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Loss

Submitted by William Saint George on Mon, 2012-01-02 05:09

The screen indicates "loading...loading",
But all I read is "loathing, loathing".

My butter is hard on the mouldy bread,
And stale milk fills my empty breath.

I smell the flower's dying odours,
And hear the gander croaking wild.

I see my dreams like fragile glass
Shatter against the wind's stormy face.

My sleep is like a waiting grave
In which I'll die; from which I'll rise.

My fear is real, and stalking me.
As these last letters are made free.

Each sigh is heavy. Each sorrow dense.
I cannot pay the recompense.

But when this dire night is won,
First thing I'll do is think of you.

And then, I'll let the tear fall
In tribute to my fallen face.

I'll endure the tide and the disgrace
Which together we have made our fate.

I'll clean the blood and wash the mud
From between our fingers and our toes.

I'll wash the week old, slimy dishes
And wipe the entrails off the floor.

My heart will still make sweet music,
Even when sorrow burdens it,

For in this language, timeless souls
Can still unite beyond this life.

My lips will voice out that name,
Then let the idle tear fall.

This night shall be my waiting grave
To which I'll die; from which I'll rise again.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
Written while remembering something sad. Not much right now, but still worth the effort.
Editing stage: 
Editing - rough draft

Comments

Candlewitch

Mon, 2012-01-02 09:50

Candlewitch's picture
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Your title is an eyecatcher!
Interesting introduction:

The screen indicates "loading...loading",
But all I read is "loathing, loathing".

Right away you have caught this readers curiosity and attention.
The secondand third set of lines brings up thoughts of poverty both financial and spiritual.

My butter is hard on the mouldy bread,
And stale milk fills my empty breath.

I smell the flower's dying odours,
And hear the gander croaking wild.

The next lines seem to be written from a slightly delicate and morose state of mind:

I see my dreams like fragile glass
Shatter against the storm wind's face.
(would it be better to say: wind's stormy face

My sleep is like a waiting grave
In which I'll die; from which I'll rise.

(is this a metapor for sleep being to taste the "little death"?)

I very much enjoyed all of this poem in its shroud of melancholy right down to these lines:

This night shall be my waiting grave
To which I'll die; from which I'll rise again.

They teach me about loss. Thank you!

always, Cat

*
When someone reads your work
And responds, please be courteous
And reply in kind, thanks.

William Saint George

Mon, 2012-01-02 15:08

William Saint George's picture

...your comment reads like a poem; the poet dreading each stanza, hoping he doesn't meet a harsh "but"...

Thanks so much for the detailed look at it. I really appreciate that.
And then, " wind's stormy face" feels so right (how do you do it? lol).

Will consider the slight revision.
And the sleep can be seen as both a metaphor as you indicated, and a desperate death-wish with a thin sliver of hope at the end (I'll rise), which is repeated with a slightly lifted mood at the very end (I'll rise again.)

True, I wasn't in my lowest spirits when writing this last night, but I was tapping from events from a few weeks back.

Again, thanks for the look Cat!

No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job. - TS Eliot

http://www.wsgeorge.com/

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