My dried old walls, now deafened with screams
Lose their plasters and grimace into cracks
That shape into maps that'll wither and fold
And never speak a word of gardens in bloom
where we would walk and share our songs
In days that have left no traces in RAM
In these, our logbooks of loss.
Trudging without end of sores among thorns
Ours are gestures of refugees in camps
Who are told their rations are gone.
What names or faces or streets now are us?
Miles upon miles of disposable waste
And still not a plant for light from our trash.
17 comments:
Your integration of poetry with modern, workaday elements truly impresses me.
Thanks for the encouraging words. I too like how you have made your poetry modern and authentic.
"Miles upon miles of disposable waste
And still not a plant for light from our trash"
--Definitely a comment on today's times, Abin! Sadly enough.
The personification of the old wall is inspired in this poem, Abin.
Your piece is raw without sacrificing any of the beauty in poetry.
"Our logbooks of loss" - so poignant, Abin. Such a stark line: "refugees...who are told their rations are gone." Striking writing.
Visiting from Poetry Pantry. Imagining and remembering days that have left no traces in RAM -- marvelous!!
I admire the way the first verse is all one sentence. This piece is sad, yet with its own beauty; I admire that too.
I love the description of a dilapidated wall... and the way you trail your thoughts to what's lost with the passage of time. Nice!
Such stark and wonderful imagery. Yes, it seems we might bury ourselves in our trash eventually...
Very thought-provoking!
The ending is very profound, to me, and yet said without any bias or weight--iow, poetry. Excellent images throughout this piece, and what are our memories but logbooks of every crash and blue screen?
I feel your despair and frustration at the ways of our times. We should be blooming gardens, instead of trash ~ Enjoyed the visit Abin ~
"in these, our logbooks of loss" How effing awesome is that line. Your voice is so naturally cross-culture, not exactly sure what that means, but it makes me feel warm and hopeful even in the din of reality that you paint with a teachers eye. I feel like looking at you and not so much making a decision to follow along, but more like we were all born to follow along. Enough rambling, sorry, I just like your voice...hows that.
...a wake up call, this poem.
So much there....the last lines are simply great...
Enjoyed the ebb and low.....
Post a Comment