Poetry Forum

The long march
of the sun begins in birdsong

into the utter heat
of a 100 degree afternoon.

Sun twists day like a licorice stick.

Grass withers,
smell of thirst rising from the earth.

On the border
asphalt’s crop of black fever ascends.

Ants dismember
a dead moth down to its wings.

Blue sky halts
for its hours to gather into fire.

The sun swallows the horizon,
exhaustion spills into wounded pools of shadow,
triaged by locusts singing into dark.

v. 2
The long march

of the sun begins in birdsong



into the utter heat

of a 100 degree afternoon.



Sun twists day like a licorice stick.



Grass withers,

smell of thirst rising from the earth.



On the border

asphalt’s crop of black fever ascends.



Ants dismember

a dead moth down to its wings.



Blue sky halts

for its hours to gather into fire.



The sun swallows the horizon,

end of day,



exhaustion spilt into wounded pools of shadow,

triaged by locusts singing into dark.



The moth wings are gone.







v. 1

The long march



of the sun begins in birdsong







into the utter heat



of a 100 degree afternoon.





Sun twists the day like a licorice stick.







Grass withers,



the smell of thirst rising from the earth.







On the border



asphalt’s crop of black fever ascends.







Ants dismember



a dead moth down to its wings.







Blue sky halts



for the hours to gather into fire.







End of day,



exhaustion split into wounded pools of shadow,



triaged by locusts singing into dark.

(06-10-2022, 06:20 AM)TranquillityBase Wrote: [ -> ]The long march
of the sun Line break right here would work better.
begins in birdsong

into the utter heat
of a 100 degree afternoon.

Sun twists the day like a licorice stick.   

Grass withers, 
the smell of thirst rising from the earth.

On the border
asphalt’s crop of black fever ascends.   Favorite line. Good job.

Ants dismember
a dead moth down to its wings. Ok, but this doesn't have much to do with heat.

Blue sky halts
for the hours to gather into fire. 'in' would be fine

End of day,  You need a better way of describing this. Before the sun was marching, it tread across dead grass and earth. Where did it march to?
exhaustion split into wounded pools of shadow,
triaged by locusts singing into dark.

Thermal map would be a good title, but heat might roll of the tongue better. It's not much of a map though, there aren't many places delineated. besides the road and grass, the rest describes the day. This seems to me more a journey of heat than a map of it.

I killed a couple "the" with my bb gun.

Good read, it has a feel of desperation; though, a bit misplaced with the title.

(06-10-2022, 08:14 AM)Semicircle Wrote: [ -> ]

(06-10-2022, 06:20 AM)TranquillityBase Wrote: [ -> ]The long march
of the sun Line break right here would work better.
begins in birdsong

into the utter heat
of a 100 degree afternoon.

Sun twists the day like a licorice stick.   

Grass withers, 
the smell of thirst rising from the earth.

On the border
asphalt’s crop of black fever ascends.   Favorite line. Good job.

Ants dismember
a dead moth down to its wings. Ok, but this doesn't have much to do with heat.

Blue sky halts
for the hours to gather into fire. 'in' would be fine

End of day,  You need a better way of describing this. Before the sun was marching, it tread across dead grass and earth. Where did it march to?
exhaustion split into wounded pools of shadow,
triaged by locusts singing into dark.

Thermal map would be a good title, but heat might roll of the tongue better. It's not much of a map though, there aren't many places delineated. besides the road and grass, the rest describes the day. This seems to me more a journey of heat than a map of it.

I killed a couple "the" with my bb gun.

Good read, it has a feel of desperation; though, a bit misplaced with the title.

Thanks Semi, I have edited it with your comments in mind.  I did take out a couple of the's, including one you missed I think, but some are still there.

Interesting way of putting it Tim. 

I especially like these lines:

" the smell of thirst rising from the earth.

asphalt’s crop of black fever ascends."

The long march
of the sun begins in birdsong

into the utter heat
of a 100 degree afternoon.


So much hinges on the word into in you lately. Maybe you could make a staple of the term and its connotations. One of those technical things, like A. R. Ammons does. Or Wallace Stevens and the word enough.



Sun twists day like a licorice stick.

Grass withers,
smell of thirst rising from the earth.

Thirst smells from the earth. 
I'm simply playing.
Thirst smells of earth. 


On the border
asphalt’s crop of black fever ascends.

Ants dismember
a dead moth down to its wings.

The dead adds specificity. Simply saying a moth down to its wings adds something else. 



Blue sky halts
for its hours to gather into fire.


The sun swallows the horizon,
end of day,

Either you could cut end of day, or move it to the next stanza as end of day
exhaustion. 


exhaustion spilt into wounded pools of shadow,
triaged by locusts singing into dark.

That would be your only three-line stanza. 





The moth wings are gone.

(06-18-2022, 11:47 PM)rowens Wrote: [ -> ]The long march
of the sun begins in birdsong

into the utter heat
of a 100 degree afternoon.


So much hinges on the word into in you lately. Maybe you could make a staple of the term and its connotations. One of those technical things, like A. R. Ammons does. Or Wallace Stevens and the word enough.



Sun twists day like a licorice stick.

Grass withers,
smell of thirst rising from the earth.

Thirst smells from the earth. 
I'm simply playing.
Thirst smells of earth. 


On the border
asphalt’s crop of black fever ascends.

Ants dismember
a dead moth down to its wings.

The dead adds specificity. Simply saying a moth down to its wings adds something else. 



Blue sky halts
for its hours to gather into fire.


The sun swallows the horizon,
end of day,

Either you could cut end of day, or move it to the next stanza as end of day
exhaustion. 


exhaustion spilt into wounded pools of shadow,
triaged by locusts singing into dark.

That would be your only three-line stanza. 





The moth wings are gone.

Thanks Rowens, I have revised.