Form: Mirror Poem (Amy Lowell came to me with her poem "Aliens," its image of being worn down by talk that means nothing.)
Aliens, by Amy Lowell
The chatter of little people
Breaks on my purpose
Like the water-drops which slowly sear the rocks to powder.
And while I laugh
My spirit crumbles at their teasing touch.
Breaks on my purpose
Like the water-drops which slowly sear the rocks to powder.
And while I laugh
My spirit crumbles at their teasing touch.
Interlopers, by Mary Bast
The babble of small-minded folk
drains my creativity,
small cuts that become deep wounds;
and though my mouth smiles,
my soul faints at their vexing nudge.
drains my creativity,
small cuts that become deep wounds;
and though my mouth smiles,
my soul faints at their vexing nudge.
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