Apr '18
26
I found it a bit challenging to wrangle today's rescued poem out of the jumbled-word mess. None of the words particularly inspired me, there was no 'you', 'we', or 'they', and there was a distinct lack of useful prepositions.
For some reason I seem to have maintained the sing-song rhythm of the last couple of days.
Just a reminder that these poems are not really edited much at all, and if I were to edit them, I'd have to make sure I replaced words with other words from the two pages of text so that the rescue process isn't compromised.
This little rescuee jingled its way out of pages 52 and 108 of The Devourers and Marie Tarnowska respectively, both by Annie Vivanti Chartres.
When a word is a bullet
Her pillow sobbed with grief at night
her bed lay hard and bitter
her wound could not be bound or dressed
her sunken heart had languished.
Every word of his were flowers,
his lips were lines of sunshine.
When he called her, she would smile,
gladdened; dancing; trembling.
Futile, now, to speak about
the sun, the apple-blossoms;
he had whispered to her: l o v e.
Then he had laughed, and left her.
For some reason I seem to have maintained the sing-song rhythm of the last couple of days.
Just a reminder that these poems are not really edited much at all, and if I were to edit them, I'd have to make sure I replaced words with other words from the two pages of text so that the rescue process isn't compromised.
This little rescuee jingled its way out of pages 52 and 108 of The Devourers and Marie Tarnowska respectively, both by Annie Vivanti Chartres.
When a word is a bullet
Her pillow sobbed with grief at night
her bed lay hard and bitter
her wound could not be bound or dressed
her sunken heart had languished.
Every word of his were flowers,
his lips were lines of sunshine.
When he called her, she would smile,
gladdened; dancing; trembling.
Futile, now, to speak about
the sun, the apple-blossoms;
he had whispered to her: l o v e.
Then he had laughed, and left her.
05/01/2018 01:27:16 AM
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