deepundergroundpoetry.com
Sidereal Time, Drunken Tides
Bones of buildings on the shore
Too late to pull it all together now,
To go beyond the place where
Love was something more than
We’d ever understand.
I would eat through
Her dry hills if a river,
Wear shale into sand,
Make her flower.
//
Upon the bough
Twenty stanzas to another exit,
Poetry is simply a bend in the river
There is no image to write, to hold her.
Old friends,
The wind whippletrees
Memory and amnesia
Across albatross-winged burdens.
Old friends,
Is our journey over
Arrived on the trespass of somewhere?
Strangers,
Caretakers of unviewed rooms
Always alone in hospitals of stars.
Too late to pull it all together now,
To go beyond the place where
Love was something more than
We’d ever understand.
I would eat through
Her dry hills if a river,
Wear shale into sand,
Make her flower.
//
Upon the bough
Twenty stanzas to another exit,
Poetry is simply a bend in the river
There is no image to write, to hold her.
Old friends,
The wind whippletrees
Memory and amnesia
Across albatross-winged burdens.
Old friends,
Is our journey over
Arrived on the trespass of somewhere?
Strangers,
Caretakers of unviewed rooms
Always alone in hospitals of stars.
Published 14th Sep 2022
Author's Note
ERULGCT 174. Thinking of Xmas 2020, when the hearts of many I held most dear, were still pumping with vitality. Regardless of one’s opinion on the monarchy, we are being force-fed an hourly diet of grief. To mourn a stranger (in reality).
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Anonymous
- Edited 12th Aug 2024 3:45am
14th Sep 2022 3:48pm
<< post removed >>
14th Sep 2022 5:50pm
Thanks Ted. Appreciate your insights & opinion.
The monarchy 'author note' was an after-thought to scribble. Not a rabid anti-royalist, but will never recognise William as the Prince of Wales. That honour remains with Owain Glyndwr. Even then, seems bit silly talking in such vaunted terms of someone who died 600 years ago.
The monarchy 'author note' was an after-thought to scribble. Not a rabid anti-royalist, but will never recognise William as the Prince of Wales. That honour remains with Owain Glyndwr. Even then, seems bit silly talking in such vaunted terms of someone who died 600 years ago.
15th Sep 2022 1:46am
15th Sep 2022 11:11am
15th Sep 2022 5:36pm
We never swim in the same river twice, you know why of course but I want to finish the thought, because it has changed, because we have changed. The emotional tenor of this, flowing subtly through the soulful mien of it's cadence, is beautiful to contemplate. Can we ask for anything more in life? To be curious and have the strings of our hearts plucked and vibrating.
Your immediate image of the ruinous buildings draws immediate corollary to that which lies within yourself and resonates with the reader. Your second stanza in bold, it has a kind of transformative metaphor that for some reason reminds me of the brilliance of Hesse or perhaps Ibsen, not in form but in feeling, I would choose your writing over theirs tbh.
In your third stanza, the metaphors showing that quality of poetry that is a journey, that is an outlet and egress, is truly resonant and captivating. Your fourth stanza is the crux of the writing for me, across the whole, the address subtly shifts, it seems, the imbued milieu, the past, the ghosts of loves lost. Your close leaves a haunting ache, trailing off into the what was and never was or will be, the contemplations of the corridors of the heart, swept by time and tide.
Gorgeous work my friend.
Your immediate image of the ruinous buildings draws immediate corollary to that which lies within yourself and resonates with the reader. Your second stanza in bold, it has a kind of transformative metaphor that for some reason reminds me of the brilliance of Hesse or perhaps Ibsen, not in form but in feeling, I would choose your writing over theirs tbh.
In your third stanza, the metaphors showing that quality of poetry that is a journey, that is an outlet and egress, is truly resonant and captivating. Your fourth stanza is the crux of the writing for me, across the whole, the address subtly shifts, it seems, the imbued milieu, the past, the ghosts of loves lost. Your close leaves a haunting ache, trailing off into the what was and never was or will be, the contemplations of the corridors of the heart, swept by time and tide.
Gorgeous work my friend.
15th Sep 2022 7:33pm
Your comment is more poetic & prescient than my words. You really should teach this stuff. No one quite reads me like your good self and, for that, my appreciation is more than real. Rob
6th Oct 2022 2:21pm
