For the town I never been
My hammer rings sparks. Steel
slag bruises my eye. Sharp
hot red-orange sluice traces
gilded lines through factory
dark. Outside mud-rock clogs
streets, ruins gutters.
Blue asphalt cut from hillsides
bites through new birch. Hard
call girls call the cool night,
coo frog-throated these tough
hands. Bandaged canvas wrapped
hard like cast iron—steel, the bite
of worn wood on palm.
Joe’s fist like hot rock
bounces my brow. Spit, blood
we hug center ring. Bells’ swale
swells crowds dressed
in bluest finery, tobacco spittle
lips, the finest perfumes.
My own failed attempt at Hugo’s exercise, which I read today the first time in The Triggering Town. Thought, that might be fun to try some day. Then I saw Merlin’s challenge and figured now or never, fun or not.
There’s nothing like taking up a poem to make you feel like an amateur.
How did I fail? Let me count the ways: I am too tired right now to count beat, know slant from near rhyme and never knew enough poetry to understand internal rhyme or end stops. Also, I am so steeped in narrative that I don’t think I’d ever be able to meet point 7 and still face myself in the morning.
