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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
September 29, 2009
Earth by ~Torby-ADK questions how we communicate. The assonance and consonance make it a pleasure to hear, even if we don't receive the message.
Featured by SparrowSong
Literature Text
The coloratura bent the first note.
Telephone lines sagged like taffy
and slowly felled their poles.
The page misted; she paused
a serpent's blink. Cell towers
sank in bogsand. She trilled
and satellites quit their orbits;
some grew comet plumage.
Her last note thinned to silence.
Hello? Is anybody there?
Telephone lines sagged like taffy
and slowly felled their poles.
The page misted; she paused
a serpent's blink. Cell towers
sank in bogsand. She trilled
and satellites quit their orbits;
some grew comet plumage.
Her last note thinned to silence.
Hello? Is anybody there?
Literature
The Couplet and the Villanelle
The Couplet and the Villanelle
Said the couplet to the villanelle
"You, for all of your complexity
really are a vacuum and a shell
overwrought and odd, compared to me.
You, for all your cunning and your craft
your metaphors and similes and signs
conjure awkward rhymes that make me laugh
strung together in repeating lines."
Said the villanelle to couplet small
"I know I can ramble on at times
but, you know, you are inside of me
and you are complicit in my rhymes.
What's ironic though, you know... doggonnit.
both of us are stuck within this sonnet."
Literature
Loss, in Five Acts
i. Return
Through a dark tunnel
of bent birch and cedar I walk.
Soft moss on cobblestone. Home.
The tilted bird bath drips with
tea coloured rain. Vines snake up
old walls even as the sandstone crumbles.
Decaying gutters sag with sad, welcoming
smiles, heavy with dead leaves
and the fallout of terracotta tiles.
ii. Memory
On her lap, in the evening, swinging
on the front porch chair. Humming
a lullaby, she whispers softly and
marks with a brush of her ringless finger,
magpie and minor, chicken and hen
and then, soft kisses on my cheek for bed.
At the bus stop, she is squinting and waving
and waiting. At hometime, she i
Literature
Hesaraghatta
Bangalore: tin
houses lean in mass
saffron lake, perspiration
Suggested Collections
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Comments20
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Wow, I've never read a poem that begins at the end.