I want to hang my scratchy
sheets up and say I give up.
I want to coast my kite into this one tree.
But I can’t do that because everyone would see.
And words spread like wild winds—
you see, I can’t have that happen to me.
Some Days by Rose Blake
Saragun Springs
Snarl at the Dying of the Light: Est. 2025 Seattle and Chicago
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Rose,
You described every morning for me. I like the idea of not wanting to fly my kite into that tree, but getting it into the preferred tree is genius. Love the idea, actually.
Leila
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Rose
Bad poets speak first and think and feel afterward (if they ever do really think and feel).
Good poets think and feel first, and speak later.
Poetry is not a math problem. (Although all good poets count the numbers, when it comes to not just words, but parts of syllables.)
There is something ineluctable about your work that says you are a REAL (and true) POET.
Dale
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