January 02, 2004


It has a curious way of making you wait
before striking. By day you fill in the usual
blanks, the same quota of sunlight. Flee
at night into sleep, into poetry which is
another kind of dreaming. And then it
flanks you like a predator. The news,
the naked shock, the future�s payload emptied
into present. At once you know this is also
how love ends, how verse begin to fail.
That when a man wakes to find his lover
gone, he does not weep, or write sonnets.
He has breakfast, a cigarette, reads the paper
to find history has taken its place without us,
whatever our questions and our stories say.

I kinda like this sonnet which Alvin Pang wrote as a reply to his own poetry challenge � “Write a poem using ‘questions, sunlight, predator, cigarette, history, poetry”.

The comments from other poets are interesting. Apparently it is not grammatical enough. Poke around for a more edited version.

Posted by Karen at January 2, 2004 02:15 PM in poetry

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