Looking through the back door at twilight,
filaments of thorn rattle in the breeze like wire,
beyond a bare trestle scored with ice
dull shapes, then the vastness of night,
the hills, the mires, the barrelling sky,
and framing it, the outline
of the poet, faint as a phantom,
withering on the glass like a flame.
10 comments:
What a wonderful portrait in words; I love it. I've sent the link to some poet friends. Thank you for sharing it!
This is lovely, especially the 'barrelling sky' and the sonics on faint/phantom/flame.
I love how the syllables roll off the tongue as I read the words aloud, especially in lines 2,3 and 5 -- the wordplay enchants.
Have a blessed new year ahead, Hugh. Cheers.
I like the sound of the rattling thorns...I swear I could hear them. :)
Have a wonderful new year, my friend!
found this poem really enchanting.
happy new year shug. all the best
Thank you all for the kind comments: I like writing brief and slippery images about mortality,which after all seems all smoke and mirrors. What did Ginsberg call it? 'Illusion-wink'?
Hold on, Broken Down.....'Enchanting?' This blogging's getting to you, you're mellowing. Good and lucky New Year to you, pal.
not mellowing, my friend, just under the influence of presciption medication. am growing pansies in a pot in my kitchen as well
Quite the private moment, a beautiful wintry scene, sentimental but not over wrought.
We are all flames of chance
in the bonfire of eternity.
:)
Happy New Year!
I would have to agree, it is Ginsbergian, or Ginsbergish, or a Ginsbergation... Illusion-winks are always nice. (yes, the poems are now in manuscript form, and thank you for reading my poems)
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