This is one of the last poems I wrote before my laptop was stolen.  Or rather, a different poem with some of these elements, as I cannot remember what I wrote, but I do know it was very different from the snippets I had in my notebook.  So here is an attempt to recreate the feel of that poem. 

Each day he wakes when dawn

is cracked, egg-like, on a sleepy fog.

Before the mist clears, he pulls on lurid togs

and sets to pound the streets

into submission.

The thud of trainers swells his head,

gives voice to remarks left unsaid at meetings,

those witty exchanges he rehearses right up to the door

of his boss.

Only at dawn can he come up with answers

only dawn gives him good honest sweat

which he sluices off in the shower.

On go tie, shirt, cufflinks, the uniform of corporate man,

socks the only choice in his day.

The next few hours, many hours, his will be silent,

his voice be muffled,

his prayers unanswered.

The killer is not change

but perpetual continuation

to stupid lengths and beyond.

8 thoughts on “Continuation”

  1. So powerful, Marina Sofia! Not only do you capture beautifully the optimism of dawn and the power of exercise, but you also convey what the ‘corporate jungle’ is like. Lovely!

  2. A very poignant picture of alienation…

    But is it the same to you as the original rendition? Does it render the emotions and the picture in your head the same way? I just wonder about the possibility of recreating lost “art”…

    1. No, it’s not quite the same, there are a couple of ideas or pictures that I have just lost, forgotten. Because usually when I capture them on paper to my satisfaction, I can forget about them. It’s only when I feel I haven’t quite done something justice that I keep going over it in my head.

      1. I went to a poetry reading lately (Hélène Dorion whom I wrote about in my blog) and she read a poem differently from what was in the published version. When she was asked about that afterwards, she said that she likes to rethink, reread, recompose… to have the freedom to search for new connections and new meaning in her own work. In other words, nothing is set in stone or over with, even when it has been published. And I was sitting them with the book, looking up the segments she was reading… Another guy said he was said she had not included his favorite verses and proceeded to read them. It was quite an interesting exchange.

  3. This reads, to me, like a love poem … for the man who rises to endure this each day. The simple image of socks being his only choice is a piercing one. Poignant and straightforward.

  4. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at your powerful imagery. Laugh, with joy, because it’s so well done and so successful. Or cry, because it’s so bleak and depressing. You are quite the poet, my sweet. Thank you!

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