Editor's Choice
Theme: Dejection


I sigh away my life, oh, with the sound!
For I care - do I not? - no longer for
its poetry: talk about swans in white
mist like mist's own flowers; the weeping
willow's barbed tears - an exposed fraudery!
Talk about the dark road that sweeps me up
to the centre of the town, where its banks
and churches have crept up on a wave of light!
Talk about the whole sad day with its
euphemisms, its omissions: its slow
blackening time, its jokes turned to curses.
Talk about the one communicative
haven, the bilge they call 'silence': watch it
turn the faces, and swing open glass doors.

Written in Reading, Berkshire, UK while a young man (1970).  I found the necessity, as imposed by my hard-working mother, to hold down a remunerative job inherently depressing.  The said necessity atrophied religious hope and joy based on simple faith, so that my mother, a devout practising Roman Catholic, came to honestly believe this life was all there is.  Pope Francis too as evident in his prioritising values expressed recently where instead of a religious perspective of eternity holding out hope to the poor, he blames ‘man’ (and avoids mention of God’s providence) in a temporal perspective as if this life is all there is.
Note: ‘fraudery’ in line 5 is a word I coined, finding its association with ‘embroidery’.


More By  :  R. D. Ashby

Views: 1418     Comments: 1

Comments on this Poem

Comment Thanks for the description. Made connect with where the poem came from. Always nice to know the story behind the story

14-Jul-2015 02:53 AM

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