The Girl Who Played with Fire
Janet Reid, agent and shark extraordinaire, is having a contest on her blog. I believe it closes tomorrow. Using books that you own, you have to write a poem, adding a couple of words to each line; each line MUST contain a book title, and you must email in a photo of the stack of books you used.
This was, in a word, FUN. Below is my entry. I am officially encouraging you to send in your own entry. *brandishes cattle prod*
Your BIRTHDAY LETTERS leave me NUMB,
a side-effect of THE HUNGER GAMES
we once played; you were the BREAD GIVER,
and I, the LOVER OF UNREASON, transformed
into a reluctant WOMAN WARRIOR,
clutching a BURNT DIARY made of STARDUST
and WINTER POLLLEN.
(A GOOD OMEN is not
the same as a BLOOD PROMISE.)
This is a GHOST STORY, a GRAVEYARD BOOK,
a reminder that THE DEAD TRAVEL FAST,
and our love is FULL DARK, NO STARS,
a FARMING OF BONES
on a FAULT LINE, empty promises
ringing like THE LAUGHTER OF FOXES.
It’s A LONG WAY DOWN. I’ve heard
the STORIES. I know
WHERE SHADOWS DANCE and that
these LETTERS HOME are not PROOF
of love IN THE TIME OF BUTTERFLIES;
this marriage is no HOUSE OF MIRTH.
We swim in a WIDE SARGASSO SEA,
foolish as THE GIRL WHO KICKED THE HORNET’S NEST,
lingering in the NEVERWHERE, lost like ALICE IN WONDERLAND.
Yes, ours is a DARK ROAD TO DARJEELING,
but despite this CITY OF BONES
THE YEAR OF MAGICAL THINKING is over,
and I must PLAY IT AS IT LAYS.