Thursday, November 11, 2010
A poem doesn't have to make sense to others except to itself
The hours sieved
through the empty room,
extracts a hunger
pure with want,
its indescribable concentrate
spreads itself
such that the walls
cannot contain this wilderness,
rare like
the corpse's
flower, pungent and
short-lived.
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5 comments:
The hours sieved
through the empty room,
extracts a hunger
That is wonderful, the whole piece has an intenseness, very powerful.
Thanks Susannah, though I feel I need to spend more time on it and push it even further.
Wow: this one is intense. Excellent unfolding of cold words; love the sense of existential emptiness in these words. Bravo.
I love this one too. The last stanza blows me away. Such beauty and pain, life and void, in so few words - well done.
Thanks Mark. I try to achieve this kind of effect with many of the poems I work on. I don't hit the mark on every one so I'm glad this one has this effect on you.
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