octpowrimo 3 & 4

Sometime, during the maelstrom of the coming collapse on Friday, I scrawled a poem in my journal (at least I didn’t spray paint it on our neighbour’s fence). Once the crash took hold, I wasn’t capable of much, and translating a poem from pencil to type seemed like an impossible task.

So, I’m presenting two poems (3 & 4) and hope this hasn’t disqualified me from octpowrimo. The crises usually arrive later than the first week.

 octpowrimo

Octpowrimo 3:

I close my tired, battered eye lids against the brightness of the sun.

I chose to feel the cool touch to the wind not the warmth of sunlight on my shoulders.

Trees transmorph from a thousand shades of green

to  million threads of colour

I see only the brown, dry, dead leaves crunkled on the sidewalk

I see the homeless, the beaten, the lost, the dead

I was born to pain, not to enjoyment.

 

octpowrimo 4: Skrik

Edvard had no plan

to create a skrik

Til melodrama

played itself out

on the bridge Tuesday morning.

New mother, taken sickly

for several years

while child thrived

as if one was dying

to keep other alive

First day outside, alone with

no chaperones to see if

she could yet be trusted

that the brain fever had eased.

Somehow, he climbed the railing

as she took a moment, looked away from the railing

away from the wind that was ruffling her cap to tighten the strings

so the bald head of her illness was not exposed.

She heard him laugh. Heard him say “water,” “sailing,” “come see.”

All she saw were the soles of his shoes going over the railing.

No smiling child waving at her, no laughing little person to watch grow

No bouncing with the waves; no hat; no body – gone, gone, gone.

She wrapped each side of her face with her shaking arms

She opened her mouth but nothing came out

Her scream was still, silent, frozen.

How was anyone to know her life just ended?

How could anyone tell her horror?

How could anyone help her son?

 

Edvard watched as a crowd gathered.

Still no skirk, only silence.

But stance of her body

darting looks at the water

gave the clue.

Off went jackets and hats,

They searched the water and the shore for hours.

All that was found was a hat and shoe identified as his.

She never returned home; a nice rest home became her residence.

 

Edvard would dream about the silent scream,

the melodrama of a child’s death by a neglectful mother.

He could count her teeth, the number of buttons on her coat, and the look of horror

as if she had seen Hell and what waited for her.

His dreams grew to an obsession.

Evard found her at the home

resting on drugs and locked doors

She continued to have the look of horror

and nodded as if she intuitively they shared the dreams.

She spoke little, though understood what Evard said

 

So one day he came with his easel, his brushes, pastels, rags

She was propped up in a chair, and almost smiled

So Tuesday afternoons, he visits

Sometimes he paints, sometimes he tries to get her to dance

He reads her stories, poems, newspapers.

He brings her flowers and boxes of candy.

Anything to take that look out of her eyes, and the scream

out of her throat.

 

File:Munch The Scream lithography.png

 

 

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2 thoughts on “octpowrimo 3 & 4

I like first person narratives.

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