Another Sunday squirms by.
An ongoing march of inevitability
To another Monday I don’t care for.
I dodge more phone calls to people I don’t care about.
I am to construct something out of my banality;
Here it is.
It took another’s poetry
To cure me of mine.
Envision a cube, a horizon,
A camel bleeding to death,
A bunch of nonsense.
I indulge in my indolence;
I am shackled by it.
The cat doesn’t even care for me;
He is just sitting there because
He is too lazy to move.
A slow movie runs by,
A great ending I will never make,
“Don’t thank me
You’re doing all the work.”
A bus to nowhere,
A poem I will not finish.
1 comment:
This one starts out as poetry, but ends up as prose.
"To another Monday I don’t care for" brings a pleasant surprise factor to the grey snail feeling in the first two lines. "banality" in the fifth lines seems to construct something with the second line's "inevitability" that is rudely interrupted by "Here it is."
Though its inner music is very faint, I liked
"It took another’s poetry
To cure me of mine." Also the clear rhyming between "nonsense" and "indolence". "I am shackled by it," however, is unnecessary. What follows works much better in prose rather than poetry form because of its lack of inner music on one hand and frank realism and faithfulness to the scene in depiction on the other,
Ton frère Ahmad
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