Tuesday, December 9, 2014

I Cannot Name It

A post apocalyptic poem but possibly it is a metaphor. It is after all a poem and poems are often metaphorical. And me. I often write metaphorically. So I suppose I can leave it to you. Is this a bad marriage or some other issue or is it really taking place as a poetic survival in a ruined world?

The trouble here is, while I like metaphor and write tons of poetry, I also am a lifelong reader and science fiction of all types has been in my bookshelves. If I would have kept all my books from lifelong, a significant portion, more than 30% I think, would comprise science fiction section. I have culled my shelves several times and at a couple points the SF disappeared.

Note the date. That was a Saturday. I wrote this all right but I have no idea what was going on at that time and whether this poem is pure story or instead somehow related to my life. One piece of it is for sure, I had no partner in 2010. I was living alone. I was, however, still working. I have since retired. Frequently poems like this first appeared in comments on other people's blogs. I don't keep track.

So metaphor or mini-story... Here it is, written over four years ago but first featured on this blog today...

I Cannot Name It

There is no shame in
the struggle to live even
in this last trash pit
dug to accept time
and its dribbling idiot
space filled with desire.

The dissembly began
in the last steep razored lines
we held to defend
any hermitage
we could find in those last days.

She said, medicine.
I said, truth telling.
God said nothing directly.
We just must go on.

October 23, 2010 7:39 AM

1 comment:

  1. I think this is one of your better pieces, but who am I to judge.

    A bitter heart
    is an empty place
    full of empty people
    empty faces
    how then should I go
    from this trace of you
    I find and see
    in everything
    or is it an echo
    of a trace of you
    either way
    those bitter empty faces
    mind their manor
    more often then not
    not trespassing too often
    or for too long



The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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