The poem below, a haiku, was in my head, completely written when I woke up this morning: Death Vigil: The Eighth Day -- A Poem Whose Title is Longer Than Itself Her breath is raspy. Outside, rain begins to fall. Even God is sad.
The poem below, a haiku, was in my head, completely written when I woke up this morning: Death Vigil: The Eighth Day -- A Poem Whose Title is Longer Than Itself Her breath is raspy. Outside, rain begins to fall. Even God is sad.
I'm in the mood for a short poem today: The Next Phase of my Life a haiku My body feels like a sponge; Void of all content, Alert, and primed to absorb.
Not long ago, I posted about the influence that poetic form has on the effect of a poem. At that time I said that I intended to do further experiments with translation of a poem from one form to another. Here is my next attempt. The starting point is a light verse I posted almost […]
Your role: to seek out Itching skin behind my ear. Mine: to softly purr
A blog about all the arts, including politics
"for 'twere absurd to think that nature in the earth bred gold, perfect in the instant;
there must be remote matter." - Ben Jonson
"I don't know what the question is, but art is the answer." - Guy Conner