Friday, April 20, 2012

Opposite Poem


 NaPoWriMo says write an 'opposites' poem. Take someone else's poem and switch it entirely...


The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.

The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

John Clare

(I switched it to Spring)


The bud remains quiescent though winds moan and seethe
On dull-crested garden; the seed waits beneath
The ground, freed of winter is clenched by deep frost
Hiding spring, like a miser still counting the cost

The ground, rich and ready, is like under-baked bread
As buds becomes heady on tree-limbs overhead
The rested field sprawls, humbled by its naked bosom
As honey-bees fall, tumble, from blossom to blossom

Valleys, like cold dungeons are dark before dusk
But the orchard is burgeoning with pink-petal musk
Yet still cool is the air; silver-gray is the shower
But we do not care; Spring hath too short an hour

© Janet Martin

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