Something’s badgering me.
A tear to my knit so I’m always singing;
a tiny slit near my knee,
even you with the ill-assorted
cures have chosen to ignore.
What blossoms, my grizzly?
An imitative flourishing wave
so much cunning had caused,
but it’s just another chronology,
dissonance finding harmony.
What blossoms? Why, to say you love me
is professorial, hoopla yet marred,
a dream of the pastoral is
still one, like a rose’s
always been provisional.
Prompt: Hey guys, everyone’s into the presidential election and I suppose the outcome’s a somewhat forgone conclusion by now. This election’s marred however you interpret it. I don’t mean to get into any of it. Whatever goes on with politics, your personal struggles remain and of course it’s linked to government. What the government does, how it does, and does not. I’m really an outsider watching so yea I am sticking to poetry, poets, and Dylan in particular. Him and Yeats are towering in my estimation. In contrast my own poems are just ditties. Anyway, does it matter? Not to you maybe, but it’s my journey. Hopefully I’m not on the final leg but who knows? What I love about poetry is that it addresses eternal things. It addresses feelings, and those are real. Write a poem inspired by Yeats (see below) or Dylan or both.
THE LOVER TELLS OF THE ROSE IN HIS HEART
All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,
With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.