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February 19, 2011
A stand against the fake and self-serving
When snow like sheep lay in the fold And wind went begging at each door, And the far hills were blue with cold, And a cloud shroud lay on the moor,
She kept the siege. And every day We watched her brooding over death Like a strong bird above its prey. The room filled with the kettle's breath.
Damp curtains glued against the pane Sealed time away. Her body froze As if to freeze us all, and chain Creation to a stunned repose.
She died before the world could stir. In March the ice unloosed the brook And water ruffled the sun's hair. Dead cones upon the alder shook.
Posted by Vanderleun at February 19, 2011 10:29 AM. This is an entry on the sideblog of American Digest: Check it out.
Your Say
A stunning and beautiful poem.
My child was given a poetry assignment. She was to write a poem with various poetic elements, but it must not rhyme. I asked why she was not allowed to use rhyme, and her teacher had told her: Because it's immature, for kindergarten kids. Like Dr. Seuss.
I was stunned and angry. One of the examples she gave of non-rhyming poetry was Neruda (sorry, but WTF? Neruda? The kid's only 14! And ever since Il Postino it's Neruda this and Neruda that.)
She hates poetry and doesn't 'get' it.
What do I do to reverse this. I used to read poetry to her all the time.
Posted by: Jewel at February 19, 2011 5:43 PM