Holy Toledo - it's been a week already! It hardly seems like it. One thing I've noticed thus far: I am THINKING about writing more often. This is important. I cannot stress the importance enough, in fact. Particularly in fiction, I find that most of my writing takes place whan I am nowhere near a keyboard - it's when I'm simply thinking about my story, the various things that need to happen, why they need to happen, and of course, HOW to make them happen.
Poetry - particularly sensory stuff - is a LOT like that, I think. It's not enough to say "the sun is bright." You have to consider what to say, how to say it, WHO says it, and why, otherwise, it's just jibberish. Not that jibberish isn't important, either...in any case, here's today's take from my jumbled-up mind. Hope you enjoy!
Left Feet
A tuneless Song is sung in the waking of the day,
a melody which cannot be heard
to a rhythm that can only be felt
in the deep soul-pockets no one talks about.
The great Dance begins,
first a bow and an empty hand,
ritual movements of invitation and acceptance,
submission to the Composer's vision.
The Promenade first,
then the Song takes hold,
expression, form, each unique to the Company.
Here, one counts to be wary of steps,
another marks the turn,
lead and follow, lead and follow,
so the floor spins on its axis.
Except for the one standing in the corner.
Thanks for reading.
The Fat Kid
1 comment:
Your last line made me laugh, even if I was sort of waiting for it. I'm not sure how much this poem appeals to me simply as a reader, but the critical portions of my mind quickly find fodder, especially trying to figure out your use of capitalization. Only for emphasis? I wonder why you made the choices you did. There are moments of rhythm in these lines - nothing continuous, but moments nevertheless. Almost like fragments of songs, wound together into one whole. I find some of the phrases border on being too vague, yet such indistinctness leaves open many possible readings and meanings. Not bad.
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