another
all alone on the plainstones
singing with choirs of humans
behind closed doors locked out
locked in and no pleasure
when all is said and done
and dusted underneath
the carpets where
our sweepings
went
all alone
when sickness
was both disease and cure
when madness ran hot
and cool grass soothed
the fevered eye that
wept to see how
the world grew
despite us
a day
like any other
dawns as bleak
we give it meaning
not meaning to impose
significance where none
should be Saturday
the weekend
starts here
ends here
ends
Another Covid poem, with, as always,something creeping in about the human condition in isolation. What we wrestle with. The media is full of it. I feel it, at least a little, here where the air is clear and the miles beyond the house are my own.
This arose out of a Facebook invitation to write a poem based on thoughts about Saturday. After I wrote it, I hacked and chopped it - distilled it, so I thought - into something else. Then I reread the original. I went back to it. Sometimes what comes is what should remain. The editing poet is a menace to themselves sometimes!
At the heart of it is the sense that the world is still alive and kicking while we (poor humans) are cut off from it. Shame really. We begun the cutting off a long time past. Just never noticed till now.
singing with choirs of humans
behind closed doors locked out
locked in and no pleasure
when all is said and done
and dusted underneath
the carpets where
our sweepings
went
all alone
when sickness
was both disease and cure
when madness ran hot
and cool grass soothed
the fevered eye that
wept to see how
the world grew
despite us
a day
like any other
dawns as bleak
we give it meaning
not meaning to impose
significance where none
should be Saturday
the weekend
starts here
ends here
ends
© BH, 2021
Another Covid poem, with, as always,something creeping in about the human condition in isolation. What we wrestle with. The media is full of it. I feel it, at least a little, here where the air is clear and the miles beyond the house are my own.
This arose out of a Facebook invitation to write a poem based on thoughts about Saturday. After I wrote it, I hacked and chopped it - distilled it, so I thought - into something else. Then I reread the original. I went back to it. Sometimes what comes is what should remain. The editing poet is a menace to themselves sometimes!
At the heart of it is the sense that the world is still alive and kicking while we (poor humans) are cut off from it. Shame really. We begun the cutting off a long time past. Just never noticed till now.
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