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
Reader begs for this to continue...
ReplyDeleteyes, it is rather unfinished — will see what I can do!
ReplyDeleteReader smiles.
DeleteThe cerise is really interesting -foreboding
ReplyDeleteGlad 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.
DeleteI really like the Goethe like lyricism, rhythm/images, Robbie
ReplyDeleteThanks Efi. Maybe I should summon Mephistopheles to help me finish it!
DeleteHave added the following stanza, but not sure about it:
ReplyDeletefreedom is fluid
home is a cell
waking in heaven
burning in hell.
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
Delete