No eyes will parse
My squiggled lines,
With meaning clear
Enough to slap your face.
Their joy is in the search-
The digging out of what
Is longed for, in the
Most obscurant phrases.
No hand will tousle
Rumpled hair
On recognizing that
Another saw the selfsame bud
And helped unfold it
To a bloom, so
Those in later times
Can share the fragrance.
No lips will purse
On being told
With unmistaken
Clarity what is,
For that's a lesson
Not adventure
And the readers
Have dressed up for the hunt.
ljm
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 11:10 AM UTC
No eyes will parse
My squiggled lines,
With meaning clear
Enough to slap your face.
Their joy is in the search-
The digging out of what
Is longed for, in the
Most obscurant phrases.
No hand will tousle
Rumpled hair
On recognizing that
Another saw the selfsame bud
And helped unfold it
To a bloom, so
Those in later times
Can share the fragrance.
No lips will purse
On being told
With unmistaken
Clarity what is,
For that's a lesson
Not adventure
And the readers
Have dressed up for the hunt.
ljm
I was once told "If it's not obscure, it's not poetic". Really?