Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Poetry is for reading pt. II

Tonight. SL library. 7ish.
I wrote another poem, but I'm not enamored with it. Nevertheless, it feels finished. Writing poems is funny, because I'll start a poem and for days it'll be on my mind all the time. After countless toiling and messing with it, one change turns it into a solid and the poem is ready to be put to bed. Not that's it's perfect - poems are never perfect - but it's reached it's final point in the transformation process. If that makes sense. Anyway.

Winged Ballerinas

Ripples become 42 foot tsunamis
and I rage at the sky
because I am exempt
from life’s bitterness

that lasts through winter
is only temporary –  being blinded
by the sun
is not the same as
stone-blind darkness

as I’m pushed out of the nest
but no no noNoNoNoNo no
to fly I’ll need
small feathers under wings

and I want to understand
if it’s a blessing or a curse,
but really I only want someone to ask

to know everything about me,
because everything about me

is pooling inside
and your whispers
make ripples. 

1 comment:

  1. Hannah, I can't come tonight, but these are wonderful poems. You make me want to try it.