Maladies of A Poet

[miyako73]

Memories escape from the dungeon of my mind
To kiss my lips and cavort with my breathing,
But longing chokes like unchewed chunks of apple
Or a fishbone burying itself in my wounded throat.

When I trudge the loneliest road long-abandoned
Where the blades of the wild grasses curl and coil,
The flowers, indifferent to my callused, beaten feet,
Instantly decay where the bees sting their eulogy.

I bleed on the sharp rocks, on the pile of stones
My toes, infested with dead nails, cannot pave
As I recount to myself the rivers I have crossed,
The seas I have swum, the oceans I have dreamt.

At the end of the road when I can trudge no more,
When the sun is done with scorching, its punishment,
When the wind gives up its wings to die in the West,
I only have my faithful shadow guarding my memories.

[PrinceMyshkin]

This


When the wind gives up its wings to die in the West,

is head and shoulders the best line in this poem; but the poem as a whole is almost too desolate to read!!

[ShadowsCool]

Excellent reading

[miyako73]

Almost all pieces of diasporic literature are about desolation, melancholia, and longing. I wish I could write happy poems. Even my erotic ones are sad. No worries though, I do watch Comedy Central and still find Richard Pryor funny. Thanks, Prince.

[miyako73]

Excellent reading

Thanks, shadow.

[Delta40]

It is rather desolate but that only means you earn the title of Lit-Net Queen of Desolate Poetry Miyako! I particularly liked these two lines:

The flowers, indifferent to my callused, beaten feet,
Instantly decay where the bees sting their eulogy.

[Hawkman]

I don't think we are in any danger of overlooking who the poem is about, 7 I's 8 my's and one myself. We have Cliche's of lonely, deserted roads, dungeon minds, rivers crossed oceans and seas invoked for swimming, no wonder you were tired at the end. :D

The infestation of nails is certainly original, if a little odd, but One wouldn't really expect toes to pave anything, even with broken rocks.

The fishbone in the throat was original, and I have to agree with Prince that the wind giving up it's wings to die in the West is probably the best line in the piece.

The general tone of the poem is a bit angsty for my taste, without any leavening of irony or humour.

Live and be well - H

[hallaig]

I dinnae mind angst, but this is a bit abstract for me. Describe something specific, specifically. Focus rather than just general miasma.