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rhia_starsongOk, guys, this is a little ridiculous; I have a poem that I performed last Saturday at Mood Swings, but it still has no title. Suggestions, please?
ETA: Ok, I've decided I like 'Southern Comfort' as the title.
A season of cold creeps up on the temperate South
the way that feral cats stalk the neighbourhood mice:
slowly, and with an innocence that shivers away at eye
contact.
Along about October, the full days of summer and the
stickiness of early autumn
turn into lesser days, laced with winter's sparkling threat, until
there's only night, it seems.
November brings the last crumbling oak leaves trembling to the crackled, dead grass
in our yards, and morning dew gives way to overnight frost
(no great chemical change, frozen water)
into December, with a harshness tamed by frequent thaws and the
inherent mildness of a Southern winter.
Wet wintry mixes coat the streets of suburbia,
endangering small cars
but sometimes you still roll the windows down
with the radio turned up to carry in the
cold, stabbing air.
Throughout January, we huddle inside on grey, icy days,
wishing for the heavy heat of June to bake us out of our
post-holiday apathy; dying to be alive
again, if only this pale imitation sun
would fail to rise one morning,
making way for blue skies.
ETA: I guess some further questions would be: how strong is the imagery? Does it show more than it tells? What would you think about breaking it into more stanzas? Would this make the poem look too cluttered?
And now I need to stop obsessing over this thing. It's just that an unfinished poem nags at me, and when it's missing something as integral as the title, well...
ETA: Ok, I've decided I like 'Southern Comfort' as the title.
A season of cold creeps up on the temperate South
the way that feral cats stalk the neighbourhood mice:
slowly, and with an innocence that shivers away at eye
contact.
Along about October, the full days of summer and the
stickiness of early autumn
turn into lesser days, laced with winter's sparkling threat, until
there's only night, it seems.
November brings the last crumbling oak leaves trembling to the crackled, dead grass
in our yards, and morning dew gives way to overnight frost
(no great chemical change, frozen water)
into December, with a harshness tamed by frequent thaws and the
inherent mildness of a Southern winter.
Wet wintry mixes coat the streets of suburbia,
endangering small cars
but sometimes you still roll the windows down
with the radio turned up to carry in the
cold, stabbing air.
Throughout January, we huddle inside on grey, icy days,
wishing for the heavy heat of June to bake us out of our
post-holiday apathy; dying to be alive
again, if only this pale imitation sun
would fail to rise one morning,
making way for blue skies.
ETA: I guess some further questions would be: how strong is the imagery? Does it show more than it tells? What would you think about breaking it into more stanzas? Would this make the poem look too cluttered?
And now I need to stop obsessing over this thing. It's just that an unfinished poem nags at me, and when it's missing something as integral as the title, well...
