If facing the paper, your thought is 'I am an artist', you have no clue what to do. If the concepts of your function are, 'I am a shape maker, an entertainer, an expressive symbol collector'...then you have an explicit road map. Edgar Whitney

Thursday, September 16, 2010


This poem was published in Takahē 69, 2010

the cold fireplace
saw her play it coy

she threw her
boots in and

tried to blind it
he sprinkled them

with soot
and lit a match

a fist of flames
pushed out

years of
silk shawls

lace undies and
fans stuffed up

the chimney
the roar

a throat open
with confession

1 comment:

  1. Nice finish. I can see why it was snatched right up!