I Am No Poet
On Leave
HE HAS some
licked-silk river bones,
the shining teeth
of heartsease, and shepherd’s purse,
in a cut glass pocket watch,
unable to tick
for fear of breaking time.
Cherry Blossom at the Graveyard.
PUCKERED
with cicada feet,
the blossom sings for the small deaths,
of winter and the fireflies,
and you, Alexander.
Eclipse
THERE IS a fountain,
deep in the ivory claw
of midnight.
Come to me
when the wolf drinks
I am golden.
Kirsty Judge
16 May 2011 20:52
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Timothy Woodham
You have your usual knack for conciseness, and convincing us all that you are indeed a poet, despite what the title of your entry says.
Last three lines have very pleasing ‘k’ alliteration and the juxtaposition of so small a sound as ‘tick’, to such a chaotic idea of ‘breaking time’ is immensely satisfying.
To me, its fine. Metrically it reads fine… in my opinion you get away with the phyrric ‘in a’ by having a spondee ‘cut glass’ straight afterwards . If you ask me, its good enough, but if you wanted to fuck around with it, I would try extending it a bit and seeing if you can create more deliciously mystifying images like “licked-silk river bones”.
:p excellent excellent excellent
16 May 2011, 23:09
Jacob Andrews
I agree with Tymek’s first point, though that’s all I’ll say, as when asked to critique poery I react like a kitten does to it’s own reflection – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Otc_T3u1uY
16 May 2011, 23:50
Kirsty Judge
You mean, you become ridiculously adorable? Because that was sickeningly cute.
16 May 2011, 23:54
Jacob Andrews
I meant the kitten’s confused terror and scared aggression. Not the cuteness. It takes a lot more than poetry to do that to me…
17 May 2011, 00:17
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