My Unfinished Poetry

The earliest date I have recorded in this notebook is 4.7.02 – I’ve been working in it for eight years. It amazes me that, with all that time behind me, there are still so many unfinished poems in it. I suspect some will remain that way. Perhaps even most. But there are a few that have managed to hang on in my mind; I approach them warily from time to time, and one day they’ll be done. But that’s not what this post is about. This post is about the unfinished ones. Or at least a few.

I don’t share my work easily. And trust me, reservations are plentiful as I type this. Don’t feel that I’m asking for kindness, or that I’m asking for anything at all, by posting these few poems. I just figured if I don’t share now, I never will. So here’s one; it doesn’t have a title.

Fitzgerald, with his cool nights
and irrevocable moments,
never looked back

but he saw her everywhere -

In tipping bottles of gin
a fountain formed
from memory
and she was there
with slumberous eyes
splashing

He took her down,
captured her in line
and sound
like a swinging bell

he propelled her
with his imagination

_________________________________________________

And here’s another. I called it “Playing Peck” (at the time):

With his initial pose
he was left unguarded;
a peacemaker
offering himself
to a darkened crowd
whose eyes were for
the flashy, frozen queens
and false kings;
they waited for someone
to demand action.
But even the pawns he played
- with dignity, with precision,
checked the board

So, um, I went way out of my comfort zone with the last one as I know nothing about chess, and perhaps tried too hard to force both the game and film into a metaphor. But you write, you learn.

Who knows, I may end up finishing these two someday. For now, they are what they are, and my thanks for reading them.

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