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Quetch

`

Tendril wafted dunes
of barren sands waffle,
swirl across mile
upon mile in every direction-
your face appears a horizon away,
there is little comfort found
in accompanying echoes.

Drifting sticks
wail in the pitched wind,
stretched on distant recollection-
stylus of the scribe named Regret;
each flurrying breeze
turns a new page,
taking with it freshly shed tears.

Foetid droppings
of some wastrel desert vagabond
provide a vivid reminder
of how it can never be again,
to kick it away
would only contaminate
these well-worn wandering shoes.

Head facing forward
wherever the nose points
except in the back of the mind
where the oasis burbles-
each leafy frond conceals
intimate moments now buried
within the unmindful desert's gut.

`

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Comments

I liked the way you choose your words: the first three verses clearly reflect the dryness and sandiness of the barren desert, with its sand storms, dry winds, drying droppings (!!) all metaphorical of the protagonist's " PRESENT" ... and then you suddenly switch in the last half of the fourth verse to a wonderfully evocative description of verdant green oasis... another metaphor of what "HAD BEEN".

Nicely put.

Psyve

I trully appreciate that you have expounded on why you liked the poem. It makes it clear what I have done, as often times it gets written without an actual blueprint or design. My gratitude to you. CB

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'Break, break break on thy cold grey stones, O Sea.'

author comment

A walk-about to and from the mind's captivity. One feels it in one's guts. I surely do.

Thank you.

~

Thank you for sharing this observation with me. Cheers. CB

__________________________________________________
'Break, break break on thy cold grey stones, O Sea.'

author comment

I Often Wondered
When a poet wrote
Years ago,
In the lost oblivion,
When there was no telephone
Nor Internet
Obviously
What then readers imagined
The bard had in mind
As cryptic as yours
Upon the deserted oasis of time

I still stand in this wondrous land
They call an everlasting eternity
I wonder what you
Or
Anyone else will think
Of this poetic mystery
Or
Is it perhaps, initial?
Seeding mastery
Ah!
I’m glad you
Or
Anyone else
Can now ask me

loved

Is that every poem is subject to its reader's interpretation - our collective consciousness bringing nuances of meaning to the whole. Having said that, each poet interprets with words what eventually takes shape as a poem from what the Muse has given them. Therefore, the reading of a poem of years ago, say Burns for example, is an interpretation of Burns' interpretation of Burns' Muse. I know that is clear as mud, but if we can feel what this explanation is aiming to drive at then we would have advanced another step forward to understanding and appreciating and sharing poetry.

__________________________________________________
'Break, break break on thy cold grey stones, O Sea.'

author comment

GR88888888888888888888888888888888888888888

loved

CB,

great journey of discontent.

Each read offers me a new vision.

Outstanding lines:

Drifting sticks
wail in the pitched wind,
stretched on distant recollection-
stylus of the scribe named Regret

I am not sure what else i want to say about this because each read offers me new ideas and emotions.

I think I'll just shut my mouth and keep reading.

Not many poems offer this level of layered effect...I wonder how deep I will go?

Great poem,

HS

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With all that I am and all that I could be, I walk this earth, yet nobody sees me.

I am truly humbled by your much appreciated comment.

__________________________________________________
'Break, break break on thy cold grey stones, O Sea.'

author comment
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