Meridians
Meridians
Flickering fast still faint light illuminates
the last leftover of the dying day.
Bulb bent by blown breath,
with tungsten's tongue titillates the watchful walls,
until they give up porous textures of peeling paint.
Mother shadow hugs her curves discreetly,
protecting night's secrets from the halo's grasp.
The mirror sleeps at last relieved of her endless repetition.
A belch of steam strikes a sibilant cymbal.
The quiet echoes thereafter around a downy sheath.
When prying dawn stretches onto the floor,
night gathers her skirts and steps into
the waiting world of our distant dreams.
_______________________
This poem was adapted from my response to exercise one of Ursula K. Le Guin's book on narrative prose called "Steering the Craft: Exercises and Discussions on Story Writing for the Lone Navigator or the Mutinous Crew." Thank you to Madeline Still Bergstrom for the recommendation. It is an easily accessible book of exercises in executing the precision of communication. As I go through the book on my own I will be tagging works that were derived from my responses. Please feel free to comment based on the discussion in the book also.
For instance, this exercise was on "Being Gorgeous," or exploring the beauty of linguistic sound without falling into poetry. I clearly failed in the latter regard. However, in my defense, the only defenses that she had set up against that pitfall were that it could not be regularly metered or rhyming. As much of my poetry, in contrast with my song lyrics, are neither I couldn't help myself. I will likely give this exercise another go in more prosaic form. For now though, I enjoy the poetic hazard of my first attempt.
