Reading Hemingway's poetry, I understand something I knew already,
but had forgotten.
Hemingway's friends were better than his young words.
Hemingway's words appeared on pages poets envy.
Hemingway's words improved, not as poetry,
but as prose, fiction about life, raucous when
imbibed, one true sentence, then words
that go on from there to find their place.
Reading Hemingway's poetry, I understand something we
had forgotten:
Old Seventy Creek flows like Hemingway's words,
& you & I are only rounded stones,stained brown & we,
professing love, refuse to surface.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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it's these little reminders that help us surface. I love how Old Seventy Creek slipped into this poem. It's so familiar to those who have read you. And nicely rounds out the thought.
glad to see you post something new
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thanks so much, Jersene... As you note, surfacing needs only a small thing that helps us get to that point we see... Thanks also for the comment about Old Seventy Creek...
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beautiful, i have missed reading you.
♥
whisper
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Thanks, whisper... Great to hear you, even after I have been silent...
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