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July 18, 2006
good weather for fishing by *WhoKilledKirov is a striking poem that exhibits great use of language and demonstrates how a good poem can dim the lights and shut out the sounds of daily life. It establishes a mood and catches the reader up in its current, flowing slowly past deep water and banks hidden by bushes, leaving more to discover for the adventurous second reader – for others who would rather just enjoy the sights and sounds of a fishing trip, the weather is gorgeous. Oh, and don’t worry, when you’re done, time speeds back up to normal.
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Suggested by positivitize
Literature Text
.
He thinks it is good weather for fishing.
The second woman
with old hair and powder made from crushed seashells
sips swamp water from the mouth of the man with a flat Crow nose
and he culls her hair with hands, not his alone,
turning her neck into a cornstalk leaning,
whispering “Bia, Bia”.
He tells the other one, in stockings rolled to her ankles,
that the Whip-poor-will was out last night halving babies
from moonstones, into the dirt they come from.
And yes, he saw the fox swallowing
up the road with scatterpaws,
a fishing rod tucked behind his terracotta fur.
A tick to tell time by; that water must be teaming.
The second woman hangs her body in the air
long enough to say “I never trust a man whose mama
didn’t teach him the piano.”
And what kind of fool, with the pockmark face,
lopes in a room beneath the kitchen floor
building trains no man can sit in,
building engines to run on light bulbs.
His fingers, like sewing needles, thread clay mountains
with floss grass and black glass beads meant for coal.
He’ll collect himself a world with his mouth as the sun
and pin bait minnows to streams of blue paint.
He thinks it is good weather for fishing.
The second woman
with old hair and powder made from crushed seashells
sips swamp water from the mouth of the man with a flat Crow nose
and he culls her hair with hands, not his alone,
turning her neck into a cornstalk leaning,
whispering “Bia, Bia”.
He tells the other one, in stockings rolled to her ankles,
that the Whip-poor-will was out last night halving babies
from moonstones, into the dirt they come from.
And yes, he saw the fox swallowing
up the road with scatterpaws,
a fishing rod tucked behind his terracotta fur.
A tick to tell time by; that water must be teaming.
The second woman hangs her body in the air
long enough to say “I never trust a man whose mama
didn’t teach him the piano.”
And what kind of fool, with the pockmark face,
lopes in a room beneath the kitchen floor
building trains no man can sit in,
building engines to run on light bulbs.
His fingers, like sewing needles, thread clay mountains
with floss grass and black glass beads meant for coal.
He’ll collect himself a world with his mouth as the sun
and pin bait minnows to streams of blue paint.
Literature
Summer
Webbed skin stretches
a pale oddity
across my spread toes.
Push
against the hanging heat
low, sea-level lurking,
cocooning my unfolded
body.
drops of coolness, beads
sliding down my copper-sun
skin.
Evaporate not-
absorb.
water filled balloon, bobbing
lazily, a frog's translucent
egg, tinged with the promise of
pink.
Heat pulls it down, pinions me
to the concrete sidewalks
always scraping
my grass-stained knees.
Literature
Black Bird
I've told you I'm staying in tonight,
you, as usual, haven't listened.
Negligent out of pain, perhaps
a thorn lifted off some nightmare
flower. You ask me to remove it,
have tried a shower. I'm thinking
if the water can't free it, how will I?
Besides, I've seen a bird, which,
as it starts to trill, suggests were I
such a thing, I'd rather be dumb.
Still, my not singing like a bird,
does it mean you can't call me one?
Again, you're not listening. And
it's flown off now into that gloom
where everything feels heavier,
but I don't suppose is. It presses
like the sloping walls of a Gallic
town, spied from an
Literature
umbrellas
I.
A boy putters in the hotel
corridor, leashed
by a single thread of duty--
it is wound
twice around the doorknob,
pulls taut at his wrist.
Recede through the keyhole,
and his keepers are weary,
sprawled like dead
leaves on bedspreads,
and fading
into sleep.
II.
A small girl wails, maybe three,
her teethy pitch escalating
by years.
In the rented night,
her last cry strangles,
undone by hands
on wrists.
III.
A forty-foot red curtain separates us
from the amphibious stage.
At the cirque du soleil
(i squint to see the sun),
clowns chase leaks
with patchy umbrellas.
This is a present, a moment
like a birthday. But
Suggested Collections
.
and we were always by the water
- when the water was just a
sad girl on a wet day.
and we were always by the water
- when the water was just a
sad girl on a wet day.
© 2006 - 2024 WhoKilledKirov
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I approve.