For today's Poetry Train, I'd like to share a poem by the man who writes a poetry column that appears in our Sunday supplement - George Elliott Clarke.
I love his column and wonder at its very existence. What a champion of a form that persists into the 21st century despite everything.
The air smells of rhubarb, occasional
Roses, or first birth of blossoms, a fresh,
Undulant hurt, so body snaps and curls
Like flower. I step through snow as thin as script
Watch white stars spin dizzy as drunks, and yearn
To sleep beneath a patchwork quilt of rum.
I want the slow, sure collapse of language
Washed out by alcohol. Lovely Shelley,
I have no use for measured, cadenced verse
If you won't read. Icarus-Iike, I'll fall
Against this page of snow, tumble blackly
Across vision to drown in the white sea
That closes every poem -the white reverse
That cancels the blackness of each image.
- George Elliott Clarke, 1990
For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!
Poet in Flames says Thanks for sharing this lovely sonnet and pics.
Akelamalu says Lovely words to go with a lovely picture. :)
Naquillity says What an excellent sonnet. He certainly knows how to steal one's attention. You're so lucky to read him every Sunday.