I would like to get comments on these two poems I wrote. Lately I've been trying to incorporate narratives into my poems, and I would like to know what people think about these. I write mainly as a hobby but I would like to get better, so all criticism is welcome.
Interring Intruding Thoughts
Could someone sweep this floor?
The question lies in a coffin
At the door of my consciousness.
A sturdy, ash wood, unmovable coffin
At the door of my consciousness,
Restricting thoughts
To the dirty corridor.
My neighbor glances
At his dad's image,
Covers eyes faintly
Reddened by tears
As memories break
Through levees thought
To hold them back.
His lids are shut.
Mine are wide.
I can't stop looking
As flies swarm
The golden tassel,
Clinging to the cob, as newborn
maggots to decayed skin.
As he speaks,
I imagine the thing
Rotting, changing
From gold and green
To a brown, smelly broth,
A feast for the earth below.
Feet shuffle on the sand.
Condolences, small talk
To ward off grief.
Family comes
From the house, shadowy
Faces attempt to smile.
"Good sitting." they say,
One after the other
As they pass. By
The third time, I realise
What the phrase means:
Thanks for coming.
We don't see much of you.
We don't know what to say,
Least know how to say.
But we are here to help.
Whatever you need, ask.
Could you clean this mess?
The question whispers
Through the coffin lid,
Inaudible.
And as it's time to go,
Stepping out the gate,
I think:
Could I have asked
To help
To clean the floor?
Dancing Around The Fire
I approach the smoke hoping to find food
What they could be roasting, I wonder.
A rabbit family in its prime: plucked
From the barn of a village farmer.
Or a goat: one of the many that roam
The streets, idly gnawing at the women's laundry
Having finally found a better use.
Or even better: an elk... in Africa?
I am delirious now. I should hurry.
Whatever it is, sweet juices will be streaming from it
And I shall thank God for his good grace: I am alive.
I have been walking for half
A day, the balls of my feet
Torn, my left arm enshrouded
In a constellation of shrapnel
Though I can feel it no more.
Only a few hundred metres to go.
Their village entrance has been blown to dust
And half the thatch in town has been burned,
Houses abandoned, left to burn
Just like mine has. But there is joy here
They are celebrating a victory
They were more fortunate than I was:
They pushed back the rebels' guns and jeeps,
Protected their girls from sure rape
And revel in their victory( as they should)
Though that smell is still here;
The same smell that soaked my sister's burning body.
They lost some dear ones too. Not many
From what I see: Only a few bodies
Soaked in red water, their final baths.
I see the people dancing around the fire
They have their guns raised obove their heads
Waving them at the sky like the black smoke from the flames
They are wearing military
Trousers and casual white shirts.
I can see it tied in the fire: my redemption.
Sounds of joy falling from the dancers.
It has been attached, feet together
Glazing in the sun
It writhes free and runs out of the flames
They push it back in and it stays there
That smell again.
I must be delirious. For a moment
I thought I saw the shape of lunch
And lunch was a man.
I opened a blog fairly recently where I share poems.
If you liked these poems and want to read more or if you prefer commenting directly on the blog then go to
http://robbyspoeticcorner.blogspot.com/
Hope to see you there.
No comments:
Post a Comment