A couple of poems this week that I think are in transit. The first fuses two separate evenings.
She stops the car, the night is cold,
the lay-by muddy, my breath smoke. She tells me to look at the moon,
mercury sheens the ridged field, surf sound from distant cars. We
should all see the moon when it is full.
Another night,
in another place she had said: There is only now, be in this
moment. A noisy rickshaw carried us past a bus stop blanketed by
sleeping people, sodium glare washed out the stars.
She
has the map, I would follow her anywhere.
I have been playing about with the shape/form of the poem and at the moment I think it works best as a prose poem. Watch this space
In The Museum of Past Hurts
You
would polish every twisted set of tragic thoughts,
concerned
that each did not lose it's value.
It
was imperative, you told me, to study
every
piece at the correct time, if you
were
to fully feel it's impact. There was no other way you
could
possibly remain enambered in misery.
So,
with scrupulous precision, you rewrote exhibit titles,
the
better to keep you stuck.
I
only went the once, your guest, it was not to my taste,
like
that discordant serious music you listened to,only with more blood.
You
had dragged that ediffice with you throughout your life.
I
sensed there was pride in your curatorship, after all
that
museum was all you had.
No comments:
Post a Comment