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.
A Tiff on Frost and the Rapper, Drake
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
Odysseus’s Helmsman
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 Reason is Jimmie likes to Drink Alone. The Rhyme is “Because”
The rhyme is "because." the reason is. . . .
Blundering Revolutionary Union Worker
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
Hope is a Thing. . .
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."
“What’s For Lunch,” Says Papa Bear
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.
Love Weather This Winter
Chilly as after-this reception— Cold as a whenever shoulder— Frosty as forget-it’s smile— Frigid with never embraces— Glacial as if.
Cooking Up a Bad Poem
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
Of Logs, Splinters, and God
A man went to find God in an old forest. He walked for days through vast tracts of wood and meadow, until he came upon a rot-smoldering stump. He sat down on the stump as it seemed a convenient chair to wait for god. Well, he thought this could be the stump of the tree … Continue reading Of Logs, Splinters, and God
