deepundergroundpoetry.com
Saturday Morning
Nothing happens,
Only the kettle boiling.
Steaming poetical remains
O’er late morning
Wallpaper tides.
Feel Uma’s voice as first
Snow of a nuclear winter
Flushed against my cheekbone.
Drifting from soapy suds, soliloquy,
Watching seagull guard her nest
Of the most precious,
The voice sings to me in twelve languages.
The cutlery is now pristine.
The furniture sits
In misplaced harmonies,
Valley choir of cloth and wood.
The Smiths poster hangs over
Flag of St David, lightly dusting
Pyres of books and CDs
Measuring out my life
In humbling reticence.
Dad’s voice trapped
In answering machine,
'Happy Christmas' in May.
Refrain from PLAY AGAIN
An aborted delete playing in our womb:
Down locked in this tinsel town
Foiled crack scent
Peels birds from trees,
Angels sweep pine
Needles with broken teeth.
Let Santa bones jingle -
Eternal phones ring all night
As Dhammazedi Bell* chimes
Softly from a river bed.
Woven heir-looms
Taunting tapestries:
The end of the family line.
Out with Romany again
Selling trinkets from a saucepan.
Wedding dressed memories
Coloured as pearl sank in
Veiled in glorious obsidian shine.
Phone rings
Cold caller
Selling life insurance.
Never
Ever
Life assurance.
* In 1484 Myanmar people made the Great Bell of Dhammazedi. Experts think it weighed about 300 tonnes. Jewels covered it. In 1608 Portuguese traders removed it from its temple. They attempted to float it across a river on a raft. Too heavy. It sank to the bottom of the river. And it is still there.
** Pic. A Taste of Honey
Only the kettle boiling.
Steaming poetical remains
O’er late morning
Wallpaper tides.
Feel Uma’s voice as first
Snow of a nuclear winter
Flushed against my cheekbone.
Drifting from soapy suds, soliloquy,
Watching seagull guard her nest
Of the most precious,
The voice sings to me in twelve languages.
The cutlery is now pristine.
The furniture sits
In misplaced harmonies,
Valley choir of cloth and wood.
The Smiths poster hangs over
Flag of St David, lightly dusting
Pyres of books and CDs
Measuring out my life
In humbling reticence.
Dad’s voice trapped
In answering machine,
'Happy Christmas' in May.
Refrain from PLAY AGAIN
An aborted delete playing in our womb:
Down locked in this tinsel town
Foiled crack scent
Peels birds from trees,
Angels sweep pine
Needles with broken teeth.
Let Santa bones jingle -
Eternal phones ring all night
As Dhammazedi Bell* chimes
Softly from a river bed.
Woven heir-looms
Taunting tapestries:
The end of the family line.
Out with Romany again
Selling trinkets from a saucepan.
Wedding dressed memories
Coloured as pearl sank in
Veiled in glorious obsidian shine.
Phone rings
Cold caller
Selling life insurance.
Never
Ever
Life assurance.
* In 1484 Myanmar people made the Great Bell of Dhammazedi. Experts think it weighed about 300 tonnes. Jewels covered it. In 1608 Portuguese traders removed it from its temple. They attempted to float it across a river on a raft. Too heavy. It sank to the bottom of the river. And it is still there.
** Pic. A Taste of Honey
Published 23rd May 2020
Author's Note
ERULGCT #41. Umanoid xx Some musings on a Saturday morning from my armchair and kitchen sink. PLEASE ALL STAY SAFE
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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The author encourages honest critique.
trapped in the spacetime dimensions of things things & things.. ticking in the constants so developed out of sync by this inhumaneness of the mortals.. the divinities of memories of our Loved Ones, Love that bonds us beyond barriers of any kind.. we float as eternal entities of soulful essence doodah... there is absolutely no need for insurance or assurance of any trading type of the rotting flesh corp frames .. for the Cosmic Love we are in... A specatcular glimpse & depths into your Saturday Morning .. that reflects your Soul Our Love ... Such a piece to treasure ev in our ERULGCT, these grim times. Love Me xx:)
24th May 2020 5:39pm
I had no idea about the bell story; what a waste! You would think with all of today's technology, that it could be raised. I certainly wasn't expecting that author's note after reading this, Rob. But it added a dimension to this remarkable piece of poetry.
26th May 2020 8:49pm
I think it is rather beautiful that the bell is all the bottom of the river, perhaps glimpsed in the muck on a clear day, carrying it's messages of attachment to form and assigned value, tickling, tantalizing hopes of the treasure hunter spirit for a moment and a palpable message of the passage of time and vanity of our endeavors.
I love the slow, measured, intimate details of this write, which bring it to life in full dimensions of spirit and the sense of time, decay and longing, which is reminiscent of the spirit of Neruda to me, my favorite poet.
I love the slow, measured, intimate details of this write, which bring it to life in full dimensions of spirit and the sense of time, decay and longing, which is reminiscent of the spirit of Neruda to me, my favorite poet.
