Violin
He draws in seizures: refuting the air as a space but as arms
like oils embracing, soldering a deep burgundy brook
balancing it's waves on a cheek
like a map to a Muse who knows she'll break his heart
to keep his spoken
with a crest of comb and dagger,
and he leans in parched kisses, swallowing kestrels
and whispers and armies of whales in the sky,
every breath of your eye is a barnacle in sleep
by the tickling of his hair, like an orchid growing
with hearts as hummingbirds wings
and the sound of weeping,
and the sound of straining iron keels.
He draws in seizures.
Isobel
Wed 23rd Dec 2009 23:15
It could have been me on a bad day trying to pick a fight... However, I'm normally like you John - I like straight forward poetry that I can easily understand. Being on WOL for any length of time though, exposes you to so many different styles, that eventually you start to be more open minded. I can see the attraction of the unusual imagery and the sound of words - for sound's sake. Marianne seems to be so excellent at that.