Hero Song
This page, fresh canvas invaded
by black ink stink of written words
swimming in smeared blood of labored
paper cuts, an old film unraveled
from its reel, risking exposure.
Emotions pollute objectivity—
right, wrong. Poems reveal what he did,
the scars I bear under trendy
cargo pants and knitted sweaters.
Lines document the black, beady-
eyed crow perched on my shoulder
picking yellow blades of grass from my hair
after he left me alone in the park.
How the crow looked me in the eye
and told me songs of heroes gone,
revealing the me I will not hide.
by black ink stink of written words
swimming in smeared blood of labored
paper cuts, an old film unraveled
from its reel, risking exposure.
Emotions pollute objectivity—
right, wrong. Poems reveal what he did,
the scars I bear under trendy
cargo pants and knitted sweaters.
Lines document the black, beady-
eyed crow perched on my shoulder
picking yellow blades of grass from my hair
after he left me alone in the park.
How the crow looked me in the eye
and told me songs of heroes gone,
revealing the me I will not hide.
|
6
favs |
1227 views
8 comments |
92 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
This poem appeared at vox poetica last year. Thank you, Annmarie Lockhart.
Other stories by Emily Bertholf
Tags
Comments
You must
log in
to post comments.
I like this. Some many implications. It forces the reader to participate. Nice. *
Oh my -
"Emotions pollute objectivity—
right, wrong." Yes.
Strong piece. Good writing.
This is an excellent poem overall, but I want to emphasize the indomitable brilliance of that first stanza. Skillfully done and artfully emotional.
*
I can hear it, as if you're reading it aloud, the echoes and ink and crow. *
Well written, Emily.
I like this, Emily.
The last stanza is quite wonderful and can stanza alone as a poem in itself!
"Poems reveal what he did/the scars I bear under trendy/cargo pants and knitted sweaters."
Favorite part of this whole thing.*
Thank you for your generous comments and faves. I wrote this poem and a few others in a smokey coffee house called the Eigth Note at UW-Milwaukee. I will not say I was skipping class to write poetry, but I will not say I was not either. It's taken me a few years to get the courage to pull them out of the drawers, dust them off, polish them and release them to the light of the world. Your reading and comments make that risk worth it. Thank you.