The ballerina was going to die anyway,
Swan Lake and all,
But the war babies went wild.
Their chubby little bodies
belied their supposed innocence.
Look at their faces,
creepy and middle-aged.
Frustrated baby-men with weapons.
The black chorus looks on, marbled and unmoved
at the premature death. She had
such great bone structure, and I bet
she spoke both Russian and French.
Cupid’s army, black swan queen,
a randy hunter in the wood.
Doomed from the first note,
the first flight, the first arrow
dipped in the shadows by little men
trapped in infant skin. Doomed
by all who cannot abide the power
of one woman’s dance,
a swan alive in the world’s wood.
Comments on: "Swan Lake" (5)
Having written poetry most of my life up until recently, I sincerely appreciate the clever turn of metaphor. Love the “little men trapped in infant skin” verbal imagery. Creepy!
So great ot have someone read one of my poems!!!!! The blog is helping me find poetry again. The structure of telling myself I only need to write for seven minutes . . . if I go longer great, but it’s a little trick that gets me started. And I’m pleased with how easily the images are coming. You made my day!
Happy to oblige
“the first flight, the first arrow
dipped in the shadows by little men”
great line…
Thanks. The English major in me is smiling.