Barbelith Underground > Creation

I was a little wary. Much prose is called poetry. But I'd say this works as poetry.

I still have much to learn, as any poet honest with herself would readily admit--and I am trying to look at word choice, etc; however, it being a longer piece, I'll need to take more time on that--but my immediate suggestions are on punctuation, which is often such an underused tool.

You need a comma after "table" in L5 of S1. And I'm not sure, but a comma might also be called for after "it" in L1 of S2.

L3 of S4--comma after "dicing."

I like the tone of the piece. This seems really smart, but I don't have time to devote all the attention it deserves right now. I'll come back later.

quote:The Tiny Fists of Babies
Today I found a new kind of vegetable at the grocers’,
some kind of tuber I think. Earth from its hiding place
still clung to its smooth purple-black skin and there
were several strangely-shaped protrusions at various
points along its length. Sitting here on the table

as I stare at it they resemble nothing so much as the tiny fists
of babies in the womb. I wonder about the colour of the flesh
beneath that skin, whether it would be pasty white and moist
like a potato’s or perhaps something more vivid — the deep
blood of beetroot or the sickly green of a choko.

And now I realise that I don’t know if the skin is edible or not.
The best thing to do would be to draw up a list of all potential
cooking methods: peeled and roasted, unpeeled and roasted,
peeled and mashed with butter, unpeeled and sliced thinly
then sauteed with garlic and virgin olive oil. I’m beginning

to realise that this single representative of its species
is inadequate to satisfy the plans that I am developing for it.
Once I begin cutting and dicing any attempts to recapture
the experience for my friends will depend on my powers
of description and a handful of purple peelings fermenting

at the top of the compost heap. Better that I invite them over
so that they can join me for a banquet in its honour, and
better still that I stock up on more of these things in order to
make sure that my guests are properly fed. I snatch the string
bag from its hook and pull the back door shut behind me.

As I mount my bicycle I try to put out of my mind the vision of the
vegetable’s tiny fists uncurling and stubby fingers extending as it
balances on its palms and clumsily hops across the kitchen table,
but I know that if I come back home to find it moved even half an
inch from where I left it, that I won’t be entirely surprised.

Poetrial