Welcome to Shards of Silver

Marianne Moore once defined 'poetry' as "Imaginary gardens with real toads in them". I found this such a striking definition of something that captures the values of poetry that I couldn't leave it alone.

I've been writing - attempting - poetry since I knew how to hold a pen(cil). Some poems I write I like, most I don't, but every now and then I feel compelled to write them down, like a flush of emotion that demands access to some sort of visible medium that can later be accessed and reconsidered. I thought, maybe, that sharing these poems could help me out a little. I welcome critiques, critical and constructive (though I do, of course reserve the right to ignore the sharper sides of people's tongues ;) ), and hope that in return for your help I can leave you with something better than sorry attempts at a craft which only a tiny few have ever really mastered.

Clear Skies~V

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

The Bruised Bride

It's the way his hand falls,
                                      catching the light
                                 almost cutting in.
Rapid flashes uperceptable of light shadow light
As his hand moves in front of the desk lamp.
It's the light of a train skittering through a tunnel
dark light dark
His eyes don't move but stay steady and enraged
dark dark dark
It's when the hand lands
                                    then it stops flickering
and suddenly
                                                                  everything is clear
and hazy.

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