by Gideon Burton
It matters where you put the stress. The beats
repeat their splattered bounce, their spluttered skid,
their scrambled rambling, roughshod shots. Amid
the coughing chaos, rhythming these cheats
with sounder sound, a grounding smooth and fleet,
the patter brought to pattern by a grid
of taming order, evening what slid
and balked its awkward way with heavy feet.
My rioting and writhing wording slows its jerks;
my syllables are mesmerized by flow
and ebb and ebbing flowing, tide by tide
by stress, unstress, a side-by-side that works
the knots and spiky kinks with gentle blows;
my fiery thoughts are tempered as I ride.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - normality relief
Perfect! I was feeling, as I read, a ride on a rough path with a heavy-footed horse, dodging stumps and overhanging trees, turning and picking up speed only to stumble, and there, that was your last word! Ride! Nobody ever reads my mind in advance like that! How carefully you led from the very first word. You have quite a talent.
ReplyDeleteSeriously, one of my favorite titles ever!
ReplyDeleteBest title ever.
ReplyDelete