The poem is distracted.
She wrings her hands
and curses freely.
I am so mixed up, she cries.
I amb so not a sonnet,
and as for pentameter,
I’d as soon have distemper.
Am I just some kind
of lune-y?
Well mate, you tell me!
I used to love
sitting in sweet silence,
all the dear words
waiting for me to choose,
then telling me, ‘Tanka!’
but now I ghazal them whole
I, the poem without a soul.
I cannot bear to stay alone
without a ballad to my name.
With all my rhymes and metres gone
there is no fame, there’s only blame.
Listen! the high coo
of a mournful dove flying
away from this page...
April PAD Challenge #16: a mixed up poem
What a sad state of affairs! A poem with an identity crisis. I do like what you did with this prompt.
ReplyDeleteMary, that sounds almost dignified! :-D
DeleteLOL. Ah, Mary does put this poem well. A definite identity crisis we can all relate to when we poets hit writer's block even! ROFL. Enjoyed this poem, Rosemary. :)
Delete"Listen! the high coo
ReplyDeleteof a mournful dove flying
away from this page..." LOVE THIS!