Time

[Bar22do]

Time

in the summer takes fitful naps,
lies in the sand where children laugh,
squats, wings held away, to spy
life on a gaily market day.
Lazy guest of the castles
men build at leisure in Spain,
for a while tucked in a dream berth,
dawdling in the sun, slow. And fake.

In the winter, fast paced,
its hands reminded of their task
of threatening,
it will again storm the land,
cane the bold, wreak havoc on faith silos –
making up for its phlegm in the heat.

For now it is yet on leave,
perched on my garden carob’s elbow,
cheeping, cheeping with the birds,
and with them, as if eternal.


Jerusalem, June 15, 2012


REMOVED BY WILL AND RESTORED UNDER THREAT

[MystyrMystyry]

What? Why? When? How? Who? Which? Waaaaah..!

[Bar22do]

What? Why? When? How? Who? Which? Waaaaah..!

It's deep-frying on our region-sized stove, I'll scratch the pan once the stove is off to see what's left.... it's soooo hot in here, plus a flea plague! this is too much... so - waaaah. Enjoy Mrozek and Keret!

[MystyrMystyry]

I will Bar

I honestly believe this new fashion of self censorship is not only ruining the feel of the poetry thread, but the free spontaneity of people's experimental creations might be at risk. Folks compose a poem which takes on its own life, and then it appears the parent chooses to snuff it out before it's been given a chance to breathe, grow and stretch its wings - it may have been that one poem which would inspire a new generation of poets, but they see it's easier to not bother and so decide to give up before starting!

It's an outrage - it may have even inspired me at some future point. Tch, I say!

[PrinceMyshkin]

removed.

But after one removes Time, what is left?

[Bar22do]

Alright, alright, RESTORED; but do you know what it is to be flooded at home, be banished and wander, or, back at what once was home, sink in the marsh which once was your carpet... ? oh Mystyr, a little pity I implore. And Prince, when time is removed - - haven't you known what's left ? Dream, Sir, DREAM, -- enduring DREAM. But time has not yet been removed, I'm araid. Mystyr, make a big effort and take some inspiration from my draft or, better, critique it, freely. Cheers.

[MystyrMystyry]

Ah Hah!

Now see that wan't so hard was it?

Not a bad poem, not at all bad Bar.

It's a cold wet mid-Winter here so many of the images in the first stanza had me pining for warmer climes and locales, and the second stanza fortunately didn't harp on about my familiar misery. You've got some great talent in those fingertips of yours Bar22do!

[Bar22do]

Thanks MM, my lonely supporter. I'll think twice, though, the next time I want to post!

[whitman]

vexing work this

[Bar22do]

I'm sorry my lines have vexed you... were you more specific, I might have understood better how to improve... thanks for reading anyway! and best to you.

[Delta40]

I think you have a beautiful grasp of time and its effects on the seasons but its deeper than that Bar and I can feel it with each passing line. You're undisputably one of the best poets Lit-Net has ever had the privilege of viewing x

[Bar22do]

Thanks Delta, am grateful for your close reading and deep understanding... though your praise is much exaggerated, of course.

[Jerrybaldy]

Particularly enjoyed the closing S. Particularly poignant. Taken literally, time slows in the summer heat and quickens the winter months? Probably never meant to be taken literally. Or is it? lol.
cheers
JB

[Bar22do]

I agree the last S is the best, and it came first.
No, no meant to be taken literally (but in the winter folks die so fast, time rushes them, through pneumonia or flu or simply street cold, beyond itself... thanks for your read, Jerry.

[AuntShecky]

Time is only an illusion, a human invention, and if you happen to be a physicist, it's totally different fron the conventional definition, if indeed it exists at all in the tiniest and largest realms of the universe. The only way we can "know" time is through our perception. Hence, the speed of light notwithstanding, it races by in summer and slows down in winter. When we're young, the "summer" of one's life, time always seems to drag. When we're old -- which the doctor, the butcher, the candlestick maker, and members every profession you can think of reminds your fooly personally every day -- time goes way too fast for me keep up with. It's all contextual, in the eye of the beholder.

Your poem seems to telescope and consolidate all those truths into one evocative thoughtful poem. "What oft was thought but ne'er so well express'd," Bar!