > stuck here, I look at february ending > & two statuette stains > keening little at a windtop tree, > not falling at all. > > KS > -- My Stuff: http://www.badstep.net/ "Patriotism is a virtue of the vicious." Oscar Wilde