I’m In The Mood For Poetry

I’m no great poet, but I did take a few poetry writing classes while in college, and I think that all novel writers should at least read poetry. A poet’s ability to convey pictures and emotions with only a few words is fantastic, and a good poet can leave stunning impressions. This ability for word-choice impact is a tool that novelists need as well.

Today, as I lay in bed and brood over my cold, I am struck with the urge for poetry. As I fumbled through my books of Frost and Blake, I found my old college notebook, full of some of my creative attempts. This one was a poetry-prose style piece. I still think I’m a much better novelist, but here is one for you to enjoy.

Conversation with a Photo of Strangers

He bends over you from behind, kissing your naked shoulder. Only the top of his head

is visible. What were you feeling? The wind, passing by to caress the leaves – the faded

linen blanket spread out beneath you – the brush of his lips on you skin, silent devotion?

Your eyes focus beyond the lens, fog gray, half closed; twin windows into your still

frame soul. What do you see? The vivid blurs of children at play – the flock of Yeats’

swans on the lake – a transparent, transposed moment when there is nothing but you and your lover?

Your mouth is parted like a door left ajar, an exhale of life, a pause in conversation.

What where you speaking of? I love picnics – the wind breathes like a poem with no words – my

lover’s touch soothes and shines like the guiding star?

Is that love caught on film cool and placid like a lazy summer picnic? Or is it hot like a

pontil of molten glass, burning, shimmering, melding mundane elements into something

beautiful? Does it burn still?

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