Who's In the Middle of Something

This is my third extended narrative in as many months and maybe I’m amazed. I had never written even one previous to 2005. At this point, I’m not judging the quality, although I’m OK with things for now, but the quantity as well as the cohesiveness of it has been realized to date. Although, in this current one, I’m experimenting with a mid-section that veers away from the narrative into some arena that borders on a postmodern interlude for three stanzas. I’m unsure of its success and its relation to the rest. For now, the kid stays in the picture. These next two stanzas (10 & 11) contain the last section of the interlude changing back to a standard narrative stanza. In 10 I’m playing with prescience, meaning, and sound while in 11 I’m reintroducing the narrative gradually, emphasizing repetition and simple rhyme as it slowly regains its oxygen, trying to avoid the bends.

Or enigmatic: “Memory and reeds
whisper paradoxical canoes
innately in dark streams of consciousness.
Centurions with ringside seating cruise
calamities and teardrops. Dragonflies
answer the falconer while right whales rise.”

But that’s not what Samara said it had said
when, as the sun returned from shadow play
she turned her spirited eyes to me, her face
a guise whose wrinkles had disappeared as day
had disappeared from light of afternoon,
as she had ceased her swaying just as soon

What did Samara say it said? Maybe tomorrow. But I should add that I haven’t finished yet, so any talk of cohesiveness is somewhat premature.

Poem to date here.