Ink

A poem about literature, and some other stuff.

Today, I write for no one.

The stab of the nib shall wound no page

For you, no black wine flow in rivulets

Dripping dead dots between the lines

You failed to read. Dacryoma of the biro.

I saw you drifting through sci-fi,

Thought I might just ask you why.

Elision always was an ugly thing.

With your end-stop love, your

Allegories, you blotched the delicate lexis

Of our romance. Your synecdoche.

Were you some Mr Darcy?

That leather-bound look you gave me

Sent shivers down my spine.

Mad and bad are fine. Dangerous

Is where I draw the line. 

Thought I could fix it:

Days of labour on that sonnet.

You “didn’t get it”.

Twas not conceived for you.

I never gave you aught.

Knave though you were, I cherish still

The Austen box set on my window sill.

Reviews

[mope]

Lots of good querky 'lil poems on a common subject - Brighton doesn't do homogenous :)

And I've learnt a few new words.

[cad]

I love the imagery in this and your amazing vocab - brilliant!