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Friday, September 19, 2008

Blind Review Friday

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.


Our pile is currently empty - so please send in a piece you'd like to see featured.




NIGHT BALLET

He is black ice,
a dark poison smear.

Her car hits him,
and dances the road
in frantic circles.

Why would a woman drive
to her death
on night's concrete?
Why would she slow down
to listen to the wild growl
of winter wind,
and be made foolish
by its whisper?

How could she do it,
knowing one slip
on that raw skin of glass
could rip her heart,
drain her blood,
and bring out her sad ghost?

She is so bare of color
that she is but a shadow,
squirming for air.

All the salt of God and oceans
will not melt her free.


4 comments:

Bree said...

wow so awesome poem!
great flow almost like frost but darkly lit and thick like lipstick.
likey!@

Anonymous said...

I read this on Friday and for some reason, it just confused me. Then today, I re-read it, and all of a sudden it makes sense and I really like it.

I think what tripped me up was the line:

"Her car hits him,"

which made it sound like the car was hitting an actual person, rather than the metaphor of hitting black ice.

Maybe there's a way to re-phrase that line....or maybe it was just me....

Anonymous said...

With the title and first line, "He is black ice," I went on to read the poem as an extended metaphor. I like the way the questions in stanzas 3 & 4 heighten the conflict in the poem and I like the alliterative devices. This is highly evocative of an internal struggle full of good imagery. I wonder whether the speaker could be a little too distanced. What would it sound like if the speaker owned the thoughts, "Why would I drive to my death...". Maybe not. Nice poem. To the point, like a needle.

Jesus Crisis said...

I like this piece a lot. And what a fantastic ending. Poem's more powerful than a snowplow....

Cited...

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