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Pillow Plants
As you sleep in the heat of evening,
covered in blankets early in your bed,
because the cold, scolding snow
pierces souls to sedation then cessation,
snowflakes feebly fall, and the tall snowmen,
wearing gaudy scarves, carrying canes of ice
walk and talk in the silent streets
of a mad winter midnight.
These dreams take us through another reality,
as we linger like plants on pillows.
What Starward said. Trust
What Starward said. Trust him, he knows poetry.
I was transported. "scolding snow". Wow! That's gold.
Thank you, Patricia, for the
Thank you, Patricia, for the kind compliment.
Starward
French Toast
Yes. I trust, admire and appreciate you (both) greatly.
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitues
Wow! How did I miss this
Wow! How did I miss this one? When I first read it, I thought of a couple of Pasternak's winter poems (I have been reading about his novel, Doctor Zhivago, and thus his poems are a little more immediate to me than they normally would have been), but this poem goes past that shared season to become entirely your own in what I now recognize as your inimitable and very individualized style. That last line reminds me of a line in the first draft of T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land, a line that Ezra Pound stupidly and thoughtlessly cancelled when he edited the poem: "And in the evening, through lace curtains, the aspidestra grieves." Decades ago, when I (quite undeservingly) was privileged to study with some very fine literary scholars, they taught me that when a Poet, like yourself, reminds me of some other poet or poets (Mallarme, Pasternak, Eliot) this resonance attaches the poem I am reading (in this case, yours) to the great poems that have preceded it; and this resonance, resulting in such an attachment, is part of the poem's literary value.
Starward