deepundergroundpoetry.com
hare of the pup
child's view of the runt cub,
its you I hold, rash in your lark spray,
to lay your blanket still when
I rise with the poacher
and the morning goshawk,
for when the ghost of millet
dust whitens the early field;
the wren can hide
with the boiled jars, the curing salt, the saltpetre
shaken in the shot. I the whelp hiding
under his deeper deer pelt, play pretend,
intune with the maul and creep
of boot leather - the expectations
we awake are to meet, and with...
the sun-rising behind the church
- the expectations we blinking
are expected to meet, with the traps
for the day prepared as we kneel
in the yard, oh law the harvest
we let slip from our sleeves
on black slate they fall so fair but so late
and unfair was the spring this year,
why the cowslips failed so soon,
why we could not cure
all the sweet meat and marrow of this second...
and wore its lashed
minutiae in the tears,
a wave of cormorant sea with its falling moor,
longing so hard under darkdeep blanket
this earth sign still hunts an unslept dream
and would instantly wake at sight
of any soil, any salt, any blood
lingering under the fingernails.
its you I hold, rash in your lark spray,
to lay your blanket still when
I rise with the poacher
and the morning goshawk,
for when the ghost of millet
dust whitens the early field;
the wren can hide
with the boiled jars, the curing salt, the saltpetre
shaken in the shot. I the whelp hiding
under his deeper deer pelt, play pretend,
intune with the maul and creep
of boot leather - the expectations
we awake are to meet, and with...
the sun-rising behind the church
- the expectations we blinking
are expected to meet, with the traps
for the day prepared as we kneel
in the yard, oh law the harvest
we let slip from our sleeves
on black slate they fall so fair but so late
and unfair was the spring this year,
why the cowslips failed so soon,
why we could not cure
all the sweet meat and marrow of this second...
and wore its lashed
minutiae in the tears,
a wave of cormorant sea with its falling moor,
longing so hard under darkdeep blanket
this earth sign still hunts an unslept dream
and would instantly wake at sight
of any soil, any salt, any blood
lingering under the fingernails.
Published 5th Aug 2020
| Edited 30th Aug 2020
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 6
reading list entries 5
comments 6
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The author encourages honest critique.
5th Aug 2020 2:29pm
This was an absolutely breathtaking read, fb. Your metaphors and command on vocabulary are stunning.
5th Aug 2020 7:02pm
5th Aug 2020 7:16pm
There is this sense throughout it's organic metaphors, quite earthy and rustic, of this quiet, small, fragile observer. I almost see them, pale and tender, wide eyed and close mouthed, in a simultaneous fear and wonder, which is such a poignant sense of how we all go through our childhood, which is a particularly lonely experience, unmoored by a relatable perspective to adults, without the responsibilities that give us purpose and distract us from gazing around us, overlong. The cycle of days and nights, the beautiful details of the hunt and trap, of the milieu with the sun rising behind the church. It's all so gorgeously subtle and yet rich, the perfect marriage which grants true proportion. There is wonderful flow, sensitivity, emphasis in its paced unfolding and depth. Exquisite work.
6th Aug 2020 10:10am
such a beautiful critique for me Daniel. perfectly seen and read. Thank you so much.
Anonymous
9th Aug 2020 12:54pm
Ahavati & Daniel articulate finer than me. This is a big compliment - the scenes your words / pics depict are earthed in Northern England and yet, so universal. Rob
11th Aug 2020 4:18pm
I cannot believe I almost missed this one Andrew!♥️ Just unbelievable poetry, artistry of the highest caliber.. you are so fucking good babydoll....
I just..,
Breathing
💋
I just..,
Breathing
💋
