Revision 2
You smelled like imitation perfume
sold in gas stations—
plastic gardenias.
A too-tight, too-pink
sweater sliding up;
hands careless, the rough
taste of cranberries,
starving crows plucking
pieces from an apple.
We pretended to play chess,
as he came in to watch us
make move after move.
~~~
When I was commenting on Jack's Love Poem I'd made a comment that I liked starting and ending if possible with the strongest lines. It made me think of a poem I wrote 15 years ago (I did polish it up about 4-5 years ago). I decided to dust it off and take my own advice. I'm not sure if this works, if it's too drastic and I don't know how I feel about the poem in general. I will include an original beneath the revision even though no one on this site has seen either before. We'd talked about posting our early bad stuff--here's one of mine. Please let me know your thoughts (I'm never sure what early stuff should survive and what should just sit in the folder forever). Oh, and minor edit note: I originally had the UK smelt in the poem I switched it to the US smelled.
First Kiss (Revision)
You smelled like imitation
perfume sold in gas stations—
plastic gardenias.
A too-tight, too-pink
sweater sliding up.
Hands careless, searching,
face rising—a terrible moon.
taste of cranberries—rougher
than I’d imagined.
You were like a starving crow
plucking pieces from an apple.
A knock, muffled words
pretending to play chess
as he came in to watch
us make move
after move.
__________________________________
First Kiss (Original)
We were talking
like all the other times:
class was stupid,
your middle name,
Joy, first dog,
a corgi.
I wasn’t prepared.
Face close
filling my vision,
a terrible moon.
Wasn’t told.
Hands shaking
looking for somewhere
to hide, drawn to your side
then the back
of your neck, carelessly
searching.
You smelt like imitation perfume
sold in gas stations,
plastic gardenias.
Your too-tight sweater
pink sliding up.
Veered to the right
barely missing
your nose, breathless…
air caught in my throat.
Falling into the taste
cranberries
the feel leather,
rougher than I’d imagined.
You moved
with urgency, starving—a crow plucking
pieces from an apple.
Pecking away. Your last meal.
a knock…
muffled words
face flushed
pretending
to play chess
as he came in to watch us
make
move
after
move.
You smelled like imitation perfume
sold in gas stations—
plastic gardenias.
A too-tight, too-pink
sweater sliding up;
hands careless, the rough
taste of cranberries,
starving crows plucking
pieces from an apple.
We pretended to play chess,
as he came in to watch us
make move after move.
~~~
When I was commenting on Jack's Love Poem I'd made a comment that I liked starting and ending if possible with the strongest lines. It made me think of a poem I wrote 15 years ago (I did polish it up about 4-5 years ago). I decided to dust it off and take my own advice. I'm not sure if this works, if it's too drastic and I don't know how I feel about the poem in general. I will include an original beneath the revision even though no one on this site has seen either before. We'd talked about posting our early bad stuff--here's one of mine. Please let me know your thoughts (I'm never sure what early stuff should survive and what should just sit in the folder forever). Oh, and minor edit note: I originally had the UK smelt in the poem I switched it to the US smelled.
First Kiss (Revision)
You smelled like imitation
perfume sold in gas stations—
plastic gardenias.
A too-tight, too-pink
sweater sliding up.
Hands careless, searching,
face rising—a terrible moon.
taste of cranberries—rougher
than I’d imagined.
You were like a starving crow
plucking pieces from an apple.
A knock, muffled words
pretending to play chess
as he came in to watch
us make move
after move.
__________________________________
First Kiss (Original)
We were talking
like all the other times:
class was stupid,
your middle name,
Joy, first dog,
a corgi.
I wasn’t prepared.
Face close
filling my vision,
a terrible moon.
Wasn’t told.
Hands shaking
looking for somewhere
to hide, drawn to your side
then the back
of your neck, carelessly
searching.
You smelt like imitation perfume
sold in gas stations,
plastic gardenias.
Your too-tight sweater
pink sliding up.
Veered to the right
barely missing
your nose, breathless…
air caught in my throat.
Falling into the taste
cranberries
the feel leather,
rougher than I’d imagined.
You moved
with urgency, starving—a crow plucking
pieces from an apple.
Pecking away. Your last meal.
a knock…
muffled words
face flushed
pretending
to play chess
as he came in to watch us
make
move
after
move.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson