Fairyland a city of electric lightbulbs – easier to count raindrops, blinks of your own eyelids. A skyful of stars neatened into lariats; dark tarted-up in endless blazing garland. No shadows to slouch behind, no night to melt into. No reason to pack up at dusk when dimes still glint in palms.
I prefer the honesty of sun (chance to catch my shadow at mid-day – a moment to be ordinary), flattery of a high, full moon. Breath-flicker of lantern, laughter of campfire, cracking sparks into the sky. Sweet, unrequited kiss of firefly.
These bulbs have no flames to hatch, to suckle. No life in them. So easily made, unmade. Conjured. And the buzz relentless as mosquitoes furious to pierce tent skin.
3 comments:
Yay! It's beautiful although the only hint it might be Edouard is the middle stanza.(chance to catch my shadow at mid-day - a moment to be ordinary)
But aesthetically I like the comparison between electricity and the natural world (stars, sun, moon, flame, mosquitoes)
This has a bit of an echo of the old stories-- about the deceptiveness of fairies and fairyland.
great poem. I didn't read it as an Edouard poem at all, which means it's working on more than one level I guess. The second stanza is perfect. beautiful.
I'm not thrilled about the word "conjured" sitting there all alone near the end. I think you've already shown that. It doesn't need to be said again.
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