#linebreaks - Hello Poetry

(I wrote you most days from the rainforest floor) This is where the moss was and they were too I am out of touch and missing all at once unable to get back to the surface swimming next to a blue flame glowing ectoplasm glitters the tour guide is a woman’s voice under the stars and everything concave is inside out far away from what it once was, uninverted happy is the uncertain I looked for you in the chrysalis and you were still wearing your socks when you disappeared I found them in my drawer three days later tucked themselves in still covered in glitter from the caves I had so many questions when I reached out my hands stuck to the walls and swallowed my palm silicone and retreating light it wanted me to stay in a time I could only help but leave the artists gold leafed my throat like it was delicate and ready to go on stage wearing shoe covers walking and talking gently avoiding swimming their arms the foxgloves developed negatives backwards in gelatine over water pasted down every darkness bright green lime green stinging immediately nauseous turning to stone under the gaze of the walls.

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Apr 30, 2024

Apr 30, 2024 at 7:08 AM UTC

jodie-whitchurch

THE MOSS POEM

(I wrote you most days from the rainforest floor) This is where the moss was and they were too I am out of touch and missing all at once unable to get back to the surface swimming next to a blue flame glowing ectoplasm glitters the tour guide is a woman’s voice under the stars and everything concave is inside out far away from what it once was, uninverted happy is the uncertain I looked for you in the chrysalis and you were still wearing your socks when you disappeared I found them in my drawer three days later tucked themselves in still covered in glitter from the caves I had so many questions when I reached out my hands stuck to the walls and swallowed my palm silicone and retreating light it wanted me to stay in a time I could only help but leave the artists gold leafed my throat like it was delicate and ready to go on stage wearing shoe covers walking and talking gently avoiding swimming their arms the foxgloves developed negatives backwards in gelatine over water pasted down every darkness bright green lime green stinging immediately nauseous turning to stone under the gaze of the walls.

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An exercise in line breaks. See below Give me notice (Version One) Give me notice For life is short I might have more to do Than rest on your doorstep Hoping you will open the latch Greet me with a smile Suggest we spend the day Viewing the community pond Feeding the ducks Cementing our bond Give me notice So I will not Fall in love alone Give Me Notice (Version Two) GIVE ME NOTICE Give me notice Life can be short I might have more to do Than rest on your doorstep Hoping you will open the latch Greet me with a smile Suggest we spend the day By the village pond Feeding the ducks Cementing our bond Give me notice So I will not fall in love alone

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Oct 24, 2019

Oct 24, 2019 at 6:28 PM UTC

william-a-poppen

Two versions of Give Me Notice

An exercise in line breaks. See below Give me notice (Version One) Give me notice For life is short I might have more to do Than rest on your doorstep Hoping you will open the latch Greet me with a smile Suggest we spend the day Viewing the community pond Feeding the ducks Cementing our bond Give me notice So I will not Fall in love alone Give Me Notice (Version Two) GIVE ME NOTICE Give me notice Life can be short I might have more to do Than rest on your doorstep Hoping you will open the latch Greet me with a smile Suggest we spend the day By the village pond Feeding the ducks Cementing our bond Give me notice So I will not fall in love alone

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I wonder sometimes why droll observations; recollections of a personal and sometimes confessional nature, (interesting enough in themselves – if well-written), get called “poems” when broken up by weird line spacing. Nothing against descriptive prose – but I don’t think it is truly Poetry. You can call it that if you want; I don’t mind.

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Oct 14, 2015

Oct 14, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC

connecthook

Strike the Prose

I wonder sometimes why droll observations; recollections of a personal and sometimes confessional nature, (interesting enough in themselves – if well-written), get called “poems” when broken up by weird line spacing. Nothing against descriptive prose – but I don’t think it is truly Poetry. You can call it that if you want; I don’t mind.

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