Hear this at Spoken. I have been enjoying trying out Spoken.co and am finding that it really fuels my wanting to write.
The wounded poem was found crawling
into that dark space between the oak
and the alleyway. With barely enough strength
to fight off the advancing pack of smutty
Limericks that rule this part of town,
it tried to utter some plosive alliteration –
“Be bold! They can but bury beauty!”
– but the consonants died unformed
on its fish-out-of-water lips.
Had it not been for the earnest youth
that took it home swaddled in damp
similes, the poem may not have survived the night.
She listened closely to the heartbeat,
that was a mess of anapests and weak spondees,
with the care of a watchmaker, resisting
the urge to turn feeble ticks into driving tickity-tocks,
to let the lines linger a little longer, and in the dawn
it managed to keep down an original metaphor,
growing stronger, it started to look less like a ditty
scrawled on a bathroom wall, and with renewed dignity
began to stand for something, and could sound
its own clarion call, to take a drastic measure,
to write something – anything at all –
between the next line break and the caesura
urging other earnest youths to rescue those that fall.