New York Pitch Conference Reviews, Algonkian Writer Conferences, and Poetry Forums

Robert Browning


Ba slumped against Robert’s shoulder,
her hair brushing his cheek.

For years he often carried her across streets
as if she were weightless,
up steps to their rooms at Casa Guidi,
to her sofa’s patch of sunlight.

All night Ba had joked
like a schoolgirl, saying she felt better—
and suddenly like birdsong
vanishing into the air, she was gone.

Visitors had seen her as frail,
a sparrow in a stiffening wind.
Robert saw her beauty, her lush dark hair,
her wit, her articulate eyes

alert like those of a small bird
singing in winter.

Tweaked

Bob
Shall I nominate this for IBPC?

Siva

Thank you, Siva. Any poem nominated is fine.