Robert Verdon, #354, jagged portents
I can say it only in
melody
there is a boot
upon my tongue
but I am shrunk to
a cyclone buzzing in a jar,
the storm debeaked
and pent up in nameless
afternoon, one child
forgotten on a farm lane
starving for the
other, one night in 1929,
nothing but a
rusting harrow by the rotten cabbages
and the suggestion
of magnificence over the hills,
the false painted
dawn of the New Jerusalem or a broken streetlight,
a star or Jupiter
above the radio mast,
the nagging echo of
a stone or a society at the bottom of a well
Pretty damn good magnificence over this poem, mate.
ReplyDeleteVery moving, Robbie, such a voice you have.
ReplyDeleteVery pleased you are both touched by this — thanks Rob, Sarah!
ReplyDeleteDeeply moving
ReplyDeleteThanks Katherine.
ReplyDeleteYes - magnificent
ReplyDelete