Poetizing

Some authors read while they’re writing, a way of drawing inspiration from the mechanics of how another tells a story. I won’t say it’s a bad idea, but it doesn’t work for me – whatever I gain is cancelled out by an extrinsic narrative competing for space in my thoughts.

Recently, however, the poet River Dixon volunteered to read one of my novels. I thought I might reciprocate and, to my surprise, I find I can read poetry without forgetting what I was trying to write. The man knows how to turn a phrase – visit him at The Stories In Between.

I’m not a poet, although I enjoyed the exercise during ENG302, and came away from author/lit professor Noley Reid’s tutelage feeling like I learned something. I wrote one poem I’m not too embarrased to share, although perhaps I should be.

First Impression

I woke thinking about the medlock relay
wondering what that might be
then knew my thoughts were deflected
by a poem stuck there

The arrow nocked and released
by a lady who tells us she has
curves slanting off
in unexpected directions

The words oddly tasting
matter-sweet from some damp
oven, hinting at a kitchen just
beyond a door

Too dark, I meandered, to enter without
hesitation, hanging a little off the
hinges, enough to be fascinating,
I wondered

If I met her, a younger me, at some
gathering, alabaster skin glowing in the
corner, drawing me into her slippery
web, would I

Try to kiss her, or after a few minutes,
draw back thinking, better not chance
that call, at two A.M. when she threatens
to throw herself out a window