Wednesday, November 29, 2006

That still silent moment

Poetry is that still silent moment screaming in my pancreas. It is the sky bleeding silver into my fur at night. Poetry is the wind that gently brushes my face but leaves before I turn around.

It calls to something inside me. Something primal. Something raw and untamed. Beyond reason. Beyond boundaries.

This is why I prefer to read it only when fortified by a glass of Cabernet Merlot. Or two. Then it makes sense. Then it doesn't have to make sense. Nothing has to make sense.

I swallowed a tail of lightning and all the green tea in the world will not save me...

Slightly heady, veering off into unenclosed spaces. I pause. I rest. I read some more.

Red is charming. Merlot is fruity. And poetry tastes like the moon.

6 comments:

QuillDancer said...

Your prose is as lovely as any poem. I love the way you weave words to create tapestries of love, laughter. tears, or silliness. Nicely done, Jenn.

Jenn said...

Thanks Quilly...means a lot that you said that.

part-time buddha said...

"Poetry tastes like the mooon."

That's about right on, Jenn. Now...what does it smell like?

Jenn said...

I can't say on a public blog that is read by 14-year olds... (I am assuming here). Of course, no, no 14-year olds, but there is my sister...so I can't say.

goldennib said...

Dance in the moon shine.

Jenn said...

I shall. Once I've gotten over snarling at it.