I can talk about
eyes
maybe
smiles.
I can compare her to
flowers
but those are stupid
words,
hollow and meaningless.
That moment after an argument
when we realize
that we are both
just a little wrong.
Our daughter's crooked
little finger
when she's pointing
to what she wants.
The spinach
in the garden
with the perfect
caterpillar hole
chewed out of one leaf.
That's poetry.
3 comments:
This is the closest thing to a love poem that I've ever written. I'm not going to lie. I like it.
Ars poetica deliciousness! I love it! Love poems are, in my opinion, the hardest to write: you've rocked it bro! I think we all try to defy the cliche but often still fall into the same trap. Yours avoids this common pratfall. I'm reminded of the flying plastic bag in American Beauty: completely unique, yet still relevant, felt, real. This poem also feels like it can be in the same chapbook as "little things."
Thanks dude. I am really into this idea of little moments and things and their impact. It's a theme that I want to keep up. In History of Love it talks about a person reading the the spaces between the words, and the punctuation instead of the words. I have really been trying to write about the small beauties, but I'm at a loss for today. I'll post one later tonight.
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