The first photo is a colorless
over-exposed grimacing boy in a cap
standing before a white clapboard house
urged to smile, anxious for play,
not yet aware of acoustics.
In the second photo,
as if in formal fencing posture
head aloof, solemn as a magistrate,
a line for a mouth,
holding a contraption with metal strings,
comfortable with performance.
The third photo is an arc of ascent and decline,
tinted in unpopular colors,
an immersion into the disjointed,
the notes piled like unread magazines
or sparse as tropical plazas.
A blind joe death reliance on a guide dog
that leads him half-way
across the highway.
I think if I had to pick a favorite prose poet on this site, (not a fate worse than death for me, contrary to what some may believe) you'd be it. Nice blend of directness and a bit of meditation. -LP
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
'Prose poem', Lamont? Isn't there a place where 'prose' meets 'poem' -it's called 'word selection'? The music is way back in the mind...