Northern Sky

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The silk road into Macclesfield,
These sundry stops, and stinks,
This rising into fury
The sinking into think.
This edge of trees and wildings
This glazing of the sun
The spreading stench of wolverine,
Missy Moon beneath the Sun,
This stink of flesh uneaten
This rising up of love
This game of death and stillness
This sighing of the dove
The beginning of the end,
My friend:
Quite destitute of love.
I crawl into meagre nothingness
A disguise devoid of love.

 

◄ Coffin ships

Doppleganger contagion ►

Comments

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John Marks

Wed 9th Sep 2020 20:20

Yes, I definitely, do agree Keith. Words are not things - they can only ever convey an impression of the depth and complexity of lived experience. It is the poet's job to use the tools available - diction, rhythm, rhyme, the music of words, line organisation, sound patterning et al - to convey an acute impression that will dwell in the reader's mind. I'm glad you, Paul, like the music of Nick Drake - a magical poet and musician - who packed such a lot of impressions into a tragically brief life.

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Paul Sayer

Wed 9th Sep 2020 09:11

I adore this rhyme and meter.

This sings within my head.

A poem that screams so silently to be read, and read again.

AND

Another great artist you introduce to me.

Thank you John for such a great combination... poetry and music.

Paul.

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keith jeffries

Tue 8th Sep 2020 23:26

John,

forgive me but this poem is of the impressionist genre, in my humble opinion. Would you agree with this? The last two lines are a powerful reminder to us all.

Thank you for this
Keith

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