THE POEM THAT CAME TO ME LAST NIGHT

poem.jpg

The poem that came to me last night
Has yet to be put into words—
There was insufficient light,
The flickering fell into halves, then thirds;
I could not see to write.

The subdivided sun questioned itself into nothing
And I crouched alone in the darkness.
Still, there was a tickle climbing up my spine,
As if a tickle might lead to a thought,

A thought to a plan, a plan to a crime:
Murderer, stay—I led you here—to be caught.

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2 Comments

  1. Solwing said,

    November 13, 2010 at 4:16 pm

    The poem that came to me last night
    Has yet to be put into words—
    There was insufficient light,
    The flickering fell into halves, then thirds;
    I could not see to write.

    A subdivided sun questioned into nothingness
    As I crouch alone in the darkness,
    The still, stone cold fear climbing up my spine,
    As if Fear might lead to a thought,

    A thought to a plan, a plan to a crime
    and led by you to here, thought criminal, hear

    the critical mind musing on what it is: to guess.

    The Doggerelist

  2. thomasbrady said,

    November 13, 2010 at 6:06 pm

    “There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a story. Either history affords a thesis—or one is suggested by an incident of the day—or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his narrative, designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue, or authorial comment, whatever crevices of fact, or action, may, from page to page, render themselves apparent.

    I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect.”

    -Edgar Poe, The Philosophy of Composition


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