Changing Genres

I was satisfied with haiku until I met you,
jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry, 5-7-5,
but now I want a Russian novel,
a 50-page description of you sleeping,
another 75 of what you think staring out
a window. I don’t care about the plot
although I suppose there will have to be one,
the usual separation of the lovers, turbulent
seas, danger of decommission in spite
of constant war, time in gulps and glitches
passing, squibs of threnody, a fallen nest,
speckled eggs somehow uncrushed, the sled
outracing the wolves on the steppes, the huge
glittering ball where all that matters
is a kiss at the end of a dark hall.
At dawn the officers ride back to the garrison,
one without a glove, the entire last chapter
about a necklace that couldn’t be worn
inherited by a great-niece
along with the love letters bound in silk.

– Dean Young

I wrote some commentary here and then deleted it. What else is there to say? A 50-page description of you sleeping, another 75 of what you think staring out a window – is exactly what I want. I wouldn’t care about the plot either, although yes, I suppose there would have to be one. Alas, ours already has the usual separation of lovers. You, and you, and you.

4 thoughts on “Changing Genres

  1. I keep coming back here, Leslie, because each entry is a jewel, and I can’t wait to see the next brilliant entry. (Is that too much pressure?) 🙂 Which is all a roundabout way of saying “more, please.”

    1. Don, thank you for all your encouragement! I had been so mad at writing that I decided I would do no “work” writing, only “fun” writing this month. This comment came just when I was realizing that it was past mid-month and I had done NO writing. Which is a roundabout way of saying I appreciate your pressure. 🙂

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