The mystic moon, blushing,
unfurls as a flower; a pinch
of green light fills the room.
Blue wicks cinched in dilated flame;
a weak cough is heard. Small eyes
open on
the deranged maroon rays, he blinks
in diced cataracts, prism hues bent
in a drooling Christmas filigree;
a blur fever, the truck moves in candy
colors, and he is hushed, quiet
in doldrum processions
of black and gold.
Comments
Hello Fink
unfortunately, I am not aware of Randall Jarrell. If I have known him, I would absolutely appreciate the piece.
Anyway thanks for sharing and sorry if I couldn't relate much to your words.
Welcome to Neopoet.
your poem
The language is elevated and you have painted nice images. The motion or pace of the poem is good. Everything is right, except I do not understand the poem, and I want to.
There are alot of colors going on, a toy truck, a sick child, the moonlight...I just don't feel their connections, especially the black and gold.. is it the truck, the doldrums.?..
Like a Vermeer painitng, we can make our own assumptions of the story. I need more more clues.
Okay. I'd suggest
reading the original piece--lots of great poetry depends upon imitation. Like the Red Wheelbarrow!
Hello,
I really like this poem and don't
know if I yet understand it but if
he can think of it, it isn't what he
wants ???
thank you by the way, enjoyed
my morning reading Jarrell and
ended up on Rimbaud.
Richard