Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest having to do with prose. I realized January 19ththat I will turn twenty-four in three months, and since I started writing some poems before it’s too late: forty-six poems at twenty-three. I’ll post each Friday until the last week of March, then I’ll post one a day until my birthday on April 30th. Here’s number 18, a pantoum:
Each leg broke sound’s barrier in stride
The Coach who outran superman
Momentum loosened, swiftness strayed
His foothold gripped like sipe or moon
The Coach who outran superman
Despised horseflies, dragonflies
His foothold gripped like sipe or moon
But bug guts in face, drugged on fleas
Despised horseflies, dragonflies
For glory, for flight, for speed
But bug guts in face, drugged on fleas
Goaded his legs: don’t work space, work spade
For glory, for flight, for speed
He dug his feet down in the grave
Goaded his legs: don’t work space, work spade
Buried with gut-laden grin, grim’s grove
