I demolished a book today.
Like a regular sadist.
I did it to get the boy interested in poetry.
We spoke of mechanics and theme and tone.
We looked for power words and mood and proper grammatical structure.
We pieced words and phrases together from the scraps of an old paperback my friend had given to me. (She didn't like it you see, but I might, if I gave it a try. And I tried.)
The boy and I clipped and snipped and rearranged the bits.
We stuck them onto new backgrounds and committed them to their new order with Elmer's.
We didn't unwrite the pages. We obliterated the pages.
And now the words belong to us.
Savages, we.
My scrap poem:
There was a strange note in his voice
words of wisdom
in a grating voice
in a voice so choked with fury it was scarcely
recognizable
So I rolled my eyes up as far as they would go and
pressed the spoon to your lips
You were like a little bird swallowing obediently
but never opening your ensuing discussion
long thoughtful silence
to stir the strongest sensations, and
When I awoke, I was surrounded
Everyone began shouting at once
One of the soldiers must be a traitor.
Lyric's scrap poem:
His first words of the king
he inspected the ancient rarest of gems at 6
The point where the Bowmen of Cush ghost was willing to take Emerson's word
His poor wife had reminded of this time alone while it struck
