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Thursday, August 14, 2008

Blind Review Friday

Time
for another edition of Blind Review Friday.

The author shall remain anonymous (unless they chose to divulge themselves in the comments.)

Those commenting are also welcome to remain anonymous if they wish.

Incendiary comments will be removed

If you would like your piece thrown to the wolves send it to salinger@ameritech.net with "Workshop the hell out of this poem" as the subject line.



Ice Cream

To buy an ice, my aunt and I walked up Gwilym Terrace
then Plymouth Street,
to a white café where a Seven-Up sign hung by a nail
and cooling lorries ticked in the car park

We left Nan alone in
her kitchen, hot and old
Bring me an ice, there’s a lovely hair flying
from its pins, her kissed face smelling of Pears
ankle boots fidgeting under
her patched black skirt.

On their wedding day, my grandfather’s hands spanned her waist.
He made their first married breakfast and carried it
upstairs
bare feet on the stair carpet
a bracelet hidden under the
bread.

My aunt and I chose ice creams from the deep freeze
asked for
wafers, lemonade,
sat at a hot window seat where
I watched mine melt in
its metal bowl.

By the time we got back Nan was asleep in her chair
one hand holding the other on her lap, gentle,
on her thumb-skins the
imprint of her journey
to this point.

Who would tell her, when she
woke,
that we hadn’t brought her an ice from the café at the end of Plymouth Street,
because it was too hot,
and from there to here was just too
much?



3 comments:

Anonymous said...

I like this. It sounds prosy at first and I wonder if it could be written that way. The flow of it might lend itself well to a prose poem. The ending is a nice tie-up. -TAG

Anonymous said...

I agree...it is very prosy and narrative. But i don't know that it would necessarily read better as a prose poem. I'm reminded of Billy Collins' likewise very narrative poems, and I don't think making it a prose poem is necessary.

Also, I love the fact that it revolves around ice cream...very summery poem.

Anonymous said...

I am not a fan of straight narrative poetry and, though this poem tells a story it is not prose. It is gorgeous and works on both levels. I love it. The only thing that disappoints is the last line or couple words. I understand the idea of journey and distance and time but maybe from there to here was just too far?

Cited...

The poet doesn't invent. He listens. ~Jean Cocteau