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I am not of the south

By Simon Cowley All Rights Reserved ©

Poetry

I am not of the south

I wanted only to take you by the hand
and guide you to pebbles
where, sitting, we’d lick vinegar
from each others’ fingers as salt
licked by the wind would gently flay
our February skin.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise
when, blinking, you laughed
and peeled me like the
chips I’d have us eat;
you were bent on cities
built on twin volcanoes.

Because pebbles aren’t beaches,
beaches aren’t for winter
and winter is a blight on the year.
Your manifesto was clear:
once there (like Bolaño) you would
read lots, live lots and fuck lots.

But I am not of the south.
My heart meanders slowly
through treacled Calvinism;
sickly, saccharine and smug.
I shelter from the sun and my ambitions
settle like moss on stones.

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Richard D. Cooper: I wish I could write poetry like this. It's clever because it also tells a story, too. I like the flow of it, the way sentences slip together as they should. Very good indeed. I have also started to read your others works, and will review them when finished. Keep going. Never stop.

K.J. Sylvan: This was a quick read but worth it. I loved the writer's portrayal of the dual aspects of snow: good and evil, softness and ill intent, and that beauty can be deceiving. It's like the softness of a snowfall versus how harsh or dangerous an ice storm can be. I feel as though certain lines of the p...

crissy: Awesome work. The characters are so beautifully flawed and easy to relate to. The protagonist Bethany Hill is a woman that I would definitely want to meet in real life. The author has managed to make me visualize the story like a movie. The two time frames of past and present are also so beautifu...