Monday, February 8, 2010

Playing with Prose Poems #2

Here’s a little machine, its gears precise, turning teeth, whirring wheels: steel drum just so, like a torturer’s instrument, tiny nipples arranged in variegated rows to trip the steel tangs, tensile, tempered, slim as a bird’s tongue – a mechanical sorcery, teasing tempos somehow musical, lilting, lovely, from springs wound tight – all beneath a complicated tableau, a girl turning, perpetually gazing at a chariot tracing a circular track, its horses’ forelegs prancing, noble heads up and down, a grassy park, a tree, a glass sky, a globe to be concise. And I, with wily hands inside the workings, agile fool, thinking, tinkering, never satisfied.

Music Box


  1. Jim, I wish I could paint this music box in oils as beautifully as you did with words! After my third trip back to read "Music Box", I printed it! I can hear the music!

  2. Thanks Rosemary!
    that's high praise, indeed. A slightly revised version was published by "Barnwood."
    Hope all is well with you

  3. "Slim as a bird's tongue"--nice line! I can feel this music box in my hand, its weight, the tinny vibrations as it plays. You do such a great job with the sensual details, the object becomes real.

  4. This is incredible writing. What great images, and how well the words flowed.