All posts tagged: poetics

A Clever And Cruel Man – A Poem By Carol J Forrester #DVersePoets

You and your dim accuracy,head lolled loose eyes whitened and widenedtill the pupils blink out.Words come clipped,ransomed love lettersread like shopping lists,or obituaries. Call this a grey life,the air sucked clear your mouth a pursed funnel,but I am the culprit. Found the bruises of your hands,like marble sponge,cold as stonethe heat slipping over youwithout warming. In the well shade you sitwhile I sink deeper, darkerfor the waterline.Come up spitting dustand excuses.Shoulder a shallow cloakof indifference,already the hem unpickedby those grasping handsalways tappingrappingat the weakest point. Feel them at my templestonight, tomorrow, today,at the weakest pointalways tapping away. Ah, I’m really hoping I got this right. The five Samuel Greenberg charms that I used for my response are as follows: dim accuracy / grey life / marble sponge / the well shade / shallow cloak. I tried to emulate Greenberg’s abstract style (though not quite as drastically as he employs the abstract).

The Simple Things – #DVersePoetics

When the trainer asks ‘did you forget to breath’ it sounds stupid, and unfortunately true. A little like thinking too much about the doing so the thoughts twist knots into your limbs. The panic welling in much the same way as your lungs swelling up against your rib-cage. You were sure you were, then you’re not sure, suddenly so unsure you can’t even breath without counting each gasp. In… out… in… in… out.. out.. In… In… In… Out… Out… Out.. …

Somewhere Between The Spoons

I found the words I was looking for tucked away inside the attic, between the nineteen-twenties bicycle pump that might one day come in handy and the vinyls we’d inherited without anything to play them on.   I peeled them from their hiding place, shook the dust loose to gain a better look. Decided to keep them for a rainy day, and pressed their petals between the pages of yet another notebook.   When the freezer broke poems of you came flooding free. I didn’t know that was where I’d stored them. Perhaps I’d been trying, much like always, to keep them from going bad.   Sun-baked and burnt, stories of another world crawled across the decking like ants in neat lines of black type, each bearing the weight of a word count five times their size.   Halfway through the washing was the character I’d been waiting for. Curled inside the flannel, I almost felt guilty for shaking her free when her elbows clacked against her knees all limbs and adventures tangled up as …