Why I Am Not A Painter
A l l C o n t e n t ©2005-2021 E m i l i e H a n s o n e-mail
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Minneapolis, MN links & archives
a pile of mostly raw and probably bad poetry
on the internet
in the hopes of creating something better
This blog is not CLEAN and is not meant to be.
Useful critique appreciated, i.e. specific comments and suggestions.
You need not identify yourself unless you want to;
comments will be judged on value, not the source. (Although knowing the source can be useful.)
Unsupported heckling OR praise are not appreciated.
Also, I vaguely apologize if you're my friend and you see yourself or others we know here.
I am aware that that can be unsettling
but that's the risk you run being friends with a writer. Also,
maybe you're just being paranoid. Also,
there is never a clear picture of reality
Odysseus had been
playing many roles: husband, father,
captain. There had been war, and since
he’d made a fool of the one-eyed
son of Poseidon, he’d been lost at sea.
It must be tough, being tied
to the mast of a ship, listening
to Siren’s calls, guiding
wax-eared men. It must be tough,
being lost: lover for years
to a beautiful nymph-- what
torture! Every moment, I’m sure,
wanting to come
home to me. It’s not as though
I enjoy being hostess to a house
of men; blue-balling dozens
with swift wrist movements,
undoing threads. This piece I’m working on
will never be done. It has been hard,
waiting for my husband’s body
to show up in Ithaca. But
when this stranger appeared, old,
and knew the secrets of our bed
which he had built, I let him
take me
Labels: ariel's writing group
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Links
adam.
elimae.
pastsimple.
