I wrote this as a response to Nikki Giovanni's poem titled "Poetry". I'd love to link to a copy of her poem, but I can't find it online. If my books weren't still in boxes from my recent cross-country move, I would at least point you to the correct collection it's in. For now, well, sorry. It's important for me that you know Nikki Giovanni is one of my poet-heroes. I've read everything she's written, was fortunate to hear her speak once, and used her poetry in my Language Arts classes when I was a teacher. I'm fairly certain she will never read a word I write, but if she ever does, I hope she sees deep respect in this response.
You will notice that the excerpt in the image is altered from the full poem. I deconstructed the poem to create four micro poems for my Twitter feed and really like those revisions. I also still believe the full poem reads the way it should, so...
couch poems really has two versions, and I'm okay with that. Maybe someday I'll title them separately, but for now, they are linked.
You will notice that the excerpt in the image is altered from the full poem. I deconstructed the poem to create four micro poems for my Twitter feed and really like those revisions. I also still believe the full poem reads the way it should, so...
couch poems really has two versions, and I'm okay with that. Maybe someday I'll title them separately, but for now, they are linked.
altered excerpt from "couch poems." photo from morgueFile by ingoodcompanywebdesign
couch poems
-a response to Nikki Giovanni’s “Poetry”
I.
we poets tend to think
our words enlighten,
build staircases twisted, strong,
yet, we stumble up flights,
rotten wood slants in
a house long forgotten.
mazes of lumber lean
encapsulate our thoughts
as mice scrambling to an imaginary end--
II.
sometimes when i come home
after wading through the yellow streets,
left from rain bearing a silent gray sky,
eyes are half-open to the florescent kitchen
and reflection off stainless steel--
wood ruins woken up to
on a mildew couch.
smells rise, transcend
memory and words,
so strong i have to get up,
run through a prismed wetness, here, where
rage spills onto patterned paper towels,
one end soaking in my cleaning talent,
ink smeared but bold,
vibrations of thoughts fall
in on my head
i flee for the door, crowbar in hand,
smashing words from the framed house, and
onto my blue quilted flowers.
here they can rest,
finally,
and i can return
to the unkept apartment of acquaintances, who
never knew i was gone.
©Erin Croley
-a response to Nikki Giovanni’s “Poetry”
I.
we poets tend to think
our words enlighten,
build staircases twisted, strong,
yet, we stumble up flights,
rotten wood slants in
a house long forgotten.
mazes of lumber lean
encapsulate our thoughts
as mice scrambling to an imaginary end--
II.
sometimes when i come home
after wading through the yellow streets,
left from rain bearing a silent gray sky,
eyes are half-open to the florescent kitchen
and reflection off stainless steel--
wood ruins woken up to
on a mildew couch.
smells rise, transcend
memory and words,
so strong i have to get up,
run through a prismed wetness, here, where
rage spills onto patterned paper towels,
one end soaking in my cleaning talent,
ink smeared but bold,
vibrations of thoughts fall
in on my head
i flee for the door, crowbar in hand,
smashing words from the framed house, and
onto my blue quilted flowers.
here they can rest,
finally,
and i can return
to the unkept apartment of acquaintances, who
never knew i was gone.
©Erin Croley
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