Whether or not Wallace Stevens idea in Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird was our dependency on perception when we shape our ideas of the word is not for me to say. But having precepted the poem, that is how I see it.
Scene: a bus stop, January, snowing, windy. Three people huddle in the small shelter. They are strangers to one another, though they have met here before. The winter-pale youth is thumbing his phone. The large African woman in blue jeans and a quilt coat is reading. The ambiguously fleshed old man, to whom they have … Continue reading A Tiff on Frost and the Rapper, Drake
What I could see, my ears waxed against the maelstrom of their song, were skimpy hags. I, who had seen fools die to gold a twat’s beguile, could see nothing there to turn for; though the mast-bound Captain made urgent motion to till shoreward, the last I’d heard, before the silence, was “disregard,” “maintain” his … Continue reading Odysseus’s Helmsman
The rhyme is "because." the reason is. . . .
We rode on the back of a cart pulled by a blue farm truck, which seemed nearly as wrecked as the rest of the farm. Bill Wrangle’s dad, who owned the farm and the truck—in so far as claims to ownership can be made—was driving the truck, and as it was a mild autumn day, … Continue reading Blundering Revolutionary Union Worker
The first thing that comes to mind re the Ragtag Community prompt is Hope is a Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson. I read this poem as a response (and a response I need badly) to the admonition that one must "Have faith to garner wings of an angel."
Young Alex had a head most aerate; and his buff was perfectly lyrate. But empty pate and curvaceous shape wasn’t precisely what the bear ate.
Chilly as after-this reception— Cold as a whenever shoulder— Frosty as forget-it’s smile— Frigid with never embraces— Glacial as if.
The way you mix feelings is you take a good old fashioned lie—no more than four pounds worth, drop in a good dollop of candied sentimentality, add a puppy dog, a baby, or somebody who died of a broken heart, mix it up with a good six pack of barley mash well fermented, pack the … Continue reading Cooking Up a Bad Poem
Says the venerable rich man getting up from the table: “The best fish is the one that got away.” Says the scorned poor man watching his breakfast fry: “Fat men must live on lies.” An aphorism from the Lee side.