Musing on the Death of Poetry

Little moment of floating pages
silently sideways travelling
to and fro in the mind,
their feathered edges frayed,
their visions lost,
I liked this one you cryptic bard!
Its sway of memory,
it swing of movement
coming to rest.

Ann with love.

In form, content and imagery.

But the gold plated pheasant has been caught and cooked (and presumably the gold collected from the ashes and cashed in). How is that stillborn? Are you yanking our chains?

Just joking, what I'm trying to say is that fire is a very violent metaphor for the quiet grief of stillborn.

This piece is young, and wants more time in the bottle. Its promise is evident. Your ability to capture the emotional undertones of mortalities end, and the regret of the unwritten poem in the metaphors-stillborn, trapped, and thrown into the fire- aside from the final metaphor being a little awkward in its presentation-being an unborn dead thing and then a gilded peacock trapped and destroyed- One cannot help but to notice your underlying skill and sensitivity of subject. The first stanza is very well done and conveys this moody piece on its way with a funeral precision. Good poem with caveat.

B

I was wallowing in this poem, rooting for rare truffles. I found a find.

~A