In Hornsey
N8
resting.
From somewhere
a rising crescendo
'Ohhh, My God, yes.
That's so fuckin' good!'
On the walkway
the plasticised soles
of black pumps
slap the pavement
obscenely,
I think.
But ...
Hang on!
I hold
slowing
And
look up.
*From a cherry tree
an exquisite
pink blossom
releases herself
gliding
closer
&
closer*.
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 1:45 PM UTC
In Hornsey
N8
resting.
From somewhere
a rising crescendo
'Ohhh, My God, yes.
That's so fuckin' good!'
On the walkway
the plasticised soles
of black pumps
slap the pavement
obscenely,
I think.
But ...
Hang on!
I hold
slowing
And
look up.
*From a cherry tree
an exquisite
pink blossom
releases herself
gliding
closer
&
closer*.
Unfortunately, this poem hardly works on a mobile. It needs a wide screen to catch the visual effect.
I've seen the way some write here on HePo using the line breaks to punctuate and I wanted to try.
There are other techniques, too, visual puns, that I love.
Anyway, when is a poem over? For me I tinker over days, through many hours, moving stuff around until I can't move anything any more because the effect of moving it jars with the intention. The intention? I don't know, it's intuitive. This poem for instance is problematic because what I really liked about it was the juxtaposition of a blossom and my own crabbiness, but that may not work for others, which would have meant that my love of the blossom would have been wasted. Ahhh, perhaps, if that's the case, she'll come back to me in some other way; for my love of the blossom springs, of course, eternal ...
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