Wednesday,
Trying to catch up on my posts. All poets write at least two (or more) poems about writing poems. here's one that I revised. Original was written about six months ago. It's always good to go back, I think, and rework poems... even if you believed the original draft was "just right." Why? Well, because things change, your skills get sharper and maybe you see things clearer than you did when you wrote the first draft.
Consciousness snores lightly, tight behind
those blurry eyes that still try to count
the sheep leaping about like wooly ballet dancers
inside my skull. Where are all my ghosts tonight?
Often enough they’re premature, sitting cross-legged
in the cobweb corner next to my bike, tapping gray toes
against the carpeted floor. You see, haunting's not
much fun for them as I bee-busily scratch out another poem.
And they don't like it when I include them in some random
non-rhyme I’ve created right before my beddy-bye.
Rather shy my demons past. They refuse to talk.
They know too well, any mad ramblings or ghostly
gossip they choose to spill will wind-up on the page.
For there’s nothing’s sacred to a true poet, not the dead,
living or the dying. All that forgotten youth, childhood
distortions, all those tiny minded monsters old men adore;
they’ll show themselves when the coffee’s stale enough,
when there’s little else worth writing about.
—rrw o2-17-13 (rewrites o8-o7-13)
Trying to catch up on my posts. All poets write at least two (or more) poems about writing poems. here's one that I revised. Original was written about six months ago. It's always good to go back, I think, and rework poems... even if you believed the original draft was "just right." Why? Well, because things change, your skills get sharper and maybe you see things clearer than you did when you wrote the first draft.
Ghost Poetry
Early, early morning. It’s
early morning.
The brain’s already sleeping.Consciousness snores lightly, tight behind
those blurry eyes that still try to count
the sheep leaping about like wooly ballet dancers
inside my skull. Where are all my ghosts tonight?
Often enough they’re premature, sitting cross-legged
in the cobweb corner next to my bike, tapping gray toes
against the carpeted floor. You see, haunting's not
much fun for them as I bee-busily scratch out another poem.
And they don't like it when I include them in some random
non-rhyme I’ve created right before my beddy-bye.
Rather shy my demons past. They refuse to talk.
They know too well, any mad ramblings or ghostly
gossip they choose to spill will wind-up on the page.
For there’s nothing’s sacred to a true poet, not the dead,
living or the dying. All that forgotten youth, childhood
distortions, all those tiny minded monsters old men adore;
they’ll show themselves when the coffee’s stale enough,
when there’s little else worth writing about.
—rrw o2-17-13 (rewrites o8-o7-13)
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