It is not the dark,
the slick wet,
cold chain,
pictures on the wall.
It is not the game,
face-fixed, calling out:
horse, pig, soldier--in flickers
like a fever
dream. It is not
the echo,
the lisp from the fire,
but life that passes
from behind—a life
of outlines.
It is the scream of the eyes
beyond the mouth.
It is the horse.
Yes! The horse, then the release
and the return
beneath the dividing line,
the separation,
with shadows coalescing.
~~~
Something I did about 3 years ago, but bena's thread made me think of it. I cut a line, adjusted some line breaks, and wanted to see if it worked. I would have posted the earlier thread but trying to do the update there messed up the fonts of the poem and added a ton of spaces between the stanza breaks rather than mess with it I reposted.
~~~
Latest Edit, I decided to try some changes suggested by Mercedes. I cut the last line, a few "the"s in S1, and made some minor word changes.
the slick wet,
cold chain,
pictures on the wall.
It is not the game,
face-fixed, calling out:
horse, pig, soldier--in flickers
like a fever
dream. It is not
the echo,
the lisp from the fire,
but life that passes
from behind—a life
of outlines.
It is the scream of the eyes
beyond the mouth.
It is the horse.
Yes! The horse, then the release
and the return
beneath the dividing line,
the separation,
with shadows coalescing.
~~~
Something I did about 3 years ago, but bena's thread made me think of it. I cut a line, adjusted some line breaks, and wanted to see if it worked. I would have posted the earlier thread but trying to do the update there messed up the fonts of the poem and added a ton of spaces between the stanza breaks rather than mess with it I reposted.
~~~
Latest Edit, I decided to try some changes suggested by Mercedes. I cut the last line, a few "the"s in S1, and made some minor word changes.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson