Your voice each evening on my ancient phone -
my only contact from beyond this empty world
that teems with life. All look like me,
as I resemble them. Look through me though,
Night falls. Day breaks. This place
like any other, home included.
But night and day are like no other:
the sullen light turned sudden fierce -
never a time between the two.
Never a cooling breeze, refreshing shower,
but simmering streets in broiling sun.
Parched fields are not my style. At night
a solid darkness pinpricked by a million stars -
it's one claim to magnificence.
Sounds have no significance.
The words I had have had the sweetness sucked,
pruned of all meaning, cut to their basic stems.
I walk the streets in search of friendly speech,
of words to walk in step with me,
that know the rhythms of my ambling gait.
Gargled and strangled vowels are not my style.
Never a smell to bring a memory.
They've no more meaning for me than the sounds,
give neither pleasure nor disgust, but like all else
are dumb with neutral flavours, leave me cold.
I wait to hear again from you.
ManicDdaily in Poetics at http://dversepoets.com/ has set Exile as the theme for our challenge.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...