Bring for me
loose change
to pay the ferryman,
these old poets
change everything
their cloistered wars
so rarefied that only Momma knows
the texture of their cures.
The spick and polish of their words
settle in the hollow and frighten deer,
seethe and bubble in the cauldron
till they have made a fine linen
to cover the sidewalks, a pastiche
for a tapestry in which nothing
glows
save the gold they’re given
for their bartered soul,
a cranefly towards a white ceiling
and no-one to play with on the other side;
to make the lie appear
like the queen on a folding table
for a glass of wine and a soft pillow,
a sinecure of fresh faces
given the surface of a shallow dream.
Author notes
note: VILLANCICO= (sp) "Song of Praise"
In a list
A contest entry
- you put the poet in poetry. by apples fell.
875 points, ended October 5, 2008, 44 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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Oh. Well....I see a few different things here and I like how the quality of the poetry reflects towards the poet and is not just wrapped around the observations of a time or in this case, the place written in theory. I have read your stuff on the site and in the past and never commented...Probably because of some mad form of dysfunction that I always suffer from, especially in these later summer days. I liked how the second stanza went into the third, but I did think "glows" on its own line felt awkward, with the rest of the piece in mind. The ending is whimsy without being false and I like that quality in the work. You know, I could actually read this with no punctuation just fine, but since I don't use it in my own work...Maybe that is why I can detect the internal movement of the piece better. If the ferryman collects anything it is probably the little scraps of human behavior we leave ever conscious behind us and discarded. The ending of your piece feels so, right. That's really the only way I can say it...It just does what it has to do. I will keep an eye on more from you in the future. A fine entry, to say the least.
Thanks so much for entering and good luck.
;
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some are given gold, some cheese -
- that's when the ferryman burps
and cerberus wags his tail
one head for the poet bones
two heads for refrain
but only if it rhymes...
wonder what he has to say about "modern" poetry...
does he barks confused?
does he drools?
is he paying attention before or after?
that only if he's still on the payroll
I fear menstrual poetry made him ran away howlling curses
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I liked this poem quite a bit. It has an elegant flare that is lacking in many poems I've read.
I particularly liked:
"to make the lie appear
like the queen on a folding table
for a glass of wine and a soft pillow"
A very interesting image indeed.
Well spoken.
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Love and death to a poet can mean the same thing, for love is like a thousand little deaths and the numbness involved. To sing a song of praise to them and how they write it is a perception maybe you think old poets did it better than most, but I like the way you do it too.
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You are the only poet I know ...
that can write a Villancico and make it sound like a Saraband ... AND so exceedingly well ...
The following words made me shudder:
a pastiche
for a tapestry in which nothing
glows
save the gold they’re given
for their bartered soul
Yes. You put the poet in poetry. Indeed.
Love
Myra
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I have paid the ferryman 3 times now, and each time he's given me my money back... thank goodness he has!! as i'm not ready yet to find out about all the dead poets, scribbling wretches and muses all in tattered boats
i like how you write love and death
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