Ok, so just a quick little one today. I'm taking an intro to writing poetry class and our first poems are due tomorrow. As a creative writing major, it's not a big deal to write creatively, but poetry sort of stumps me. So I gave free verse a shot, and we'll see what the class thinks when we workshop it. Anyway, here it is for your critique. (Loosely based on a true event, and no, that's not me.)
It’s cold in the shop. So cold that her two middle fingers on one hand are death-white. Frostbite sticks. She was eight, when the frostbite got her. Not enough to lose them, but enough.
It’s cold, despite the wool-stocked walls. Small cubbies stacked upon cubbies stacked upon cubbies. Up and up and up, to the top of the wall. One, two, three skeins of yarn in the cubbies. Cashmere, cotton, wool. Wool, the fiber of warmth.
But it’s cold, cold as the tile on the bathroom floor. There are tiles here, too. Black and white and brown and tan and rotten eggplant. From outside, in the snow, the bright yellow walls of the shop beam against the blue shadows. The promise of warmth. But there is no warmth.
Only cold. Her fingers are bluish-purple, like the winter shadows. She blows on them. Hot breath that smells of bleu cheese and croutons. Hand stuck in her pockets, in her armpits, in her crotch. Nothing warms them. Clasp, release, clasp release. Get the blood working, get it flowing!
Aha! The needles. Two. Long, bamboo, cold. Woollen loops spiral around them. Grasping with cold fingers, she works. Friction warms. She’s humming. “In through the front door, once around the back, peek through the window, and off jumps Jack.”
Bamboo glows when it’s worked, when it’s warmed. Two fingers, cold as death, turn pink. Wool warms. She hums again, “…and off jumps Jack!”
The door opens with a BANG! Winter swoops into the shop. A violent shiver. A woman combats the winter, fights the cold and slams the door in it’s face. “Whew! It’s cold out there. Sure is nice and warm in here, though!”
It’s warm in the shop. Wool warms.
Don't hold back, but...well, go easy on me. Lol. I don't often write poetry, and when I do it's usually silly rhyming couplets that amuse simple-minded people such as myself and my dear friend Rachel (not my sister). We're easily amused. And have ADHD when we're together. I'm the AD, she's the HD. See? Tangents are springing up already.