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Literature Text
Recedes the white
Out of the year
Bemoan the night
In wintry tear.
Alas! Away
A reign of snow;
Can spring preserve
The grace of woe?
Out of the year
Bemoan the night
In wintry tear.
Alas! Away
A reign of snow;
Can spring preserve
The grace of woe?
Literature
Everything You Borrowed
On Sunday afternoon,
after exiting the church,
you plucked the sun from the sky
and hid it in your palms
so that when I held your hands
they would no longer be cold.
When Monday night arrived
you snatched every single star
and used my tears to make
a necklace.
Tuesday's empty dawn shone
through the cracks of the door--
you stole the promise of what
could never be
and draped it around my shoulders.
After Wednesday's twilight passed,
you grabbed the clouds
and wove a tapestry of lies
that I hung on the walls
of my prison.
Thursday crept through us
on silent tiptoes,
waiting for us to take notice--
instead, we merely waited
for midnight to
Literature
Midnight Thought Process
Perhaps the trees live so long because they have no idea how long they've been around.
I stood with my wine glass and cigarette staring into the night as I heard the sound of fireworks, I wondered if the giant tree before me knew it was new years. There is nothing different from 11:59 to 12:00 yet we feel like it's a world away, because we judge many things in time, and we keep track of time in years.
I sat hugging a pillow, watching a 4 month old baby sleeping during his dream-feed and I wondered if the baby knew it was a boy. There is nothing different from a boy baby and a girl baby yet we feel like we have to define them because we judg
Literature
Heat Advisory
We are an air-mass thunderstorm at the height
of an Indian summer -- a cloudburst colliding
into a cyclone, raising the temperature of any
who wander through our sweaty inversion.
I soar above the earth buoyed on your thermals,
straight into a clap of thunder conceived by
lightning fever. A roiling heatwave travels
across our connection, evaporating the atmosphere
surrounding the eye of our storm. Your humid
breath wisps over the thermodynamics of my skin,
pushing cumulonimbus up the drought in my spine.
Muggy kisses trail down my body like volcanic ash,
a haze blurring the lines between our hurricanes.
And as the barometer spikes,
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A look outside, and the poet is born.
Comments19
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Overall Vision Originality Technique ImpactYour rispetto (though not technically a rispetto, but because of its construction and its coherence, I'll call it that) is good.
This work, in itself, is entirely up to the reader to decide what they feel and how they take into consideration the romanticism of this poem. Others, however, could take it in a Frost form of cynical naturalism. That is the key - the openness with which this work speaks of how the winter makes way for spring, leaving the protagonist to wonder whether the winter can preserve what spring could not.
Or even for that matter, whether spring could preserve, what winter could not?
In any case, the use of two juxtapositions to keep the ending open is good. Its an abstract idea (to this critic) so I'll take it as I see it:
a poem speaking of the coming of winter, wherein we must tread with caution. A sound word of advice to anyone who is willing to look out of the window: Do not go gentle into that good night.