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The Poet's Children
April 3, 2015
12:36 pm
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As I stumbled over the verse’s crippled feet, I searched

for sanctuary in the chapel of my spirit’s steeple. The chimes

sounded sweetly like a simile’s subtle song. As I listened

in silence to serenity's speech, I longed to hear the whimper

of inspiration’s birth or the rumble of gradual revelation

in my mind. No allusions would cloud my thoughts and tie

the present with the past. No alliteration allowed my madness

relief. Wronged and plagued by the refusal of the coveted,

forbidden fruit, I forced myself to swallow the lack

of metaphor’s medicinal taste. Though I prayed for grace

or guidance in the rearing of my mangled young, rejection

became my refrain. I seeked these things and many more

until I found the cemetery sheltering creativity’s disfigured

children. I had contributed my share to the estimation

of exposed, mutilated offsprings in outbursts of rage

and discontent-a mother only wants the best for her child.

 

I asked the hunchbacked caretaker, the adoptive father

of my neglected, uneven infants, where my last child lay.

It had been my pride of fourteen lines, but it had failed

to also be my joy. He pointed to the freshest grave, and

there I found the marker scratched with the inscription,

Here lies...The conceived idea had formed its limbs

inside my void, but no title had it breathed. I returned home

with new resolve to strengthen and nurture Petrarchan’s

youngest heir. I erased its scars and stretched its frame

in the most maternal torture. On the ground at my feet

lay crumpled sheets of paper, the siblings of my sonnet.

They too would be buried and dressed in funeral fashions

to disguise their deformities-like all the ones before them.

My missteps had made massacres, but this time my confidence

was completely placed in the treatment of my last. Crutches

have carried it for several years, yet it survives. Soon it shall

dance over the cemetery grounds with its swift and stable feet.

My identity can be found in my writing

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