Dya know what

I'm posting another poem, already, and you'd think I'd have better things to be doing, but I really don't right now, Mr VC is out at a school concert of some sort, Danger Cushions is miraculously in bed - preparing for his big day tomorrow (9 month old check up!! - I'm very excited, they're going to tell me he's a genius and that I win a free years supply of nappies since they've never seen a child so advanced, in such a modest understated kind of way)... so I sat me down and wrote a poem, I have to acknowledge it is somewhat inspired by another poem I came across in class last night - a little number called Similes - by Charles Reznikoff. Yes I'm going to classes by the way. Just one a week, and just for a few weeks... it has the intriguing title "Parallel Worlds, how to build them with words" and is facilitated by Trevor Joyce, and I'm rather liking it.

Anyway - here's me poem

Hiss

She’s eating her words now.
Fierce watery words they are too.
She could never wash with them, they’re too scarce and sputtering.
She tried to drown Seanie in them, but it was only a drip drip drip, drilling
a hole in his ear.
Through to his brain.
True, and down the drain with that relationship.
No type of a ship could’ve gotten across that tempest, the temper on her.
And her holding up each phrase as if he should listen.
She wrote him a letter too.
She wrote him a poem.
She carved his name on her arm, and on a tree, and in cheese from the fridge.
She soaked herself in soft old talk about his early days with her, their
happy times.
Her mouth is dry with calling him.
What she said was what she said, and it hailed out of her frozen sometimes, or misted in her quiet breath, or lashed with the warm enthusiasm of a summer storm, fat drops of things she said, thick streams of sayings, flowing, leaking.
All she ever said gushes with the rest -
white noise tearing through the string vest of space.









and now the poem by Charles Reznikoff -


"Similes

Indifferent as a statue
to the slogan
scribbled on its pedestal.

The way an express train
snubs the passengers at a local station.

Like a notebook forgotten on a seat in the bus,
full of names, addresses and telephone numbers:
important, no doubt, to the owner—
but of no interest whatever
to anyone else.

Words like drops of water on a stove—
a hiss and gone."




- and yes there's a heap of sweeping still to be done here....