Poem By Laura Cummings
Fields of imagination with nothing to write but biographical one-liners that don’t make good reading.
Good poetry is all about the imagination, but how to open that door without revealing ones life story?
Jumping through meadows of hay trying to find a gate to the other side, where the grass is always greener.
The caterpillar that turns into a butterfly, no more or less beautiful when you look at life, and the world doesn’t always appear less harsh through someone else’s eyes.
Days, months… a year, without rain where fields of life so easily turn to fields of death,
caught up in a wishing well of cholera inducing death.
Russia and America circle each other, the wrong words at the wrong moment said with no one intent but interpreted as something completely different, the difference between wishing someone were gone and wishing they were dead… one mind, a world of people, one button.
Who can honestly assess great writing from bad? Was Shakespeare truly great? William Blake… disillusioned and driven insane by his own imagination, or a prophet?
Dancing with disaster dancing with death not accepting that you love every minuet of its fatal kiss. Twisting and turning, coming back for more, a score unsettled, who could want more?