Hours

[Bar22do]

Hours

You keep coming, eyes shined perfect blue,
sometimes dirty grey, or green strewn with gold,
when reflected in a pond, at noon.

I still pirouette with you and the next, in April,
in June, but how poor the contents! All is said, dreamt of,
seen --- old! repeating, copied, never really new.

Truth pulses for its own hidden sake,
nowhere and yearning for boredom. But you,
stiff and relentless,

are always the same at noon, at four,
or under the sun days’ ghost, the moon.

And my spirits sink low, begin to prowl around,
barking about my heels,

I’ve just chased them away, like yesterday,
but they are back, back, growling -

and as you'll pop your dull eyes tomorrow
among the milling city smelling of the day before,

I’ll send them all on you, your lids will fill with rain,
and you won’t watch me rise and escape

into silence, the unmeasured, the new.

[PrinceMyshkin]

There is something about this fine poem that suggests to me one of those quantum leaps from the last level of mastery you reached, on to a new, more confident and freer state of mind.

[AuntShecky]

This made me think of a line from A. Pope--"what oft was thought but ne'er so well expressed."

I hope I haven't misinterpreted what this poem is about, but it seems to speak our ambiguious attitude toward change. The shifting colors of the person's eyes are beautiful, yet unsettling.

We welcome novelty even as we dread it, such as fearing the unknown: "yearning for boredom."

But hours after hours of sameness can be oppressive. At the same time they are ready to burst with possibility.

As usual, you've given me food for thought.

I've been away too long.

[Delta40]

Gee I wish I could write like you! You're a wonderful romantic, even in tragedy. This deserves to be posted in favourites.

[symphony]

Something inside me is telling me that you could write no other poem but this after that untitled poem. You had to.

[Bar22do]

I didn't expect much reaction to this poem, so - what a good surprise!
Thanks Prince, Aunty (Good Lord! you're finally back! welcome welcome!), Delta and Symphony!

Prince I wish I could make a real quantum leap... thanks for your encouraging words. And "gmar hatima tova" to you.
Aunty, actually the poem means to express the repetitive nature of life and being (however creative), encapsulated in time (hours). Echos of the old good Solomon, I guess, leading to a rather politically incorrect conclusions, as the end indicates.
But like discussed two or three days ago in my other thread, poems are open for the reader to draw from whatever their words meet in the reader's mind or soul.
Delta, what a generous gift! you make me blush! You are dear. It never happened to me before! Thank you so much.
Symphony, in a way, you're right, though I never know how these things happen. I was lying in bed sick when the whole poem appeared and I had to drag myself to the computer and type it before I forget it! Thanks for your fidelity and kindness.

Thank you all, Bar

[Jack of Hearts]

This poem is amazing.







J

[Bar22do]

Jack thanks so much for unburying and liking this poem!

I'm still struggling with my accident consequences, but will be back soon to comment on the pages.

Best of all to you and thanks again. Bar

[natroyce]

what Jack said ;)

[DieterM]

Bar, I jumped head over heels into your poem and, without actually understanding what it was about, I felt something familiar in my chest, something unsaid and unsayable (if such a word exists). I reached the last line, puzzled, thinking that this must be one of the finest poems I've read for quite a while, still without understanding what it was about. And only then did I think of looking for a title. And there it was, and everything fell into place: the un-understandable having found the deeper sense I was looking for. It had been there all the while, waiting to be read.

Really, really *shakes head in wonder*, I'm impressed...

[Twota]

I love it ;D

[Bar22do]

Thank you so much Dieter and Twota! very much obliged for your reading and appreciating this offering. Best to you two! Bar

[firefangled]

Hours

Truth pulses for its own hidden sake,
nowhere and yearning for boredom. But you,
stiff and relentless,

are always the same at noon, at four,
or under the sun days’ ghost, the moon.



I love this poem, its perceptions, its sounds. The above lines took my breath away!

[blank|verse]

A fine poem, Bar; as an apostophe to hours and, by extension, time, it evokes Larkin's 'Days':

What are days for?
[...]
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.
As I'm sure you know! I liked the skill of the reducing stanza lengths in 'Hours'; maybe there should have been 12 in total?

