Monday, 13 April 2015

I am intimate with the bones of my feet

After Charles Simic

I am intimate with the bones of my feet
who gossip like grandmothers,
showing off their furs,
their perfume of decaying flesh.

Seeking a way in, ghosts creep
beneath the soles, whisper
which direction I should take
towards the yellow door of home.

Not another word of advice.
I can only heed these bones;
they tell me all I need to know –
a scripture of everything –

including all our futures.
They have nothing to do with God.
We will live at the heart
of a house made from twigs.

Like a zen monk welcomes 
each drop of rain, we will let them in – 
all the shadow selves.
They won't need to say a word.

Today's poem comes from an exercise I learned from the poet and songwriter, Barbara Marsh. Write a line in response to each line from an existing poem, either your own or someone else's. When you are done, save only your response lines and use these as the basis for a new poem. The poem I chose is My Shoes, by one of my favourite poets, Charles Simic.

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