The blackcurrant words
seemed grotesque to you
on the vast tarnished landscape.
Letters curling as October leaves
pricked your old silver eyes,
slapdash lines
and glitter thoughts
splurged upon your paintings.
You were a poppy,
a dark, minute dot,
but every idea burst in gaudy red
from you.
The poems would arrive,
would come eventually,
leap from your fingers,
punch onto the page
and would it be good enough?
Your product, complete.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
The blackcurrant words
seemed grotesque to you
on the vast tarnished landscape.
Letters curling as October leaves
pricked your old silver eyes,
slapdash lines
and glitter thoughts
splurged upon your paintings.
You were a poppy,
a dark, minute dot,
but every idea burst in gaudy red
from you.
The poems would arrive,
would come eventually,
leap from your fingers,
punch onto the page
and would it be good enough?
Your product, complete.
Written: May 2013 and April 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, another one related somewhat to Sylvia Plath.
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