As good as these lines sound, I wonder if they are too abstract:

Truth pulses for its own hidden sake,
nowhere and yearning for boredom.

sun days’ ghost
And you probably know by now what I'm going to say about this! I found it especially tricky because "sun days'" is so close to "Sunday" of course, so had to pronouce it even more slowly.

There are some fine figurative moments towards the end of the poem, though, Bar, and I thought the last line worked particularly well. Sorry I missed this one first time around! :) b|v

[Little Gal]

I adore the play with syntax....
The final three lines are so rich n full with the emotion coming alive ...it makes a reader think and plunge into a kind of space that you might have dwelt in, while writing it.
A very telling piece...

[Bar22do]

You're very kind, Little Gal, I'm happy my poem resonated with you. Thank you.

B/V, thanks for your careful review of this. I'm not sure I understand you here:

"As I'm sure you know! I liked the skill of the reducing stanza lengths in 'Hours'; maybe there should have been 12 in total?" -

do you mean my poem is by half too long in your eyes?

For the moment, I have no idea how to change sun days' and have left the abstract S because I have first to grasp how it is abstract for the reader... but have a (tightened!) revision, if you care to read:

Hours

You keep coming, eyes shined perfect blue,
dirty grey, or green strewn with gold,
when reflected in a pond, at noon.

I still pirouette with you in April, in June, but
how poor the contents! All is said, dreamt of,
seen --- old! repeating, copied, never really new.

Truth pulses for its own hidden sake,
nowhere, yearning for boredom. But you,
stiff and relentless,

are always the same at noon, at four,
or under the sun days’ ghost, the moon.

And my spirits sink low, begin to prowl,
barking about my heels,

I’ve chased them away, like yesterday,
but they are back, back, growling -

and as you'll pop your dull eyes tomorrow
among the milling city smelling of the day before,

I’ll set them all on you. Your lids will fill with rain
and you won’t watch me rise and escape

into silence, the unmeasured, the new.

[DocHeart]

It catches your breath as you read, because syllables and punctuation seem to have been employed to this end. I would love to know if it just "wrote itself" like that or if you put extra effort into how the words (mental sounds) follow one another and/or break up.

The imagery of spirits (desires? urges? a longing for new adventures?) attacking a calm day-to-day existence is powerful. I hope I am not misreading this. What is the result of these wild things being set on the narrator's respondent? An awakening, or a separation? I read and re-read, but cannot make up my mind. Perhaps I shouldn't.

This is pure art, in my view, and one of the greatest poems to grace these fora.

Good health.

DH

[Bar22do]

I love this poem, its perceptions, its sounds. The above lines took my breath away!

Fire, I only now have noticed I never thanked you (!!!!!) for your so kind a reaction to my poem! It's really embarrassing. Please do accept my sincere apology. I owe it to Doc's words to have skimmed through the posts/comments again.

Thank you so very much for your reading and appreciation, Fire.

With my best regards,

Bar

[Bar22do]

Thank you, DocHeart, your comment carries so much encouragement for me. My poem - a kind of protest against monotony/repetitiveness of time (hours) - "presented itself" to me in essence, as did also its inner rhythm, but it was hard work to write it, for English is not my first language, as you might know.
"spirits sinking low" alluded more to a depressive mood that took form of barking dogs. But as often in poetry, the reader's experience and response are what counts.

Thank you again for your kind words, I'm happy my poem "spoke" to you.

Best from Bar

[DocHeart]

It's been more than a year since this exceptional poem was first posted.

I'm bumping it up for the benefit of those who missed it.

Best,
DH

[Haunted]

How did I miss this one! Reading this takes me back and forth between different states of living and as always, your words are just exquisite even when the subject weighs with a sense of impending doom.

[Bar22do]

It's been more than a year since this exceptional poem was first posted.

I'm bumping it up for the benefit of those who missed it.

Best,
DH

You're so kind, Doc, to have unburied this one. I have learned to even like it myself... ! Thank you so very much, what a heart warming surprise.

Haunted, thank you for your reading and appreciation...

[tailor STATELY]

A gem I missed back when...

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor STATELY