Poem Hunter
Max Reif (1948 / OVER 400 POEMS SERVED! !)


February. Take ink and weep,
write February as you’re sobbing,
while black Spring burns deep
through the slush and throbbing.

Take a cab. For a clutch of copecks,
through bell-towers’ and wheel noise,
go where the rain-storm’s din breaks,
greater than crying or ink employs.

Where rooks in thousands falling,
like charred pears from the skies,
drop down into puddles, bringing
cold grief to the depths of eyes.

Below, the black shows through,
and the wind’s furrowed with cries:
the more freely, the more truly
then, sobbing verse is realised.

User Rating: 2,9 / 5 ( 86 votes ) 7

Comments (7)

The power of words may be limited, no sentene can render all the thoughts, overtones and implications, yet poets love playing with words and see what they come up with :)) Excellent. Top mark.
And don't even get this man started on those dangling participles, that dastardly inflexible inflexion, the silliness over syllogism or how figurative language figures into the intangible equation. Post hoc ergo propter hoc...ad nauseum. A highly imaginative, truly original piece to ponder, Max. Brilliant! Greg
Ah, my friend, you have a deeper understanding of things - nature, mankind, the connections - than you sometimes give away in your poems. This one hints at it; and is original and downright funny. I started a poem about language over a year ago; it is sitting - passive voice - unfinished due to the same frustration with the very words we can't get enough of. Hope to see you in the coming weeks. Take care, Lori
Life indeed is a paragraph of words with imperfect grammars, yet living in consonance with happiness such grammatical errors can become lessons to learn. Great thought, top mark.
I loved this! ! Clever and thoroughly satisfying!
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