So. After a burst of creative energy, it may appear that I've gone underground again, so to speak. But that's not the case. I've been writing a rhymed quatrain every day for the past week, and posting it on Facebook (my friends know who I am) and Twitter (@jacsongs)
Most quatrains got "liked" by folk on Facebook. And I've toyed with the idea of a “crowd-sourced” poem where only the verses with the most "likes" survive the editing process. This might not be the best poem for that experiment; at the moment, it seems like plot less doggerel.
Well, plot less because I had no idea what the plot might be — or even if there were a plot — when the work began. The quatrains came to me in that estival space between sleep and wakefulness — which is not to claim they illustrate remembered dream imagery. I transcribed them in my little red notebook (a faux Moleskine), then typed them onto those social media sites.
The quatrains appear below, as they originally came to me. I've marked through one verse, because it doesn't seem to belong in this poem at this time.
I'm not sure, but I think this poem is a ghost story
I have to get that
said the kettle to the moon
there's a panther in the cupboard
and it may be mauling a spoon
But the phone wasn't ringing
And no birds were singing
She felt someone near her
with her heart of stone.
Nothing there but echoes
No one else at home.
The alarm wasn't pinging
And no birds were singing.
It's like it's often been said:
three can keep a secret
if two of them are dead.
First there's the lightening
then there's the thunder
soon the silence
is filled with wonder
The deceitful truth
stumbles down the hall
knocks down the portrait
of her father's caul
Perhaps someone somewhere is winning
But no birds are singing.
Oh, this and that
said the toaster
Where'd you go asked the lion
Oh, here & there, here & there
The dim figure in the rain
Wet footprints in the hall
Her famous heart of stone
Now feels so very small.
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