Morning
Awakening awash with filtered stripes
Blind light
Strange soft shadows
Clamorous discourse outside
The drone
T Rex descendants
Liberated high in the palm of the sky
Dancing and chirping through the octaves
Every note lofted by the wind
The echo
Where is the on flight melody
When in the winged cycle
The song bird is born and dies on the same chord
The hum
Sound over time
Music or discord
The circle of fifths
Offering only a new sharp
My father remembers nothing
The progression
My little black cat
Grace leaps onto my breast
The purr
Do I lose this as well to the
Twilight
© 2008 Audri Phillips
2 comments:
So cinematic, these moody visual rushes. Crafty; you'd be a good film editor, or you'd make a film editor's job easy with scene descriptions like this. But beyond craft, this poem is a beautiful expression of a particular, elusive pain I feel, resisting discourse. You've brought it home somehow; it's as if I've had three swallows of a very dark, lingering bitter wine. (I mean to say, thank you.)
Is the word “resonance” too campy? Perhaps too tawdry a pun to describe what this poem so exquisitely evokes in me. You have captured the stinging feeling, the haunting conclusion, that an entire generation does not want to arrive at. Utterly, beautifully painful.
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