Book marks
Captivated blindly, distressed
by lethargy, no grand epiphany
No memory of pages book-marked sleepily
Here, in a far country, snow
viewed from a train window
There, a couple arguing in a row boat
Lost at sea
Blood thirst and anarchy
Nameless, gone, through passages
like flat-footed Hobbits shuffling off to sleep
The hero smokes a cigarette, his one regret
a woman in an apron (Martha?)
tired of washing dirty feet.
A prisoner dreams of freedom
from his bug infested sheet.
There is no plot
Such a sad lot!
100 years of solitude no logical conclusion
always more confusion
Crawling in the heat, with no shoes on her feet
the heroine hears their laughter
through the barbed wire fence
and they hear her shriek
a phantom in their sleep.
A man goes to Paris on a whim
to fly his artistic wings
meets up with Anais Nin stalking
in her stockinged feet
laddered, torn and tattered, no reprieve
A young boy dreams of battles
glorious infamy while his mother
weeps behind enemy lines, she pines
for all that could not be.
A small David takes a shot and hits the mark
the Red Sea parts, and finally—
In South America (or was it France?)
a room is sealed like a tomb
the lovers entwined in each other’s arms
forever, in the evening gloom.
Here, in a far country, snow
viewed from a train window
There, a couple arguing in a row boat
Lost at sea
Blood thirst and anarchy
Nameless, gone, through passages
like flat-footed Hobbits shuffling off to sleep
The hero smokes a cigarette, his one regret
a woman in an apron (Martha?)
tired of washing dirty feet.
A prisoner dreams of freedom
from his bug infested sheet.
There is no plot
Such a sad lot!
100 years of solitude no logical conclusion
always more confusion
Crawling in the heat, with no shoes on her feet
the heroine hears their laughter
through the barbed wire fence
and they hear her shriek
a phantom in their sleep.
A man goes to Paris on a whim
to fly his artistic wings
meets up with Anais Nin stalking
in her stockinged feet
laddered, torn and tattered, no reprieve
A young boy dreams of battles
glorious infamy while his mother
weeps behind enemy lines, she pines
for all that could not be.
A small David takes a shot and hits the mark
the Red Sea parts, and finally—
In South America (or was it France?)
a room is sealed like a tomb
the lovers entwined in each other’s arms
forever, in the evening gloom.
The challenge: to write – without consulting the book – a poem that recounts the plot, or some portion of the plot, of a novel that you remember having liked but that you haven’t read in a long time.
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