Flawed
Linda prepared for bed confident
she could not receive bad news. It was Thursday,
bad news was announced in dreams on Fridays,
but she wasn’t going to take any chances.
After walking over to the drawer and taking out
the tied chicken legs, Linda rubbed the tattoos,
stricken by the taunt of sailors, on the side
of her neck for good luck. Gypsies don’t read
each others palms. They understand
war casualties, letter writing in the fog,
black and white images that make you forget
the wind. She wasn’t going to think
about the fuzz on his back, how it spread
to his buttocks. Teresa walked in the bedroom
with the Acacia oil. She was so thin she was starting
to look like phyllo. The señora want me to brush her hair?
Wait. Please, wash your hands. Mr. Nottingham
will be home in the morning, I want my hair noticeable.
Look at you, skinnier by the day. Certain about not
telling me who the father is?
No señora, he is important man.
He no takes care of my baby. Teresa it hurts,
how many oil drops did you put in the water?
It doesn’t matter, you will work here until you’re due.
** I have never read anything on prose poem form, so I am guessing here.
Flawed
Linda prepared for bed confident she could not receive bad news.
It was Thursday, bad news was announced in dreams on Fridays,
but she wasn’t going to take any chances. After walking over to the
drawer and taking out the tied chicken legs, Linda rubbed the tattoos,
stricken by the taunt of sailors, on the side of her neck for good luck.
Gypsies don’t read each others palms. They understand war casualties,
letter writing in the fog, black and white images that make you forget
the wind. She wasn’t going to think about the fuzz on his back, how it
spread to his buttocks.
Teresa walked in the bedroom with the Acacia oil. She was so thin
she was starting to look like phyllo. The señora want me to brush her hair?
Wait. Please, wash your hands. Mr. Nottingham will be home in the morning,
I want my hair noticeable. Look at you, skinnier by the day. Certain about not
telling me who the father is? No señora, he is important man. He no takes care
of my baby. Teresa it hurts, how many oil drops did you put in the water?
It doesn’t matter, you will work here until you’re due.
Hi Sergio,
I nearly moved this post to Stonehenge, our prose forum as I would guess this to be prose. Perhaps you could employ some inner rhymes, alliteration and assonance to make it read more like poetry?
Be back again,
~Cleo
Yes I have been working on this one. I have reading prose poetry for a week now, some of the French, I hope to get the knack of it soon. This is a slight change I have made. This is my most recent write, 6 days old. I worked on "Searching" for two years.
Flawed
Linda prepared for bed confident
she could not receive bad news, confident
it was Thursday, and bad news was announced
in dreams on Fridays, not Thursdays, but she wasn’t
going to take any chances. After walking over to the drawer
and taking out the tied chicken legs, Linda rubbed the tattoos,
stricken by the taunt of sailors, on the side of her neck for good luck.
Gypsies don’t read each others palms, Gypsies understand
war casualties, and letter writing in the fog, and black and white images
that make you forget the wind. She wasn’t going to think about the fuzz
on his back, think about how it spread to his buttocks. Teresa walked in
the bedroom with the Acacia oil. She was so thin she was starting
to look like phyllo. The señora want me to brush her hair?
Wait. Please, wash your hands. Mr. Nottingham will be home
in the morning, I want my hair noticeable. Look at you, skinnier by the day.
Certain about not telling me who the father is? No señora,
it no matter. He is important man. He no takes care of my baby. Teresa it hurts,
how many oil drops did you put in the water? It doesn’t matter,
you will work here until you’re due.
HI Sergio,
I am having difficulty reading this as a poem. It just reads to me as shortened paragraphs. Would you be opposed to my moving this to our prose forum?
~Cleo
No of course not, move it to prose. I don't mind. I am still working on it. I think I will get Octavio Paz, Aguila o El Sol, I think it is. I want to study his prose poems. Thank you Cleo.
Moved to Stonehenge.
Sergio, you may want to edit the topic into normal prose paragraph format now.
Thanks
~Cleo
Hi Sergio. I read through your work and I like the first attempt. What I found interesting was the way you broke the lines up between stanzas. For example,
Gypsies don’t read
each others palms. They understand
I found this to be ethereal. I especially liked the way you ended it. I felt like I wanted more and that you were holding back. Almost like teasing someone.
I don't think I would change it in the least. It's nicely written and makes a bold statement that leaves the reader wondering what is to come.
-Mike
Thank you Mike. Today I reread a couple of Gisnberg's prose poems, what a delight. The reader really gets lost in his words and images. Yes, this one will probably grow and change in the next couple of months. I wanted to to end the with just a hint at what might be the "flaw" ... Is it "perfectionism"? Racism? Insensibility? Denial? or is all of this part of modern day exclusion, from whatever, even literary circles? Is it an extended metaphor about creativity? we will see how this progresses.
Thank you Mike.
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