Twenty-Sixth Entry

Well, it seems as if I MIGHT have found a place to stay but it's not set in stone.

After bringing in two of my best recent poems to class and not having them discussed, I'm now sure to be up for discussion this week, with a poem I hate.

Saw this first line in a collection I bought at the strand and I just had to try and write something of my own around it. Sorry if it offends any fans of the original author (not because of its daring, but because of its badness).

Here's my poem:

POEM BEGINNING WITH A LINE FROM MAYAKOVSKY

I like to watch the little children die.
Like so many snowflakes dropping from the shaken branch.
You kick the trunk, angry with the stasis of snow.
Glistening children’s bodies, each unique in death
lay quiet on the yard, as if making snow angels.
Angels lay silent among the frost-capped shrubs,
patient sharpshooters sent by the one you love.
Inside, I sit by the fire, writing a letter to each parent,
but the storm has obscured the letterbox
and I throw them into the air and shoot at them with a shotgun.
The wind keeps each black ink word aloft,
an unseen parachute allowing me
to grab you and dance a rough polka
in the powder-burned confetti.
And our reddened cheeks rub maliciously together
as if we were trying to start a fire.