Thursday, June 21, 2018

Rob Schackne #681 - After Mr Trimble's "Mayakovsky"

     
                  

     After Mr Trimble's "Mayakovsky"

                       How that moment
                       felt like the love it was
                       so you remember
                       Mayakovsky
                       who wrote in Russian
                       the stalled motor
                       of the heart
                       has started
                       to work again
                       staring at the future
                       slanting rain
                       the barrel of dynamite
                       rude crude words
                       the line is a fuse
                       stanzas blown to bits
                       bad times continue
                       though here
                       the heart 
                       still hums

3 comments:

  1. from the suicide note


    She loves me, loves me not.
    I tear my fingers
    and scatter them,
    broken,
    as one tears,
    superstitiously,
    and scatters all over
    May
    the little wreath of daisy.
    Let the haircut and close shave
    reveal
    greyness,
    and the silver of years
    pound.

    I hope,
    I believe:
    I shall never be
    one
    of shameful prudence.

    2

    It's two o'clock already.
    I guess you're in bed.
    The Milky Way
    a silver river
    in the night.

    I'm in no hurry,
    no point
    waking
    troubling you
    with telegrams.
    As they say,
    the incident is closed.
    The loveboat simply
    cracked up against circumstance.
    You and I:
    quits,
    no use listing
    mutual griefs,
    miseries,
    hurts.
    Look at how quiet the world is.
    Night
    has levied a tax
    of stars in the sky.
    In such moments
    one gets up and speaks to
    ages,
    history,
    the whole cosmos.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies

    1. wonderfully sad
      and sadly wonderful
      thank you Kit
      for the suicide poem

      Delete

  2. the incident
    as closed
    as the years
    the world
    less quiet
    than in grief
    poor fella

    ReplyDelete

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