"There's not much doubt in any of our minds that no complete idea springs fully formed from our brow,
needing only a handshake and a signature on the contract to send it off into the world to make twenty-five billion dollars.
The germ of the idea grows slowly..." - Walt Kelly

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Chatham Station: Words

Last night I decided I would do something I've never tried before: writing a poem series (that is, tell a story through a series of poems). The series is going to be called "Chatham Station," and this is the first installment, "Words."

I spilled down the inside curve
Waited for the edge to catch me
Hopped off and upward
Leapt from pillar to pillar to peak
Slid across icy flatness
To columns almost silent
Tipped the spike and landed
Tumbling into 13, the valley.

Struggled then to the hiss sound
Mitigated on the roads' surfaces
Despite the barbed obstruction
Impending like pinnacle through clouds
Stepped the single notch
Lurched off the bow of the earth
Barely grasped the last ledge end.

But still,
she remained unacquainted
with my fervor.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Brand New, The Archers Bows Have Broken

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