Sunday, October 23, 2016

Robert Verdon, #337, waking at three a.m.

no home on a river

pent up in a wood

the wind through the wheat grass

does nobody good

through the hot suburb

it rushes like death

a drummer erratic

a stammering breath

in a warm cot

I lie and I listen

on the cracked pane

cerise droplets glisten


  1. Reader begs for this to continue...

  2. yes, it is rather unfinished — will see what I can do!

  3. The cerise is really interesting -foreboding

    1. Glad you feel that, Sarah. That's partly why I stopped at that point, letting the reader continue the thought (but also because I wanted to go to bed!). It could suggest a fire, blood, or just the reflection of a car tail light, etc.

  4. I really like the Goethe like lyricism, rhythm/images, Robbie

    1. Thanks Efi. Maybe I should summon Mephistopheles to help me finish it!

  5. Have added the following stanza, but not sure about it:

    freedom is fluid
    home is a cell
    waking in heaven
    burning in hell.

    1. The Devil here. I like the idea, Robbie, and I think I get it - only that the lines in the preceding stanzas are so specific and descriptive that the generalities of the Big Words freedom/home/heaven/hell could be a bit of a let-down. I.e. freedom as an idea of what sort of fluidity? Home is where you what? Cell/hell may be a given, OK, but I think home/hell calls upon the author to explain. Me, I think I'd go back outdoors and look around for some smaller co-relative of the larger notions. I've said too much. I haven't said enough. But I will shut up now. Cheers, Rob


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