He pokes another raindrop...

[breathtest]

This is the first part of a poem I have recently begun.



He pokes another raindrop and listens to his mother's
voice

telling him, faintly, to open his eyes
and see how life continues,
rolling as thunder through the clouds,
nightmarish and implacable.

His nightmares of course
are now filled with thunder, and
the sounds pouring from a
bleeding hole
which opens again and again
with every morning toll.

[MatthewFarlow]

*Snap snap snap*

Well done. Perhaps I like it so much because it is relevant to my life at this point in time.

Congratulations, I cannot wait for more.

Mister Matthew Farlow.

[qimissung]

I like the first line best. I can't quite figure out what it's about.

[breathtest]

I have completed the full version of the poem now, well, until I do more revisions later. Thanks for the good comments. Qimissung - this should probably help with interpreting it.


He pokes another raindrop
and listens to his mother's voice

telling him, faintly, to
open his eyes
and see how life continues,
rolling as a distant thunder
through the clouds.

It doesn't help, his nightmares of course
now filled with thunder
and the sounds bled from a hole
which opens again and again
with each mourning toll.

And though his daydreams are
livid with death,
his words make excuses in their quietism.

He pokes another raindrop
on the window-
sill and it disperses
like the ebbing of childhood.

[blank|verse]

This is imaginative stuff, breathtest, with some vivid imagery, but I can't help think it would better as a prose piece in some way; I'm not sure what writing this as a poem brings to the content, and it feels you have more to say than what is constrained to this short piece as it stands. If you disagree, maybe at least give it a go as prose and see what comes out.

[Buh4Bee]

I like the fuller more-complete version. It may be a poem that has more personal meaning; that is hard for the reader to fully grasp. I know that I write this way sometimes. I also like the idea of growing up and the reality setting in; a mother's voice in no longer a comfort. The world can be a big scarey place. I realize that may not be what the poet intended, but that was how I read it.

[breathtest]

It's funny you should mention that, Blank Verse, because this poem started as a piece of prose and I have to say that I think the prose version was better. Something about the way I have written it as poetry doesn't quite sit right, thought I'm still quite pleased with it. Maybe I can rewrite it in a way more suited to the form.

Jersea - you have it exactly, although the poem doesn't have such strong emotional resonance for me. It started out as a piece of fiction I was writing. But I think it applies to everybody. As you say, it is that part of life where the words of those you have loved growing up are becoming less comforting, and the world is really becoming a reality.