Monday, May 24, 2010

After Poetry

After Poetry
by Gideon Burton

Of what remains, initially the shells
of words, so many husks of verbs and nouns,
there ought to be some substance more profound,
not moody mannerisms one can tell
are just the caricatures of better thoughts
now soured by the pregnancies of doubt.

It is as though a bureau drawer kept
a paper secret, mildewing, that left
no question, nothing like the inky grout
grown resident despite the bleach I’ve sought
with solvent rhythms, music, or the thrum
and swish of even sentences. Reserved
and waiting, venom still intact, the curve
of evening renders every speaker dumb.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Image: flickr - photine


  1. Mildewing? It's not often I run across a word I don't know (I'm not a snob, I just love words). This is lovely!

  2. Oh dumb! Slap to the head! Mildewing. Yes, I do know that word. Not obscure at all. No dictionary needed. (Boy do I feel stupid.)