WEDNESDAY: Whitewashing the Ceaseless Mull


Copyright is held by the author.

Telephone blossoms
through sleep like piling stalagmites
of ice outside on the fire escape grate. The noise
too thick red and flowering
for the black plastic box.

Sometimes I hunger for not hearing
anything, except what comes from outside;
these creaking walls, traffic and melting ice
(there is an eternal stillness closing forever inward).

Voices branch against a setting sky.

  1. Too many conflicting images here. With any writing, poetry included, I need to get something from it. It’s possible to have too much going on, even in a short piece of writing.

  2. Mary: if you are having trouble with Anne’s piece, I suggest that you read it again in an uncritical way. If after a few tries you still don’t “get it ” that’s OK. Personally, I thought the second stanza was most profound.

  3. Hi Jazz – I did read it, a few times. The second stanza is, indeed, lovely. The first stanza put me off entirely. I know poetry doesn’t always give up its meaning easily — sometimes not at all. But the second stanza could have been a poem on its own — like William Carlos Williams’ “So much depends”. Sometimes less is more. Thanks for encouraging me to read again — now I can savour the second stanza!

  4. Diction is wonderful. It let’s you string words together by free association and give the semblance of meaning.

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