Mawkish for the Nonce

Tuesday, March 03, 2009

A poem

Brushes back, the umbrage,
A lurch, a turn. Oh, those are hard words,
To start my day.
The radiators flare, and clank, and say
they’re
Trying hard, but it’s not working.
Neither is this.
Neither is this.
A sore tooth, and a song – your song,
Always the same. Why can’t you
Find a corner of a solid room?
It is a disgrace.
Soup on the couch, for lunch, like a child home from school
While sixteen men are needed to drain the pool
While other men walk a ragged line with lanterns, just one
Section of a long, dumb wait.
I remember. But I don’t remember how I ever wrote a decent poem,

and I don’t remember what I ever cared about, or why. The feeling’s dim and
Slow, an old laborer rests like a dumb dog, except without the
labor or the deep sore lines from iron climbs, or a smart sharp suit,
The signs are lines, the lines are signs. None of it. I never had any of it.

4 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

I like this poem a lot -- and poetry doesn't usually resonate all that much with me, but this one. . . ; I kind of feel the same way these days.

2:55 PM

 
Blogger La Misma said...

thanks, p'gal. I was thinking how technically lousy this poem is. But I'm glad it speaks to you. I guess I do get across a feeling of weariness.

8:37 PM

 
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I don't know from technically lousy -- I think it's a good poem. For a poem. (Grin.)

2:42 PM

 
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I really liked it too. the end justifies the means

6:43 PM

 

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