It’s not in their roots anymore.
Who can tell?
There’s not much written…they’re fighters, too.
What’s the problem? I don’t understand the problem.
I wasn’t there, but I think-
It’s irrelevant. I would not talk about it.
I know, but I’m watching the triage. Even if it’s impossible to broadcast.
Some people thought it was all in my head.
Yes. Don’t let them go bare. Right?
Right. We’re taking back the finish line.
Then we’ve lost.
I’m humbled. It’s an honor.
Following Margo over to Oulipost for today’s challenge, a Confabulation (the weaving of a poem from he said/she said type quotes from the newspaper – today’s LV Review Journal.) I’m finding it a bit funny that I loved the Sestina process this week, but am not having much luck at all otherwise in finding good poetical snippets. I’ve slapped a long title on this, in hopes that it takes it from total nonsense to somewhat intriguing. I’m not sure it’s succeeded. Next poem, please.
Well, the title was intriguing. I was imagining two people talking about a third person in the hospital. And a bit being lost in their hand motions and the assumptions of shared history.
The possibilities with many of the confabulations is what makes them fun.
I really like the flow in this one. Well done, De.
Listen. Nonsense. That’s why we have art. This surely captures that.
The title also lends itself to the idea that we are only hearing snippets of the conversation, as sometimes happens in a crowded place.
Exactly. I love to eavesdrop in coffee shops, and imagine the other half that I cannot hear, fill in the blanks in an interesting way. 🙂