I’m a stranger in my life
mid-screen
ambling inopportune
breaking the cheer of online victories
more treasured in absence
more valued for my silences
in-between words I bite back.
Composted worlds I’ve suppressed
the landscapes drip fluid
colours realign
the print-out never quite
what I put in.
I’m a stranger to my life.
The path peters out in moss-hung dead ends
Reed in a cluster by a pool
caked to mud.
Weeds have overgrown my roots
also my tongue.
Love this. Such vivid imagery and poignant feelings. :)
Thank you, Elaine, and thanks for visiting – I do believe it’s your first time.
Incredible imagery throughout this! :)
Thank you, I’ve been working hard on making my imagery more ‘concrete’, rather than abstract. Hope that works.
Marina Sofia – l love that sense of alienation from one’s own life that comes through here (at least to me). And the imagery – brilliant! :-)
Not strictly speaking autobiographical or confessional, but somehow a sensation that never quite leaves… artists and writers I suppose.
I loved this. Very potent
Thank you for your visit and comment – I love the sheer breadth of books which you read and review.
Thank you MarinaSofia
This conveys a sense of the transitory nature of things–reflecting really how little impact we have in our world. And yet, we do. I can’t help but hope that at least one person who reads will find some kind of hope or whatever in a poem or post. Beautiful.
Thank you, Victoria – that’s a lovely interpretation of the poem – I love it how a poem takes on a life of its own as it resonates with something in the readers’ own experiences or thoughts.
I know your reply here is to Victoria, MarinaSofia, but it really struck a chord for me, as I think the best of writing does this, in novels too, but perhaps because poetry is such a disciplined and precise writing, the weight of complexity is held within a poem, and each phrase, and the meaning(s) within it, can carry a multiplicity of meanings and responses. Once the writer puts their writing ‘out there’ there may end up surprised by the meaning unfolded by an attentive reader.
I’m particuarly drawn to novels written with what I call ‘poetic sensibilities’ which doesn’t, to me, mean writing which is flowery or lyric, it means that the words and phrases are as carefully chosen as they are in poetry, and may contain a wealth of subtext, allusions, and, primarily, make the reader WAKE UP and really notice what is being written about, because the book is making them pay attention, rather than just rolling along with cliche.
don’t let them overgrow your tongue… just saying… love the images and some of those feelings ring familiar in one or another way… and my daughters treasure my absence as well sometimes…
That’s why there are so many children without their parents in children’s literature, I guess! Yes, this was one of those ‘early morning waking up and dredging my subconscious’ kind of writing – but it’s funny how prescient that subconscious sometimes is…