Prose is Writing Poetry

Paul Valery said a poem is never finished only abandoned. Welcome to my orphanage. To each reader their own poem.

7 notes

The Withering Bud (Hound)

And dark the heart of the long hopeless night
            Where he wandered lost, darting between ghosts
            And shadow, moon pregnant and full cast light
            Across the rolling waves of a cold coast,
            Windswept, the brush beside a shudd’ring host—
            Within he watched, silent while preyed a fear
            As old, although perhaps older than most
            We know; it creeps too close: the sea he hears,
Its growl, the wind its howl drives down, fangs flash too near.

This nightmare hound that comes after his heart,
            That separates his screams from his life-blood,
            To leave a body and soul ripped apart
            To be left, washed away by high-tide’s flood—
            The thought broke him, and across the sand scud
            His spirit, taking flight over the strand,
            The hound pursued the knowing scent, the bud
            Of fear in bloom, the dark reached for his hand
And pulled him into its terrible no-man’s land.

He screamed a soliloquy no one heard—
            On a beach boasting hundreds of tourists
            In summer surf, the world that passed his words
            Alone… the poor, numb and dumb one florist
            With only withered flowers of purest
            Failures, a world collapsed in dying dreams;
            The sun and day, the cheerful play, surest
            To make mock’ry his barren heart it seems:
A man with his nightmares, quietly coming unseamed.

Filed under Poetry Writing Lit Spenserian Stanza Formal Poetry Paranoia Social alienation Isolation

  1. harp-song reblogged this from harp-song and added:
    Reblogging for the day crowd
  2. chantiment reblogged this from harp-song and added:
    This is seriously amazing.