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We're having a drought but tonight it started to rain again, and this old poem turned up from 10 rainy seasons ago:

Raintime
It has rained for so long,
days and weeks and hurricane forecasts
ever since you left -
the verges are running and thick with mud and drowned weeds
the gut rumbles and rushes and papyrus piles up-rooted against the bridge
and trees fall, the ground too soft to hold their roots.
Hard not to think of that old song,
"Ain't no sunshine when you're gone" -
and that same maudlin country music feeling seems to have settled here -
on everyone not used to grey skies.
Where your feet would be, the bed is damp
with rain that has blown through the shutters.
The floor is gritty with the mud I've brought in over and over
on my four pairs of wet shoes,
amazed that the bean vines are still climbing their bamboo tripods
and the lettuces are floppy but growing by the hour.
Up the road, vistas like a real river appear, the gut could run for months,
all the bush has fallen into it and been swirled away to the sea -
there's white-water on the bends and the old aquaduct spouts roar,
today the road is flooded again, but the sun came out!

Allamanda 8 Apr 23
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0

Poem, or poetic prose?

Petter Level 9 Apr 24, 2019

as you like.

what would you call this?
Ode to My Socks
Pablo Neruda

Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder’s hands,
two socks as soft
as rabbits.
I slipped my feet
into them
as though into
two
cases
knitted
with threads of
twilight
and goatskin.
Violent socks,
my feet were
two fish made
of wool,
two long sharks
sea-blue, shot
through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons:
my feet
were honored
in this way
by
these
heavenly
socks.
They were
so handsome
for the first time
my feet seemed to me
unacceptable
like two decrepit
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that woven
fire,
of those glowing
socks.

Nevertheless
I resisted
the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere
as schoolboys
keep
fireflies,
as learned men
collect
sacred texts,
I resisted
the mad impulse
to put them
into a golden
cage
and each day give them
birdseed
and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers
in the jungle who hand
over the very rare
green deer
to the spit
and eat it
with remorse,
I stretched out
my feet
and pulled on
the magnificent
socks
and then my shoes.

The moral
of my ode is this:
beauty is twice
beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool
in winter.

@Allamanda Prose.
[mojacar.ws]

@Petter to each his own. Perhaps it's generational? I know my grandparents didn't accept anything as poetry except rhyming couplets!

@Allamanda Rhyme is not essential but does enhance. However, blank verse must still have a meter.
Merely writing
Something...
Then breaking It ...
Into ....
Lines
Does not create
Poetry.
Therein,
Lieth
..... my point.

@Petter again, see Neruda... It's an opinion, certainly.

1

The metaphoric context is captivating.

azzow2 Level 9 Apr 23, 2019