Reminded me of a poem of mine. Hope it’s ok to share here…
Not Literature
What filigree your letters loop!
Such calculated confidence in each blooming capitol
Like someone wound some days around
your pages, and I’m treasuring these words
You’re creased in consequential places
dog-eared at each chapter, your length long-winded
in the right way, edited so we only see the words
within the chapters, numbered and bound
Still, each time I read you with more care
Your pages frailing, gilt-edged only gently
And the corners of the chapter heads
only serve to age you, and remind me that I’m not the first to read
Sometimes I scrutinize you, see the scrawl
beneath the printed weight, the lonely palimpsest
You’ve carried for these decades
The weightier of stories told-the first edition only I have seen
I read these deeper words, praying to see my name
inscribed beneath the ordered lines, some sentiment
Perhaps renamed so only you and I can tell
These stories are our stories, novel in the ways we are alive
But I am only tertiary, an afterthought to sell the plot
I’m gone within a scene and so I close you
With a dusty puff of pages opened rarely
and understood or read so much the less
You are not literature nor am I champion or swain.
Reminded me of a poem of mine. Hope it’s ok to share here…
Not Literature
What filigree your letters loop!
Such calculated confidence in each blooming capitol
Like someone wound some days around
your pages, and I’m treasuring these words
You’re creased in consequential places
dog-eared at each chapter, your length long-winded
in the right way, edited so we only see the words
within the chapters, numbered and bound
Still, each time I read you with more care
Your pages frailing, gilt-edged only gently
And the corners of the chapter heads
only serve to age you, and remind me that I’m not the first to read
Sometimes I scrutinize you, see the scrawl
beneath the printed weight, the lonely palimpsest
You’ve carried for these decades
The weightier of stories told-the first edition only I have seen
I read these deeper words, praying to see my name
inscribed beneath the ordered lines, some sentiment
Perhaps renamed so only you and I can tell
These stories are our stories, novel in the ways we are alive
But I am only tertiary, an afterthought to sell the plot
I’m gone within a scene and so I close you
With a dusty puff of pages opened rarely
and understood or read so much the less
You are not literature nor am I champion or swain.
Zowie.
Hopefully that’s a good kinda zowie…
I have not written in this way for a long time
What’s the current page like?
And the story continues…
nice poem here, enjoyed reading it..
Thanks