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.
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,
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
Thanks for the mention.
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