The BlueIris Semi-Nightly Poetry Break, 4/6/08

[BlueIris]

"Midi"

The sundial reads it's later than you think.
Black humor of the dark ages going blind.
The sowers are asleep again by noon.

Meanwhile, sunlight saturates the brickwork
of the Palace of the Kings, gets in eyes
like the grit kicked up by an unkind wind.

In the palm-studded cool of the courtyard
the King raises a glass to his guests,
the Duke and Archbishop of Languedoc.

His sovereignty's at stake, and the bread
is stale. What can he do but serve them
lemonade? If this heat keeps up the rapeseed

will wilt in the fields. No wonder then
the painter’s brushstrokes all approximate
the grainy interior of the sun-

flower: so many faces turned his way
at once, their slender shadows decomposed
in the soil. The King declares a holiday.
The field hands know it's later than you think.

—Kevin Craft

[BlueIris]

1. Kick.

[BlueIris]

2. Kick.

[BlueIris]

3. Don't make me bring in ringers from GD: Primaries.

They'll shout down my poems, each other, AND you. It won't be pretty. Comment or else.

[CaliforniaPeggy]

4. My dear BlueIris...

Sorry, sweetie, but I don't get this one...:shrug:

It's got an interesting set of images, though...

Seems medieval in tone...

It's hard to parse...

Still, I thank you for your tireless efforts...

:hug:

[BlueIris]

5. I read it as a poem about a king on the edge of ruin.

That's it. Nothing else too fancy, just a sere portrait of a monarch whose reign is almost over.