I have a lovely treat for you all today!
I’d like you all to welcome author and poet, Scant Montagne of Book Of Spirals. He’s been kind enough to grace my blog with some of his lovely poetry for your reading pleasure. And if you find the time, browse his website for plenty of free reads, including a number of short stories.
I’ve had the pleasure of exchanging a few emails with Mr. Montagne after he found my Links for Authors page. I find him to be incredibly selfless and kind, a dedicated family man and a lover of his community. His written works are clever, witty, and insightful. I’m more than happy to share some of them with my readers here. I hope you enjoy them!
I’ve whispered moth-words to myself
many a night,
murmuring like a scratched and bleeding recording
of a lost pep-talk.
“Unused,” I whisper, “is not the same as useless.”
But why whisper when I should
shout or shut up?
The moth has no walls like I have walls,
walls even over doors, over my own bed.
I make little sketches by the window
and wish I, too, could pass through it
disdaining pages more acid than paper
as moths pass that last invisible threshold
before the flame.
For them, so easy – they seem to know the whispered milestones
of the jade and the jet.
I remember poets
who remembered their pain
and wish I could match it,
but I am hollow.
Were they ever hollow?
I am a flame
Unused, I know, is no different than useless.
The feeling moves on, but I’m fixed.
I can’t do it.
I can’t do it.
I can’t do it.
My regrets are succulent oranges*
and sweeter, of course, in memory
than on the tongue,
though I surfeit my tongue.
The FDA approves of my regret.
*May not contain oranges
Looking in the mirror I’m holding.
You reject me through me.
An Ideal taunter.
You make me regret rejection.
Know what you know before you know it.
Hum while you reject me.
Weighted shadow above my heart.
Stupid sense says I should reject you.
Still knows how to play,
Teaching me to begin.
I hope you learn to reject me.
Mind’s clay made wet.
You reject rejection.
Keeper of too few secrets,
You rejected me before I was born.
A posteriori pronouncer,
Whistling in the dark.
Thanks for rejecting me.
I am flying above a ravine.
Joy flutters cleverly through arias
Of airy rock and wet fire.
Her wit pulls us, laughing,
Out of the golden mean, into blind scales.
But contentment isn’t clever.
She doesn’t have to be.
No, I am not a sonnet and won’t be
When I have run a course of fourteen lines.
You’re looking for those tell-tale sonnet signs –
The ones you learned in English two-oh-three.
Those simpering rules that are so false to me,
Which your pedantic lecturer assigns
Will never trap me in their ordered lines
For I have branches like the laurel tree.
My turn will not impress you with its wit
And foolishness will be the only crop,
Whose verdant ears will soon invite the worm.
So pass me by – I am a twisted twit
Who asks you to dissect. A studied chop
Won’t separate my content from my form.
About the Author:
Scant Montagne is one of many pen names for an author who writes poetry, prose, music, libretti, lesson plans, and a number of other types of pieces. Scant loves, among many other things, reading, camping, black panthers, talking about quantum mechanics, and spending time with friends and family (especially his wife – the “Beastmaster” – and his dragon-obsessed eleven-year-old). When inhabiting his body, Scant resides in the Midwest section of the United States. You can find out more about his work at www.bookofspirals.com (Please be aware that not all content on his site is appropriate for young persons).
A huge thanks to Scant for allowing me to share so many of his written works here today – you are so generous.
Take care, everyone!