Rattle Road

Poets post their works-in-progress here for crit and commentary. We want poets who are serious about getting their work published.
Post Reply
Posts: 17
Joined: 13 Jul 2013, 06:08

Rattle Road

#1 Post by IapCharon » 17 Jul 2013, 20:35

Rattle Road

As mist clears
the dirt road shows up
by the window sill -

tearing a bed
of wild roses in halves that
never meet, unless

it's pitch dark out
and the road is a diamondback
flicking the tongue

Chi Chi Chi - jaws taut -
in one straight line, ready to
shoot venom into splits.

Rain can kill. Roses die.
From the window the dirt road
bends into the sky -

pocked with footprints,
tire marks, pebbles, gold dust
residues from spring.

Michael (MV)
Posts: 1621
Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57

Re: Rattle Road

#2 Post by Michael (MV) » 18 Jul 2013, 04:16

Hi IC,

As I read this, 2 Emily Dickinsons poems surface; see below.

The last 2 stanzas are strong; yet workshop suggesting --

Rain can kill. Roses die.
From the window the dirt road
bends into a sky

pocked with footprints,
tire marks, pebbles, and gold
dust from spring.

^^ Are both "residues" & "dust" needed?

Like the title, too - and I'm also hearing based on the phrases "road kill" & "road rage"

Road Rattle

"In the locust wind comes a rattle and hum
Jacob wrestled the angel, and the angel was overcome"       -- lyric from "Bullet the Blue Sky" by U2


Michael (MV)

I like to see it lap the Miles,
And lick the valleys up,
And stop to feed itself at tanks;
And then, prodigious, step

Around a pile of mountains,
And, supercilious, peer
In shanties by the sides of roads;
And then a quarry pare

To fit its sides, and crawl between,
Complaining all the while
In horrid, hooting stanza;
Then chase itself down hill

And neigh like Boanerges;
Then, punctual as a star,
Stop—docile and omnipotent—
At its own stable door.


A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him,--did you not,
His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun,--
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;

But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.


Post Reply

Return to “Writer's Block - Where The Poets Hang”