tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1152569870621658721.post-81135068567899750432008-03-29T07:01:00.000-07:002008-04-28T14:33:33.864-07:00<em><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Stevens/Williams</span></strong></em><br /><br /><br />Shall I uncrumple this<br />much crumpled me<br />turning like gray leaves<br /><br />blue on the floor like<br />peacock’s wings<br /><br />like cathedral glass<br />so like delicious<br /><br />plums in a frost-filled<br />jar in the icebox?<br /><br />Give me hemlock<br />I breathed so gentle<br />so sweet so cold<br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center">*****<br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="left"></div><strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;">Frost</span></em></strong><br /><br /><br />I'm going out to fetch<br />the little calf<br />standing by its mother<br /><br />It's so young<br />it totters when I<br />shoot it with father’s gun<br /><br />You come too<br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="center">*****<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;">Dickinson</span></em> </strong><br /><br /><br />I like a look—of agony<br />because I know it’s you<br />Parents don’t sham compulsion<br />Nor simulate throw<br /><br />up Eyes glaze death—<br />impossible to feign<br />The thickening of tongue?<br />Heroin-hung<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="center">*****<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Notes on Mash-Ups:<br /><br />When writing these poems I had in mind what TS Eliot wrote about the playwright, Philip Massinger: Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.</div><div align="left"><br />Some of these poems are attempting to be the antithesis, not only to what Eliot said, but, as is the case in the Frost poem, to the original as well.<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="center">*****<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Eric Berge lives and writes in the desert. You can see his blog at <a href="http://www.edberge.com/">http://www.edberge.com/</a>. </div>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10965176324302181743noreply@blogger.com