I've taken a break from the Poetry Bus for a few weeks to 1) try and write up my grandfather's memoirs, 2) try to learn to play this electric guitar wot I got for my birthday and 3) to get some articles written for the local paper, which has risen from the flames.
Problem is, I'm not writing any poetry. So, I'm here at the Poetry Bus Stop proferring my ticket, guilty and ashamed, like the prodigal son returning to the fold.
This week's driver is Southern Belle Dana, aka The Bug, who will let us board in exchange for a poem about one of three photographs on her site. I chose the intriguing pic above.
Sofas in a cornfield
We’ve travelled quite a distance just to pay you guys a visit.
What a lovely place you had! We find it quite exquisite,
the little farmhouse built, it seems from wood and bricks and mortar,
the fields of corn now covered in what looks like frozen water.
As visitors, of course, we could not land here empty-handed.
We had to bring a present, but to be extremely candid,
you didn’t seem to like the gift we left for you last summer,
judging by the way that you described it as a bummer.
You see, back on our planet, the circle is revered –
the geometric formula has all but disappeared.
And so we thought it neighbourly to pull out all the stops
and sculpt a perfect circle in the middle of your crops.
But sadly, it appears ‘twas not the perfect choice of present
(as I recall, you stamped your feet and mouthed words most unpleasant.)
We think that this new gift of ours is really quite delectable
and hope you find these sofas just a little more acceptable.