FIRST DRAFT FRIPPERY (A Murmer Of Voices)

March 19, 2012

“To see in the day or in the year a symbol

Of the days of man and of his years,

To transmute the outrage of the years

Into a music, a murmur of voices, and a symbol,

To see in death sleep, and in the sunset

A sad gold—such is poetry,

Which is immortal and poor.

Poetry returns like the dawn and the sunset.”

-from “Ars Poetica”, Borges

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.

.                    FIRST   DRAFT   FRIPPERY

.

This man risked squandering his quarters,

Despite the nights rain,

He’d fight to stay the payphone,

Risked squandering  his quarters,

Meant to be spent toward a quart to take the day  to done.

So he’d hang up quick as Go

So she’d ring back

If she was in a curious mood.

It wasn’t too late

(But maybe that’d help)

.

He’d be ready,  with his 1st draft.

Damn, ink already ran onto his icy hand,

Trailed off his folded page

Of  falderal,  frippery,  & doggerel.

Worthy words  to win some time.

He’d force his forte’  over the phone

If she called back.

If any  would mercifully allow

A curious mood

A furious  mind

This time

Of night.

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(from very long ago)

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