Apr '18 16
As usual, today's rescued poem posed a few challenges. In the source jumble of words there wasn't a great selection of interesting nouns; the verbs weren't strong; and although there were plenty of adjectives, most were not specific or at least not very evocative.

The result was a strange little reflexive/reflective rescuee that inched its way out of pages 204 and 99 of The Devourers and Marie Tarnowska respectively, both by Annie Vivanti Chartres.

What she was to me

Brightest mind long pressed like roses in a trap:
she was afraid, never quite understanding why.
They spoke words from her book of crazy, and smiled;
they read words from her book of forgotten, and laughed.
She will tell you that the silence of a story never written is a real fear,
that scornful people kissed her mournful eyes,
said, who are you? do you know?
why must it be you? you could turn away.
Listen, if tones do not ring clearly from her room
soon her world will empty
her head will leave
her heart will shut down.
Her despair took me unawares.
Now, now I know she was me.

Posted by Jennifer Liston


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