October 28, 2014 at 9:45 am (Dani Clark, Poetry)

So many verses come into my head and fly out before they have endings,

the beginnings of which may sound something like this:

Permit me to manipulate a metaphor like Chrysalis,

even if I am not the first,

and everyone, no exception, changes with time.

Or the one that started with me cataloguing

the sundry bits my son collected and had me

put in my pocket, how they mixed with the lint

and somehow signified the present moment.

Crabapples, bright little darts, I passed a tree heavy with them

and knew they deserved to make a starring appearance in a line.

I don’t remember why, or what they were supposed to mean,

but the color reminded me of nail polish.

One day I swear I will get to describing a female ancestor

in rural Campania a hundred years ago,

sighing or crying under a bright sun or a crescent moon, I can’t decide,

the same effect that Robert Penn Warren used in Circus in the Attic

to make a point about Relative Truth and Ephemerality.

Attic, now that’s got serious psychoanalytic potential

even though, our house had none, no basement either come to think of it.

Wait, is that a symbol of the flatness that pervaded us?

Doe-a-deer and to thine own self be true.

We’re all skipping softly down the Road to Xanadu.

Of late I’ve been reading the ambiguous Mr. Pasolini too.

See what I mean, facile rhymes and ten cent words

I get them all for free, but never move ink to paper smear.

Hold up wait a minute, now what just happened here?

– Dani Clark



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