31 10 2015

Whether you tripped and fell into the fissure
or were trodden down that crack by angry feet,
time failed to press you against its pages
and you slipped out the soil in tiresome stages
like a leafless daisy dropped from a dusty book.
Moss was scratched from your skeleton like music,
sounds beaten, chorded.  Silent spaces in your spine
were composed and contrived into score, a  melody.
The tune though was the crass, hunchbacked malady
of this arthritic, iron old lady embalmed
by glaring lights, glued and stuck down to a stage.
Like the bog man dragged from leathery torture to melt
as a guttering candle while cameras flash,
your petals will flake, crumbling to white bone-ash,
while you thin and hush and they number your bones.




2 responses

1 12 2015

This really works well for me. I like “silent spaces in your spine” and ‘dragged from leathery torture’ – powerful and evocative stuff. The contrast between the leathery,violated corpse and the floodlights is, for me, the core of the poem. If I have one niggle it is the ‘pages’ and ‘stages rhyme. It jars a bit for me. But I like this very much. I’m glad I read it.

1 12 2015

Thanks for the praise. The bogman in London seemed frozen in agony – being put on display in such a way is pretty close to purgatory.

Boldwen seemed to have been unearthed periodically; she is eroding in a similarly stuttered way. ‘Stages’ just seemed to fit – but I agree with your point and now it looks clunky to me also!

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