Self Portrait With Sour Grapes Poem by Irene Mitchell

Self Portrait With Sour Grapes

Rating: 5.0


Lyric hardball
is to be played with reverence
in the mind's court,
a game of solitaire
with sonic underpinnings.

The court is limed. I play
within its boxes
until I am the only one left wondering,
What is the point
of rules which kill momentum?

Better to play on a sunless day
as eyes have no tolerance for strobe.
Brow should remain cool throughout.

The grayer the day, the higher the stakes
because darker, as later,
implies a boundless field.

Cunning moves are made
in the misty relevance of twilight,
one's own overcast moody empire.

In this realm there is no need for triumph
or fleeting reward,
just a small honorarium
for forging the fiord
when light was loved
and it did not hurt to falter.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: artistic work
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Adeline Foster 01 February 2016

I too benefited from the second reading and enjoyed it. Read mine - Brush Strokes - Adeline

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Pamela Sinicrope 24 January 2016

This was an interesting poem to read. I was puzzled but attracted to the idea behind the writing and the colorful images/ideas you presented: lyric hardball, forging the fjord, the grater the day, the higher the stakes. I interpreted this poem as a Ln interpretation of the artistic process... Could be with any kind of art, but for me, writing. For you? I would guess writing too. Bell done. Made me think and imagine. Thanks!

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Kim Barney 03 January 2016

I enjoyed this poem so much I had to come back and read it again. Thanks for still having it here.

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Kim Barney 13 December 2015

Very nice. I especially like the lines: What is the point of rules which kill momentum? I agree totally.

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Dr Antony Theodore 26 November 2015

In this realm there is no need for triumph or fleeting reward, this is a great realization of life that comes from the experience of life. thank you. tony

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