Sunday, September 16, 2012

Pratfall, a poem


The apprentice clown has learned
all his master’s tricks,

save one. He can fall
but not yet pick himself up,

laughing with the crowd.
They still see the pain,

hide it though he does
behind greasepaint and wig.

They see him wince, and know
the cost of each pratfall.

Stephen Brooke ©2012

A quickly written little piece (which usually means revision down the line) from a thought that came to me while hanging out the laundry! I had half the lines in my head before I got inside and typed it out.

Which is quite a bit different from the more polished poem, 'Sleep,' that I posted a few entries back. I labored on that one for months and still don't know if it's 'right.' One thing is for sure, though -- there is probably more of an actual point to this little poem, whereas the other turned out to be essentially an exercise of the craft.

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