His fingers were external,
filling the page, I'd blanked
with an agent full of white
like the men I used to write for
until the paper, with its lines
missing in action,
had doubled in thickness-
Unlike my shape.
My fingers were to used to tapping,
the pen's stroke felt strange
and foreign like a feather would
in this century-
So he took it up for me
writing messages to sages
and pulling our volumes
down from dusty shelves.
And all the things I'd penned,
with the fingernails, hair,
shards of poetry, and memories,
the mites that mocked my work-
Fell to my lap, fell open
showing themselves to him
and he saw, or he will see
everything beneath the layers-
of dust.
Author notes
critical comments appreciated.
A contest entry
- Dust by Cannonsfire.
650 points, ended March 28, 2008, 16 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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Thanks for the clappies.
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I agree, this is damn fine.
Can't think of anything to critique. Dust is such a hard word to use without sounding cliche, so if anything I'd drop the end, or change it. But the contest prompt is dust, so... lol.
So perhaps it belongs here. Just my opinion. Lord knows I've used dust in many poems, enough to keep my critics sneezing for years.
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I've debated over that line, but I wrote it for my fiance and he likes that line, so I promised him I'd keep it. Thanks for the comment...
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I could be critical, but I don't see much to criticise, I find it strong, good metaphor and very literate, in fact I will say I think it is damn good. Love, C
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Thanks so much! I appreciate the comment, and I'm glad you liked it. I worked really hard on this entry.
S
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