Eastern Phoebe

Hot off the presses! My fellow fictionista has a picture book out today: 

http://amzn.to/1PGJP5g

Forty sheets of paper, four highlighters and one roll of scotch tape = the outline of a shortish, not overly complicated novel. Imagine the organizational mock-up  for  the more complicated favorites: John Irving, Dickens. It's a satisfying process to cut apart a first draft and massage it into shape.  Gardens, children and relationships rebel against too much masterminding; life meanders away and doubles back. But a work of fiction needs (requires?) someone standing in the attic of insanity, rubbing her hands together with glee.  

The feet of people walking home


With gayer sandals go-
The Crocus-till she rises


The Vassal of the snow-
The lips at Hallelujah


Long years of practise bore


Till bye and bye these Bargemen


Walked singing on the shore.

(Line breaks woefully incorrect, apologies, I have to run!)

Pearls are the Diver’s farthings


Extorted from the sea-
Pinions-the Seraph’s wagon


Pedestrian once-as we-


Night is the morning’s Canvas


Larceny-legacy-
Death, but our rapt attention


To Immortality.

  My figures fail to tel me


How far the Village lies-


Whose peasants are the Angels-


Whose Cantons dot the skies-


My Classics veil their faces-
My faith that Dark adores-
Which from its solemn abbeys


Such resurrection pours.

 Friday's visual poem:

--Dr. J at annual visit.