I'm a semi-finalist!
Maya Angelou's Nostrils
by Biff Humble
Maya Angelou's nostrils fascinate me, my friend said;
Large and black like a slave's eyes as she says, "Rise, I said rise!"
Maya Angelou's nostrils lure me, my friend said;
Black, like spring-fed pools on a moonless mountain night.
Maya Angelou's nostrils transfix me, my friend said;
They flare when she speaks, calling me,
beckoning like the outstretched hands of a black Beelzebub,
inviting me to come and sit by his side and pass judgement on the damned.
Maya Angelou's nostrils frighten me, my friend said;
Black, like the double barrels of a shotgun,
waved in my face by the crack-trembling hands
of a thug robbing me of $68.12 during the graveyard shift at 7-Eleven.
Maya Angelou's nostrils paralyze me, my friend said;
Black, like the bottomless pits in a recurrent dream,
into which you fall and fall,
until you suddenly awake with a start, drenched in sweat;
or die if you don't.
Maya Angelou's nostrils terrify me, my friend said;
Black, like the opposite of headlights,
illuminating the path that lies in front of me, straight into hell.
In an attempt to test whether everyone who enters the poetry.com contest wins, and hence is published in the beautiful leather-bound, gold-leaf-edged coffee table book (available for the low price of just $69.99), I set out to write the worst possible poem, using everything that makes bad poetry bad, and picking as its subject, the matron of wanna-be poets everywhere. Afterall, what could be more offensive than to attack the grand dame of American poetry based on a physical feature.
Guess what? I won! I'm a semi-finalist!
by Biff Humble
Maya Angelou's nostrils fascinate me, my friend said;
Large and black like a slave's eyes as she says, "Rise, I said rise!"
Maya Angelou's nostrils lure me, my friend said;
Black, like spring-fed pools on a moonless mountain night.
Maya Angelou's nostrils transfix me, my friend said;
They flare when she speaks, calling me,
beckoning like the outstretched hands of a black Beelzebub,
inviting me to come and sit by his side and pass judgement on the damned.
Maya Angelou's nostrils frighten me, my friend said;
Black, like the double barrels of a shotgun,
waved in my face by the crack-trembling hands
of a thug robbing me of $68.12 during the graveyard shift at 7-Eleven.
Maya Angelou's nostrils paralyze me, my friend said;
Black, like the bottomless pits in a recurrent dream,
into which you fall and fall,
until you suddenly awake with a start, drenched in sweat;
or die if you don't.
Maya Angelou's nostrils terrify me, my friend said;
Black, like the opposite of headlights,
illuminating the path that lies in front of me, straight into hell.
In an attempt to test whether everyone who enters the poetry.com contest wins, and hence is published in the beautiful leather-bound, gold-leaf-edged coffee table book (available for the low price of just $69.99), I set out to write the worst possible poem, using everything that makes bad poetry bad, and picking as its subject, the matron of wanna-be poets everywhere. Afterall, what could be more offensive than to attack the grand dame of American poetry based on a physical feature.
Guess what? I won! I'm a semi-finalist!
posted by James Hitchcock at 7:31 AM
2 comments
