Perhaps his instincts were spot on.
He sported a beard, as always,
would only half answer. Still
I wouldn’t say, all boarded up.
He’d spin all those stories, kept up
a momentum as long as he could.
He wouldn’t walk her to church.
That’d invite innuendos from the
local newspaper. Tight-knit community
this was. You’re noble, winning,
comely, never disrespectful, as if
the grays endowed you with honor.
When she got hit by fever, had turned
yellow, and high, she’d think of all
the muddy trails they’d left behind.
No, they had not run foul in game,
had stayed within rules. I’d scraped
stone clear. There engraved: her name.
Wow so Dylan didn’t show up to receive his Nobel Prize but he wrote a speech. A humbling one. And Patti Smith sang her heart out, nervous and calm all at once. All the more moving it was that she had stumbled midway, don’t you think? So what’s literature? Something that speaks to the complexities of the wounded human heart I think. It shows the fair and foul in humanity. Its truths never easy. Usually cryptic. That which is untranslatable. That’s kind of like poetry. So yea, attempt to say something like that in your poem.