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Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.-Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry is when emotion has found its thought and thought has found words--Robert Frost

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance--Carl Sandburg

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry--John Cage

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you--Joseph Joubert

Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. ~Dylan Thomas

joybragi84

Poem-a-Week: A Fragment of a Sunrise and Uncle Boog Is Now in Global Distribution


This week's picture truly goes well with this week's poem. That morning's sunrise was all over the place with its colors, and the poem is all over the place with its imagery. I kept writing the poem even though it was going nowhere. The words were in my mind, so I kept typing. Some day, I will sort and revise it. Right now, I think I still have another 20 lines or so to add. Tell me what you think about this wild fragment of a poem. ENJOY!


Oh, a bolide is a large meteor that seems to explode. A copper one would have a greenish glow to it.


A Fragment About a Fragment

 

I watched the copper bolide shoot

Through the sky, an errant spear.

I saw its seedling spark take root

In fallowed fogs of morning air.

The nimbly glowing mist entwined

The deep shadows of woodland boughs.

It spread into the fields and vined

Across the backs of dozing cows.

Then, spokes sprang forth; a giant wheel

That spun in whirls quicker than thought

Gyrated up a nearby hill

And on the rising moon was caught.

There it twirled like sun-lit lightning

Spitting at the universe.

The soft horizon, slowly brightening,

Absorbed the brunt, or even worse,

Let the sputum pierce it with each pass

And cut the secrets of Earth’s heart,

A mix of molten rock and glass,

That sat and worried at its part

Of gathering the pink and gold,

Collecting all the precious gems,

And keeping every color in its hold,

But still the liquid spilled over its rims.

Some horizontal cloudlets, thin and dark,

Stained the auburn liquor as it spread

And scarred the browning wheat sheaves with their mark

Above the stubbled ground, graying and dead.


As I said in the title Uncle Boog and the Dogfight has been released for global distribution. I am not sure what that means yet. Here is where it can be found at Lulu: https://www.lulu.com/shop/michael-thomas/uncle-boog-and-the-dogfight/paperback/product-2m5rjp7.html?q=Uncle+Boog+and+the+dogfight&page=1&pageSize=4


I think clicking on the link will take you there or...


Here it is at Amazon:


So far, those are the only two places that I can find the book. Lulu says that it may take 6-8 weeks for all online book sellers to pick it up. You can help encourage the others to speed up the process by purchasing copies of your own and encouraging friends and family to do so. I will sign your book whenever you invite me to visit. Here is what it looks like again.



I am now working on getting together a book length version of Aunt Charlotte's Crib, the second story (in order of creation not Dewey Lynn's life chronology). I have to say this. It is hard to work on poetry and prose fiction at the same time. You should try it!


See you next week!

Comments


I find that I cannot exist without Poetry--without eternal poetry--half the day will not do--the whole of it--I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan.-John Keats

We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value.-T. S. Eliot

A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases.-George Gordon, Lord Byron

The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting.-John Keats

Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion and passionate flow of poetry to the subtleties of intellect and to the stars of wit; the moderns to the glare and glitter of a perpetual, yet broken and heterogeneous imagery, or rather to an amphibious something, made up, half of image, and half of abstract meaning. The one sacrificed the heart to the head; the other both heart and head to point and drapery.-S. T. Coleridge

The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation.-W. B. Yeats

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