Monday, July 26, 2010

How does a poem work?

Is it mechanical? Levers, pulleys, engines?
It is skeleton with internal organs?
Does it age?
Is death part of its genetic framework?
It is mostly body? Mostly mind?

Are these artificial distractions?

About a meal, this, too, constructed, revised over time. The good kept. The not-so never attempted again.

1 comment:

  1. bang comes to mind

    in the early day the villages are empty
    no one but the milk truck driver
    has anything much to say
    still the day unrolls like a rug
    with a bit of sunlight in the mix
    I watched out the window for her to get there
    she brings me biscuits if she's near
    a single figure in the square
    kept staring at a stone
    I got out of the way
    when I heard the loud noise
    a rebel's missing, torn to shreds
    his lady's weeping in her dawn