I’m still thinking on this poem, but wanted to share it. It paints a tradgic picture of reaching every goal we want to reach, and leaving the mess for our children, like inheritance of a debt. Our cherished history, and things that drove us, now are fables that we are at pain to show existed.
To get rid of the sound of his voice
you take off your ears
but then they grow back.
You try a sharper blade,
two hours hunched over the whetstone,
and, rid of the sound of his voice,
for a day you hear
until they grow back.
Graveyard Blues is a poem as a song. A plain rhyme scheme, with words repeating for the majority of each stanza, makes the feelings, particularly the pain, expressed all the more felt.
This post may have gotten away from me, but I really am fascinated and struck by the poetry of World War One poet Edward Thomas. Really, there is so much great poetry from the era, and I may touch on others later, but Edward Thomas, I believe, deserves a special and sustained focus. While conflict…
Their Sex Life
One failure on
Top of another
I sometimes read poetry, but not as often as I probably should.
I once had a professor that, in their parting words, recommended that we try and find 30 or poems and memorize them to heart. Practice them, recite them. Listen to how the language builds upon or destroys itself.
Unfortunately, I haven’t done that. Not yet, anyways.