Tag: Writing
Mordent Figment
Today my pen challenges
for a poem that is not just another scar or bruise
but a true and innocent gaiety.
I know I will only find it
where the given exceeds desire and need,
where senses are freed from all anxiety.
But my pen is an idealist,
an indelible fanatic, a razor-edged puritan, poor thing,
dreaming of calligraphic ecstasy.
Like me
it will have to seem to live
with music of a mordent theme.
Surrender Song
Outdone, out-spun by winter’s viral horde my only plan to find accord. With such excess to mediate and meditate, find awe and wonder in, and wait, and wait until the crystal rage, December’s cast is made and set for skin and bone … and spade.
Dream World
A dream is most often, or at least mine are, like a metamorphosing octopus, a non-stop serial segue of mutations in being, syncronous with the suspension of logic and time. And the dismissal of happily ever after is another function of most of my dreams.
Word Figures
Rocks, leaves, pottery shards, broken board overturned in search of luminous word that might ease a poem through tension of page …
Excess
The temptation of flamboyant self-lacerating words.
Excess or Word Bomb2
What’s with your endless
and obsessive word take-downs,
in / out the frozen half-pipe page
of big-aired snowboard frays;
the gory glory gallery gawking,
the razor-edged play/replay,
the icy drifts of slow-mo mocking snow
and self-slicing words.
The word flay pays dividends in readership / followship,
its pain / despondency / despair exploded sweet against a sour blue;
you caustically describe, inscribe, intaglioo
your algorithms crystalline;
you recut, resplice, rephrase,
refine, respline, pin pull, toss off
oft in brilliant triple double roll
with inverse somersault,
fate fault-spelled, a carved crash craved
again, again.
I soft-shoe and compliment your art’s excess
with mine: Nothing exceeds like excess.
Fillière © 11 20 2017
Word Bomb
What just happened here? A non-word Word Bomb happened here.
No Strut; No Stuff
Strut is never/neither
my settled social game
nor ruse.
Strut is in the bristle
of the eye, the ear, the fan
of the peacock’s
blown abuse.
No.
No …
I don’t know strut …
I don’t know strut
until I draw
and then …
it is no flaw
but ease of use,
the old confidence of flow,
that little bit of con with quill, with pen …
a feathered airborne con of thought
once pen-knife cut
and carved
at calamus.
Calamitous
my drawing now
if non-aero engineered;
it cannot find its lift,
won’t fly
without its strut.
No strut; no stuff.
Fillière © 11 12 2017
fillière 