Thursday, March 31, 2011

Poems blow the top of my head off

Tomorrow we start writing a poem a day. Actually I've already started. With the proviso they are likely to be unpoetic, at best. This is my last apology, though, before I start posting poems here.

Last night I dreamed my old poetry tutor took me for dinner in a windmill. The building was an open structure, an exciting design. I was looking forward to eating exquisite food. We climbed to the second or third floor and I realised the mill was made out of cardboard, shaking in the wind, and very dangerous.

Then I had to put gloves on and serve the customers.

Something fell away

I can cut a pattern from your hands
I can pin your shadow to the cloth
I cannot stop you from outgrowing this life

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