I think that I shall never see
a blooming Jacaranda tree,
Lilacs dying in the dooryard,
or muddy drawers perched
above the branch, among the leaves.
Northern lights so far away,
Paris springs foster
memories and nostalgia,
all these places I’ve never been—
no bazaar in Marrakesh,
no Turkish baths, nor Roman
ruins. No sunrise
over the Parthenon.
Mute oracle slain,
Apollo’s disdain feeding blood
to the land, Aphrodite and
pesky Paris playing catch,
tossing golden apples
while Athena engenders
the olive tree;
where lights a mockingbird,
singing the blues.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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