This month’s visual stimulus at VisualVerse.org (February 2022, or Volume 9 Chapter 4) was very confusing to me, and elicited no response at all from my poetic sensibility, until I remembered a feeling from only a week or so ago.
~So, this short poem is in a classic format: Shakespearean sonnet in iambic pentameter, alternate line rhyming until the final couplet which rhymes with itself. A format that is rarely encountered these days in contemporary poetry journals, pamphlets, books, as far as I can make out. Never mind, if it doesn’t work for the modern sensibility, that’s fine — this piece works for me, and brings a sense of quiet joy.
Flutter-by It’s baffled by conservatory glass — this winter miracle flits to and fro and I stretch out my hand, a gentle clasp a fleshy cup to share imprisoned woe. Its flutter there a feeling echo of the severed nerve that’s trapped within my jaw; the twitch, as stymied by the scaffold glove it meets a wall of leg bone new and raw. I am a modern miracle, it’s true -- the treatment’s bark was harsh to save the bite. Irradiation did its job and blew the tumour far away and out of sight. Outside I open up my hand — it flies away, and I’m a quiet bridge of sighs.
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