This is what we’re made of. This is who we are - 3

Cherry
Poem of the week

By Noo

Tue, 12 Dec 2017
  • 3299 reads
7 comments
 

Underground

Rock

“Come to the cave”, you say.  “I have something to show you.”

We walk side by side holding hands, and then in single file when the path gets narrow,

You in front, me treading in your footsteps.

The sun, evening-low in the sky, glares orange in my eyes.

When we get there, the sun’s after-glow remains on my retinas,

Lights the inside of the cave for a moment.

I can hardly breathe down here –

The air is close, damp, unknown and you lend me your inhaler.

I remember

The sound of the birds as they gathered at dusk.

I remember

Wondering if there were cave paintings somewhere on the walls.

I remember

You grabbing my wrist, putting your finger to your lips as if to say hush,

As if to comfort me.

Gorse

You left me in the gorse.

In its thorny hug,

Its vanilla-pepper smell.

I think of my mother and what she used to say-

“Kissing’s out of fashion when the gorse is out of blossom.”

I think how offended she would be if she saw

The red of my blood clashing terribly with the yellow flowers.

Death, when it comes, is a tiger.

Prowling, gaudy orange flare,

Black stripes searing my bones.

I try to turn away from its open mouth,

But it stops me with its paw.  It strokes my face.

I don’t want to think anymore.

I’m very tired.

Will you please go away?

Cold water

I’m dispersed in water to keep me apart from myself,

As though they’re worried I might re-form,

Become my old, dangerous self.

But I could, you know, I could –

My ashes catching on tangles of seaweed or driftwood,

Becoming whole again slowly

Until I shoot out of the sea, triumphant on a spout of water.

And I must have been made somewhere,

In a small town, a school hall, underground.

In a house in Bingley, Glasgow, Much Marcle.

I must be made of something.

At the bottom of the sea, I’m in the midnight zone,

With the strange creatures and the freak fish.

I look up from here and the sky is black.

No birds fly in my sky.  

Here, above my head, there are sharks.

*

https://www.abctales.com/story/noo/what-we%E2%80%99re-made-who-we-are-1

https://www.abctales.com/story/noo/what-we%E2%80%99re-made-who-we-are-2

 

Certificate 15
Poem

Comments

Submitted by Ewan on

was right, I wasn't disappointed.

Best

Ewan

Author Page at the 'Zon
 

Submitted by Philip Sidney on

I love this journey, down and down to the start, the end - made me quite tearful.

Submitted by Philip Sidney on

This is our wonderful poem of the week, well done.

Submitted by celticman on

death is a tiger. poetry an elephant with floppy ears. 

 

Submitted by Tom Brown on

It is a clever plan to divide work up in sizeable chunks like this. I find that long poems I can usually manage but long pages of prose on Abc sometimes becomes boring very quickly and often is not worth the effort. Abc definitely works well for poetry. Just my personal opinion of course.

Keep it up! Tom Brown

 

Submitted by Parson Thru on

It was worth going back and reading from the beginning of part one. Harrowing piece very imaginatively conceived and skillfully executed. Great pick of the week. You almost need the three parts hanging beside each other. The whole thing is very visual and its continuity seems quite important to me. Well done, noo.

Parson Thru

Submitted by catherine poarch on

Like others, I find big chunks of prose more of an effort to read so this, broken into three parts, and each of those into segments, was easy. I came in at part 3 and then went back and read the others and each one is a different experience. I found the whole thing original and thought provoking.