Wow, we excel at slack these days.

April is national poetry month.  I’ve been spending so much time hiding from my writing that I haven’t been much of a poetry reader lately.  But let’s forget about that for a moment and think about words.

Lots of people quote the opening of The Wasteland  right about now.  Or, you know, a couple of weeks ago when National Poetry/Cruelest Month actually began.  Me, I’m going with a poet, and I’m quoting some of her prose, and I don’t care who knows it.  Go read some Janet Frame.  I purposely saved a novel of hers for April.  I’m reading Owls Do Cry, which is rich in wool imagery and thus a wool poem. 

And Francie’s father would pick at something else, the way someone who is knitting will pull at the threads to make  a hole, but their father tried to pick and unpick something inside himself that every year of being alive had knitted, with the pattern, the purl and plain of time gone muddled and different from the dream neatness.

Damn that’s good.  I love Janet Frame. So yeah, I’m focusing on prose that’s poetic. Got any?

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