I admit it. I failed this challenge. It was offerred on poet Adele Kenny’s blog, The Music In It. I was challenge to write about a phone. If you read on, you’ll discover there is no phone in my poem. There was, but the poem didn’t like it; therefore, I removed it. I never disobey the poem. It’s smarter than I am.
To the Book Seller
I thought of you today as I passed your shop,
imagined you settled on a stool behind the counter –
your hands spread the wings of a new volume
of old poetry: Whittier or Longfellow. The scent
of crisp paper warms a moment like a coffee
liberating heat – yours a blend of cinnamon,
two splashes of whiskey. Each book remains attentive,
in its place – a silent company. Each covets your attention,
your fingers to scrape the edge of pages, the stiff line of its spine.
A young lady, her hair still damp – an afternoon’s
light rain – cradles Kerouac and Nabakov. Excuse me,
she asks, which do you prefer? That depends, you say.
Will you be pouring red wine or white? Her eyes - as green as spring.
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This is great, Scott. That second stanza is truly exceptional. Every line of it evokes a response from me that is perfect, yet I don’t think I could have expressed those feelings nearly as accurately as your sculpted words here have done.
And what you consider your “failure” has given me success. I had no idea that Adele and her challenge was out there, so I had to go over and check it out. As soon as I read it, I was reminded of a true story that is so sweet and so unusual — concerning a phone, of course — that I had to try putting it into a poem. Thanks for sharing the challenge with your readers. I had so much fun with my challenging poem that it kept me up until 2:45 a.m.
Great, Sandra. Thanks for the kind words. Glad you liked the poem and I am glad Adele’s challenge pulled a poem out of you.
All the best.
I have always found it eerie how words make demands, have a life and momentum of their own. Characters do and say things we didn’t plan, never intended. We only think we are in charge. You are absolutely right. The story, the poem knows. We are but conduits.
Yup. Sometimes, many times, the story knows more than we do. I am a happy conduit.