New Age

 

New look blog, new poetry style being road-tested. It’s been a strange old month, this January.

 

 
 
 
 
 
It started: a precipice of sorts.
A self-constructing
Corner-stone,
Backing out and down
.
To finish sediment, strata – like

Wedding cakes, and you will see;

                                    How to cut so

It’ll keep fresh until the naming

.

When water furrows

A small girl’s face,

Staining photographs of

Crumpled parents

.

Whose track-echo finally

                    Was absorbed

.

Walls. They do that thing with lines

.

Stretched beyond a dry spot

That might be Nevada,

Or

.

May be a pit in Rajasthan

Where elephant bones stack

.

Grainy cities, edging on horizons,

Huge –

                    a timely sprawl

Still visited  yearly, then less

.

Late, the day is over, the

Flashes left their scent,

And dresses fold themselves

.

As the soaking girl sees

With her name and silver

Something like old age.

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About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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