|Enya in bladderwrack with her stick|
An island obscuring fog
drapes mist over every
surface, beading window
panes dog's belly pine needles
and the arms of my sweater
when I step on the porch to watch
an acrobatic crow draw lines in air.
Water boiled:: tea steeped:: dog fed.
Permutations of downward facing dog
(enhanced with growling): sun
salutations don't make the sun emerge.
Head stand; I land; still this damp
|Fog snared spiderweb|
The daily not-quite sonnet: 13x I'm calling it, my private little experiment with writing poems that are just 13 lines long. It's strange, this practice of writing a poem of a defined length. Each poem becomes like a puzzle, a box of a defined size into which you must fit odd heterogeneous items so that when you're done the box has become a drawer full of interesting oddities and meaningful content.
Each length exacts its own pressure and creates its own surprises. What happens when you cheat a sonnet by one line? In my case--I think--the poem wakes up, becomes stranger, more colloquial. Is this my imagination, or is there really so much difference between one line count and another? I will have to continue with my experiment to see. Are 13 lines really more light-hearted than 14? Is it habit or a subtle interruption of habit that makes me think so?
All photos taken today in West Quoddy in the fog.
|Leaf captured fog|