A death of sorts
Two chipped fingernails
beneath the pillow
you gave me
last summer
You know the one,
duck down
And a picture of your
University
boat-race
across its bow
I’ll make a believer of you yet
I’ll leak and tear,
And cast it all out to sea
But by then
who knows?
Perhaps the realisation
that, like every good
garden,
this love needs
to be tended with care,
will have you swollen
and calling
my name.
22 comments:
Viceal. Wish I could say I love it, but it opened some wounds of my own.
Thanks and bravo.
.
woods
hounds
guns
a chase
pains
wounds
cries
a face that never fades
the hunter
returns home
with empty hands
a tiny little seed
on his hat
.
one of the best i read recently... so cutting!
Amazing write.
I love how the poem starts off.
It is cutting, as hb says. The stanzas twist and curl so elegantly. Like water lashes. Great piece, again.
Palpable intensity. Cutting for sure and authentic. Nice.
Searing emotion... I particularly admire the strength of the third and final stanzas.
Thanks guys! I have to admit writing this was rather therapeutic. Also, I’m pleased I managed to squeeze in a little cockney slang (boat-race = face).
Must get my submissions for FoS together soon...
scrybe, do you write with a feather quill? :)
(just kidding)
p.s. I love your writing style...
Haha, yes I'd love a feather quill. Perhaps I could also wear a bonnet, like this one. Hmmm, the subtitles on that clip, make watching it quite strange.
Thanks :) and I'm really pleased to have you here.
That is one of my favorite movies!
(the Colin Firth version is best)
:D Agreed, the Firth version is definitely best.
I have always thought of you with a feather quill too, Scrybe. :) I mean that as a compliment.
I’m certain that my clumsy gloved hands would fail terribly at using one properly, but you’ve both made me wonder where I can get one from now. Hmmm I’ll have to have a look in one of the local markets, or ‘take a turn about the town’ as Jane Austen would perhaps have said, all those years ago.
You’ve also made me wonder where you would start your guesses, in a game of ‘pin the age on The Scrybe’.
:)
I once had a feather quill. I bought it in Akademibokhandeln in Sweden. I guess you create pictures in your mind as most of us haven’t met in real life. I think everyone here has a huge and interesting personality.
I'm listening to "Wild Thing" right now (and drinking wine). Trying to work but I just sit here and read all the time. It is so good. I thing I start to like spring, and
I’m surprised because I always thought I hated it. Oh man.
scrybe ~ if you can find a feather, you can make one, i did once, a long time ago...my guess at your age is 29!
po ~ don't drink and write :)
I always do, I’m afraid. ;)
To my defense it’s nine pm where I live. Not very good perhaps, but oh.
@ NIKKI: Yes, making one sounds like a good idea. And that's a pretty good guess; the tail hasn't quite stuck to my backside, but it's nearby, on the back of my thigh :)
@ PO: Thanks :D, perhaps I should head downstairs and get some wine myself; I've always preferred red. Where abouts are you, for it to be 9pm? It's always 2:22 in Shallow Window, I think the clocks are broken.
oh, +1 hour Greenwich Time, my dear Scrybe.
ha! a very clever change of the title... very clever...
again... this is a great work!
and perhaps you might like reading this old post by crow:
http://dearteachercrow.blogspot.com/2008/03/love-is-triangle.html
(see how opportunist crows are?!!)
:D
The poem flows as if in conversation.
Nice,
I am a bit slow in grabbing meanings, but then in the end, it is all well.
Nice read.
@ human being: Thanks, I'm glad you think so. I'm just on my way over now :)
@ Anonymous Someone: Thank you, I'm pleased you like it, and nice to meet you :)
Post a Comment