 |
|
|
|
|
|
Digital Passions
Poetry Magazine
Philip explains: This is not
only a good deal gloomier than most of my efforts so far, but it is written in an entirely
different way. Normally, I have a pretty good idea of what I want to say and how I want to
say it before I start writing. I then move to a framework or rough draft and then
gradually work toward the final version. This poem, in contrast, just "happened"
in the sense that the lines just kind of appeared in the order in which you now see them,
and the message or "meaning" really didn't feature until after it was written. I
had to make a few adjustments to clarify certain parts, but really very few. I'd been
reading a tremendous amount of Dylan Thomas just before writing this, so I blame it on
him. |
|
|
Passions in Poetry
Subscribe to
Free Magazine
About Your
Privacy
Magazine Index
full categorized list
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
After The Murder Of My Wife
by Philip (Poertree) |
And yet, I couldn't really loathe the power that lay beneath
the ravaged torn and shattered mask of my grief,
And time's curdled place beside our throne
fires my turgid breath and blasts my bone.
Violence upon violence heaped, a silvered grain of pain
dibbed deep into translucent flesh and barbed remains
to take the threaded hope of my gassed joy,
coagulate my pasts love-burst destroy.
Ruined rain slides hot upon my chest, whiskering a vapid roll,
So future's dice and spotted mocks my pall,
To tattoo beat a wave of porous hope
upon my empty ribs and parchment coat.
Life; so coppiced in a prime, so hacked and hewn
and rendered over-ripe and blown,
Bleeds and shoots a multitude of Springs
against the frosty cut of death's keen cling.
Yet, I couldn't really loathe the love which lost; grieves me.
Balm my riddled brain with sweet inanity,
Dam and comfrey up my running loss,
That no seep of history leaden my cross. |
|
|
