Issue |
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January |
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a poem by M.P. Powers (1 of 2)
Poem Built on an Indian Burial Ground
All afternoon these mysterious volts
of pain have been darting through
the nerves in my legs; all afternoon
listening to the rain outside
and trying to walk it off.
I had planned on 'painting my
masterpiece' today
but the oils are wrong, the words
won't come and I'm left
feeling like a broken harp, unstrung
and contemplating
these things around me:
a rusty razorblade, the sallow
face of Baudelaire
on the cover of Paris
Spleen, this letter written in a dead
hand (mine), seven dimes,
two quarters and an empty bottle of beer
on the dresser--
the price of poetry.
of pain have been darting through
the nerves in my legs; all afternoon
listening to the rain outside
and trying to walk it off.
I had planned on 'painting my
masterpiece' today
but the oils are wrong, the words
won't come and I'm left
feeling like a broken harp, unstrung
and contemplating
these things around me:
a rusty razorblade, the sallow
face of Baudelaire
on the cover of Paris
Spleen, this letter written in a dead
hand (mine), seven dimes,
two quarters and an empty bottle of beer
on the dresser--