Another first for me as a writer – an attempt at ‘serious’ poetry (no sniggering at the back there!) that doesn’t rhyme. It’s got metaphors in it, so it must be the real deal…
The original idea came after a call for poetry from Chrissey Harrison, on behalf of The Great Escape website. This, and four other poems by other writers are posted there for your delectation. Just click the on the link. Enjoy.
The brief was to write a poetic piece about, “The Night Sky.” Initially I thought it would be easy, after all the night sky is easy to be poetic about, right? Too easy as it turns out…
Ever since “Twinkle twinkle little star…” poets have been looking at the starry heavens for inspiration, and to impress the bird who lives at no. 43; the one with the lisp, jutting chin, and boils. Sorry. Anyway, it took a long time to find an idea that wasn’t just going to be a clichéd re-hash of over-used themes. I hope I’ve succeeded. Please let me know what you think, and what you think it’s about, in the comments (and yes, you are allowed to say you don’t like it, although stating why will enable you to justifiably wear your air of intellectual smugness). I hope you enjoy it…
Aftermath of a Stormy Night.
Roiling inside, she boils like pitch.
Once sensuous, caressing; now seething, enveloping;
White silks’ soft seductions torn and re-sewn into her black gravid cloak folds;
Wreathed around her in the vain pursuit of solace, they just seal in the cold.
The slighted mistress’ vindictive rage is unleashed in an envious ejaculation of impotent hate,
A transient sonic satiation, its hollow echoes reverberating to nothing.
Time after time, the very earth trembles,
But her vainglorious heart remains unappeased.
Where once lovers’ soft whispers caressed,
The gentlest of stolen touches hardened to unseen ebon-painted talons,
That picked, plucked, ensnared.
Now venting her unrequited fury, howling, she rends any and all she touches –
Heedless of the broken lives she leaves behind.
Silvered electric arc-lights play in her indigo hair,
Callous barbed pins hypnotizing entranced watchers,
Fixating them like moths to her collector’s board.
After-images play across the velvet undulating contours of her cloaked breast,
Each an incandescent reflection of her caprice.
Yet Time permeates all,
And pours forth an unrelenting deluge of Justice from which there is no sanctuary.
It gathers, into a swollen torrent, seeking to bear her away,
As alone, reviled, she shelters foetally in the bed she failed to make,
Her cloak sodden with love’s lost cold, bitter tears.
‘Aftermath Of A Stormy Night.’ A poem by T. James, © 31st October, 2011.