:: Poetry ::

:: Friday, August 06, 2004 ::

Alison, I like the rewrite / revision / whatever. It does somehow seem clearer, and I get more of a sense of Shaggy than I did the first time. The speaker's voice also seems to be more solid, and I like the almost weary tone that pervades the whole poem. I still love that final metaphor, too. Great.

I'm still working on something, but I got derailed this last week helping Tiffany get a couple of things together for our fall faculty conference. Fun.

Soon and soon and soon....

:: Rob 8/06/2004 11:33:00 AM [+] ::
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OK. Here's one. more rewrite than revision. If I'm too far off this time, off to the burn pile we go.

Alison

Shaggy’s Soul Food Open Soon,
Said the Sign outside of Tallulah

I used to believe the message hand-lettered
on one side of a vacant building.
Now I put my money on the wrecking ball.
Since the four-lane opened a half mile
off the strip, only Bubba Suds Laundry
and Free Junque—an antique shop—remain.
No music but the blues for Shaggy.
With no prep work and no mouths to feed,
Shaggy could be anywhere. He could be
the reckless pilot of this duster that dives
with a roar before rising to shrink its shadow.
He could be cuffed to the chain gang
that picks the highway for its crop of trash,
or living at the motel between jobs.
You know the type. No money for food,
but able to scrounge change for a Lotto ticket,
figuring one day he’ll collect a windfall
of unlikely numbers. For now, it’s hard luck
in the land of the lone gas station
that sells shotgun shells and chicken wings.
Land of the blind man with a harmonica
for a mouth. He breathes the blues, I’m telling you.
Breathes the blues like he’s witness to what
pains us most. If he sent a postcard, the letters
would start out square and get smaller, a diagram
of trumpet sound, the volume down.
:: Alison Pelegrin 8/03/2004 12:26:00 PM [+] ::
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