He whispers in my ear,

With words contrived to change opinion.

Long, spindles of fingers,

Reach into my brain,



The shocks of his sorcery.

He tells his story, with whispered murmurs,

Using the language of his creator.

He surpasses,

Goes beyond expectation, 'til at last his spell is woven,

And the memory of his touch,

Leaves me yearning,

For more.

I reach out again,

Turn a page to make new friends,

And read.



The Usual ►


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Chris Co

Thu 29th Jan 2015 18:00

I would echo Harry's words. Clever. If there was one thing I might think about, it would be the title. As it stands you understand what the poem is, in a sense from the beginning. Yet without the title, the words of the poem cleverly hide intention and meaning to the last.

It makes me wonder, is it possible to find a title that is appropriate, but keeps secret the words of the poem?

A thought - enjoyable regardless.

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Jackie Phillips

Thu 15th Jan 2015 15:55

Thank you for your feedback. It's funny you should mention the stuff going on in France, I wrote this poem a while ago but it seemed to fit with recent events so I decided to post it here.

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Harry O'Neill

Thu 15th Jan 2015 14:30

the `personalisation` and insidious intentionality of the first part of this, leading to the `spell` and (intentional?) `woven` says more about the power of the printed word than much of the stuff going on in France at the present time.


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