Laughing below, the unimagined room
in unimagined mouths,
a turning mood speaking itself the way
a fulling should overspilling into something's dome,
some moment's edging over into bloom.
What is a happening but conscious
cloud seeking its edge in a wound
or word pellucidity describing term
as boundary, body, violated bourne
no sounding center, circumscription turn.
Mother of mirrors, angel of the acts,
do all the sighing breathing clicking
wilds summon the same blue breadth
the sense subtracts,
the star suborning in its ruptured fields.
Hi Karen, a sonnet is 14 lines, usually three verses and a couplet. I found your poem too subjective as I imagine most others would, although some lines sparked imagery. I don't mean to be too negative, though at least you deserve to know what I feel.....Success with your writing!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hi Karen, you actually made a new poetic sensitivity by using some unique surreal images, and you also simulate your reader to make lots of links and interpretations. Dr. Mohammed Sameer Literary Critic