morning has wrung out her sleeves
and has settled on the clothesline of the sky
to dry, to watch all her worries as they become
clouds, whisked away in a whirlwind
of flying dervishes and dutchmen.
[[these play harnesses to the wind.]]
morning is calm. the trees lay their heads
against the concrete walls of the plaza;
the wind rushes past, and the trees kiss
concrete teeth. bells tinkle, and dew
falls, gently, from morning's drooping sleeves.
[[dewdrops play the sky’s mourning eyes.]]
the morning, and the trees, and the wind
are harnessed; i watch them, sleepless,
eyes hammocked and body tired, but mind
ringing, ringing, ringing.
the bells on the newspaper boy's bicycle
echo in my head, even as he
echoes, down this street
and into the next--
there are thoughts driving
cataclysms into the cleft in my skull
that has been worn deep by nights of rugged tiredness.
i wander palaces, and tombs, and places
where the wind passes me by. my lips press
against the cool, cold skin
of awareness, and awakening;
the smell of sharp citrus bites into my skin.
oh, this is how it feels
to be alive; this is how it aches.
but with my hair pulled taut over pillowsheets,
and eyes pinned to the ceiling, i feel
like a moth in a glass cylinder. i am
trapped, wings fluttering, wind
wandering; i see
and am not seen, by morning's first light.
i hear, and am not heard
by the sound of morning bells.
i feel, and am not felt
by trees grazing unfeeling skin.
i wander, and do not,
as morning slips on her cloak
and enters day;
[[night veils himself in dawn.]]
the glass cylinder is flooded
with the sights and sounds
of peace.
so good night, bells,
it is daylight,
and sleep has come for me.
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125,005 Literary Works • 672,797 Reviews
Achingly beautiful poem, as always, Pomp.
this one is particularly beautiful. There's just so much in it. So many images and sensory details. It might be a little bit of sensory overload to be quite honest. But I kinda liked that feeling. It was like getting lost in a kaleidoscope
But there was sense behind all of it too, and that's what really sealed the deal. There's just saying words for the heck and beauty of it, and then there's saying beautiful words because you have some message to use them for. I like that this poem was cohesive. It had the same train of though going for the piece: the beauty of early morning dawn you see when you stay up like, WAY too late and see the sunrise before sleeping (or at least that's how I interpret it, because I have been doing this same thing for like, every day this summer >.>)
I do think it might be a little too long, because long poems like this are a little bit daunting for people to stay interested in and focused on in this day and age. Darn attention spans are shrinking like a 100% cotton shirt in the wash. But I dunno what to tell you to do because I love like, literally all of this, and it just flowed off the tongue (yes, I read it out loud just to be able to taste all these delicious sensory details).
Although, the glass cylinder image confused me a bit. Like, I know what you were trying to say, but why not say something like "I feel like a moth caught in a jar" or /anything/ more specific than "glass cylinder."
I'm sorry that there isn't much in this review. I'm honestly trying to find things but every time I read it, I just ache from beauty, and that must mean that it is really, really good the way it is.
Fantastic piece, Pomp. If you have any questions about my opinion of one thing or another, I'd be happy to answer.
Keep writing. Your words make my soul happy.
~fortis
Oh just superb!!!
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