Poetry James Brantingham — September 3, 2012 11:57 — 1 Comment
A Writer’s Dream – James Brantingham
August in Stuttgart, one day on the road
To France or Spain, depending
On the morning traffic’s tide:
I found that night a narrow attic room
In a stone hotel near the city center.
The artist’s life lay in view: the writing table,
The small bunk posed above the red-roofed city.
As I imagined Rhine wine,
The gravity of Rimbaud remembered,
Of Mallarme’s Mardis, and Proust’s temps perdu
Swirled into that slender room,
A spiral nebula of times
Past and imagined futures.
A borrowed pen tested words
To populate the modern novel,
Proposed plays and austere poetry.
The words tumbled everywhere,
Spiraled through the August air,
Then drifted through the open window.
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What am I?
Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies
Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,
Consequence;
Scientists can't find me.
Januswise I make us men;
Glamour
Was my image then—
Remind me:
The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…
Tick, Tock: Divine me.
-- Richard Kenney
Wonderfuly imagery, moving poem!