Friday, February 19, 2010


Intent on dismembering
the four chambers of her imagination
She sits
in ringing repetition

An eye brooding over
her own plot of land
at the back of the rattling echoes
we disturbed

And there she waits
for the dust to unsettle
that horizontal lever
she uses
when weighing out her time

I can hear it now
The dry beat drummed out
against a thin and furrowed membrane

A couple of voices
one barely a whisper

Both cursing the distance
and each ripple the pebble makes
whenever dawn is near


Cynthia said...

A surreal quality. I feel this is
a poem about a woman in limbo.
Afraid to move, allowing the ripples of life to move over her.

Anonymous said...

I agree with Cynthia above. Great poem, Scrybe.

samyk said...

Wow nice blog !! :D


योगेश स्वप्न said...

very nice.

Francis Scudellari said...

I love the narrative flow of this, and the vivid scene it paints. There's an austere beauty in it.

Smita Tewari said...

'She sits in ringing repetition' and
'A couple of voices
one barely a whisper'

Echo in the mind, repeatedly...

The Scrybe said...

Hey there, thanks for all the comments.
How frustrating it is, to be in love with a woman in limbo...