In which Your Humble Blogger shares three short poems that avoid any deep thought whatsoever:
"The Artist at Work"
The artist at work
Is the dreamer deep in sleep.
Let her work in peace.
* * *
"The Upside of the Body's Decline"
Though sitting is painful
And breathing's a chore,
At least you're not thinking
That living's a bore.
* * *
"The Eastern Phoebe"
can develop its song perfectly
even if kept in isolation.
The letters between us
give my song hope.
* * *
Often, the longer poems I write are practically stories; they present the little slivers of fictional thought that don't quite work as prose. The short, short, really short poems? Those usually reflect my actual feelings, albeit the surface-level ones in most cases. I look at these poems and think, "Yep, that's when I wanted some sleep, and that's when my muscles were aching, and that's when I missed people, boo-hoo." Guess I don't like talking about myself in any direct way at length (she says while typing a blog entry).
The piece of information at the center of the third poem is one that I heard on a podcast earlier this year. It seems that the Eastern Phoebe is a bird that, unlike other songbirds, doesn't have to learn its species' signature songs from another phoebe. Chalk one up for the loners!
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