Upon violent surges and stretches of words
regurgitated from fingers and tapped into blocks,
you glare at me, all backlit and blackness on a simulated page.
I grab at your edges, pulling and pushing,
straightening syllables and teasing the syntax,
replacing punctuation and fluffing alliteration,
only to quickly shake it loose,
dangling knotted lyrics in disarray.
Blankness blinks before the cursor,
chiding me of my own incompetence—
I could cut the hesitation in the air
with any line of another poet’s brilliance.
Their poems tamed and obedient,
with a healthy, glistening shine and no frizz.
I try again, I keep trying despite futility,
and wrap you up tightly to force you into form,
like a rigid bun atop a prima ballerina.
You shift and squirm and spring
outward all at once with a splattering,
as if your ink had reached a pressure point,
unable to withstand the constant change.
Where did I put that mop and bucket?
a/n: Anyone have an opinion on whether or not I should take the last line and make it the title? I'm leaning toward yes... but I can't decide
How about "Formless Futility"? I love your metaphoric expressions. I still can not figure out how you do it. Do you take visual cues? My place is too empty to look around and be inspired. I see an unmade bed, an unused paint roller, some cob webs in the corner, a jar of change, prescription bottles, a fishing pole, an open closet that still needs winter clothes packed, a dusty bottle of Windex, and a slip of paper the dog warden left on my door warning me I have 4 days to get a license. Country song maybe....poem eeeh!
The following users say thank you to Forgewright for this useful post:tlhopkinson
The prima ballerina line is genius...all the metaphors and descriptions are great as well, but this was my favorite line. The first stanza is especially great and fun to read due to all the...drama...I can picture. Great write!
The following users say thank you to SerenaLantha for this useful post:tlhopkinson
@Forgewright this one was actually inspired by a piece I read by Anne Bradstreet... check it out here:
Since she was referring to her writing as children, I had to do something else, so I went with just talking to the actual words on the screen. Then all of a sudden it started sounding like I was trying to style my hair, so I went with it, that's how I got to the ballerina bun... my daughter wears her hair that way almost every day, and she is prouder of a perfect ballerina bun then she is of the actual dances she performs!
At any rate... I do often feel like I need a mop and bucket to clean up the mess I make when constructing a poem... and then revision often follows... maybe next time I'll throw in the dusty windex bottle . Those were all great descriptions... and list poems are one of my favorites... go read my Footnote to a Footnote .
My place is too empty
to look around and be inspired--
an unmade bed, an unused paint roller,
a jar of change, cob webs in the corner,
a fishing pole, prescription bottles,
and unpacked winter clothes hanging sadly
in an open closet.
There. See? You speak poetry friend... even a metaphor there... the clothes definitely represent skeletons...
There again you prove that less is more!
Poetry defies the laws of mathematics.
Science bows to it as well.
Adding value to the worthless,
poets are the true magicians.
Wands of gold
that flow with intention.
Rich with meaningful invention.
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