Stranded
I have abandoned
almost everything but
the poems.
They come to mind
like ice flowers
on the small panes
of glass that I've become--
little windows
of the broken hothouse
framing views of the vast
almost substanceless expanse
of sky and time.
11.29.14
almost everything but
the poems.
They come to mind
like ice flowers
on the small panes
of glass that I've become--
little windows
of the broken hothouse
framing views of the vast
almost substanceless expanse
of sky and time.
11.29.14
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Author's Note
I have what I'll call a special affinity for four poets:
T.S. Eliot
Robert Lowell
Sylvia Plath
Mark Strand
I regret that all four are now deceased.
I think, though, none will ever die until we all do.
Other stories by Gary Hardaway
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Gorgeous--the poem and the note. I would add one more name to that list. Gary Hardaway. *****
Nice writing, Gary *
For some reason this poem gives me something to look forward to. Really liked the fragility of the small panes of glass, and the poem in general!
"I've become--
little windows
of the broken hothouse."
*
*
Love it.*
Thank you all very much.
*, Gary. The hot house is broken, meaning nothing – not even verse – will now grow there.
*
What a great opening stanza. Goodness. **
My four - Bishop, Gilbert, Stafford, Dickinson
Very delicate.
Thank you, David and Charlotte.
Thank you, Sam. Bishop is my absolute favorite though I don't see and react to the world as she was able to. I'm much more judgmental and estranged.
Thank you, Steve.
It doesn't get much better than this: <I>They come to mind
like ice flowers
on the small panes</I>
"*"
Thank you, Kyle.
Like the chips from Michelangelo's chisel, I'm not sure one abandons everything and becomes a poet, but poetry is the last hope of the abandon or the glory of a new creation. *
Thank you, Daniel.
Sometimes, you just have to move the windows. *
Thank you, James. Or clean them, at least.
I love the first stanza. *
Thank you, Beate.
* Love the ice flowers
Thank you, John.