(no subject)

[the_redmantle]

i have been writing poems lately, mostly because it's hard not to after reading e e cummings and william carlos williams. it can be very fun.

i held my tongue

i held my tongue,
thinking,
maybe it’s too much.
that is, to ask
for one beauitful
a day.

and then,

“what are you,”
i started and then pausing
and then rethinking.
“you’re making
something there
what is it
that you’re making?”

“wait just a minute,”
she said still making.
“just stand waiting
and i’ll tell you
what I’m making.
it’s a chime.”

“a chime,” I said
waiting still to see.
“but the wind
is hiding still,”
i said smiling,
“and plus those
all only are our keys.”

“and wood,” said she.
“like a root of wood,”
then said she.
“like an earth herself,”
i thought then to myself
and “yes, just like that,”
she said to me.
“oh no,” i said
out
loud,
“she must have just now
heard me.”

“what do you mean,”
said she,
“of course I, Eileen,
know what you mean,
(there thinking thoughts
in your head,
i mean.)
and anyway
it,
the chime that is,
is just for show.”

“i’m sorry, i,
well i didn’t know
that the chime was just,
well, just for show,
until just now you
told me so.”

“that’s why the keys
and stringing
is as it is
so that the keys
and all their singing
are quiet
and are slow.”

and then she finished
the chime and
i couldn’t help but
watching her finishing
the lovely beautiful
for the house.
and as though
the chime didn’t know
that it was just for show
the it clang-a-langed
while it hung
next to the shutters.
“ahhhh,” the clang-a-lang
and we sang
while the it hung
from the gutters.

and then,
“beautiful,” she
then said to me.
“yes, and the day,”
i thought and meant
to say,
but she probably knew
what i meant about the day
anyway, because anyway
it was her beautiful
for the day.