(no subject)
This morning, after getting my two hours of sleep, I woke up and did something that I haven't done in a long, long time. I actually wrote poetry. It's been almost eleven months since I've done that. About time, too. I think, perhaps, all it really took was the looming threat that is Mother's Day to tip the scales just a little.
It's only a dinky little short one and obviously not my best work (goodness gracious, I'm apparently going to have to work back up to decent imagery), but at least it's a start.
In literature, authors send their characters south to run amok.
The South means mischief, mayhem, madness.
In Toulouse, they say the wind is mad.
She howls, morning and evening,
whistling through the fine cracks of this old city,
wailing like some devastated mother seeking her lost babe.
Sometimes I think that, if there is a Grand Author,
she must have written me into Toulouse
because I needed to go mad.
So here I am, listening to le vent qui rend fou,
and wandering the old, new streets,
a lost child in search of her mother.
It's only a dinky little short one and obviously not my best work (goodness gracious, I'm apparently going to have to work back up to decent imagery), but at least it's a start.
In literature, authors send their characters south to run amok.
The South means mischief, mayhem, madness.
In Toulouse, they say the wind is mad.
She howls, morning and evening,
whistling through the fine cracks of this old city,
wailing like some devastated mother seeking her lost babe.
Sometimes I think that, if there is a Grand Author,
she must have written me into Toulouse
because I needed to go mad.
So here I am, listening to le vent qui rend fou,
and wandering the old, new streets,
a lost child in search of her mother.