Saturday, March 29, 2008



Shall I uncrumple this
much crumpled me
turning like gray leaves

blue on the floor like
peacock’s wings

like cathedral glass
so like delicious

plums in a frost-filled
jar in the icebox?

Give me hemlock
I breathed so gentle
so sweet so cold



I'm going out to fetch
the little calf
standing by its mother

It's so young
it totters when I
shoot it with father’s gun

You come too



I like a look—of agony
because I know it’s you
Parents don’t sham compulsion
Nor simulate throw

up Eyes glaze death—
impossible to feign
The thickening of tongue?


Notes on Mash-Ups:

When writing these poems I had in mind what TS Eliot wrote about the playwright, Philip Massinger: Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.

Some of these poems are attempting to be the antithesis, not only to what Eliot said, but, as is the case in the Frost poem, to the original as well.


Eric Berge lives and writes in the desert. You can see his blog at http://www.edberge.com/.

1 comment:

julia said...

I noticed in your Stevens/Williams piece, a hint of Hopkins in the first stanza? Untwisting last strands?
Perhaps it is because I am not a fan of Frost, but you have achieved your goal of making something better...where Frost (for me) ends at evoking an image, you evoke feelings of pity and futility powerfully. It strikes me that the speaker, although committing a (perhaps unnecessary)act of destruction, he invites a spectator to it - maybe an accomplice?