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TEMPORAL

by LONGJON 

Posted: 21 April 2004
Word Count: 121
Summary: An exercise


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All our glories die like sunbeams
Hunted by the glittering night
For sport
It has nothing else to do
No history to write
This blue and silver silent night
Streetlights sad orange glow
Makes a poor contest,
Gives neither quarter nor succour
But the silence grows
As the hours mount
To take the place of a peace
You sought in that gentle touch
What do you touch now,
The air is no friend, it
Chills the hours, slowly
Fades the memories
Until there is

Nothing

Nothing

Except that pale blue shirt
In the basket in the corner
One arm draped over the edge
Touching the floor
Is it forgotten
Will it still be there in the morning.

John Pirtle
2004






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Comments by other Members



Nell at 08:22 on 22 April 2004  Report this post
John,

Your poem has the feel of Jordan yet the meaning is beautifully accessible - it speaks directly to the reader in the way that Akhmatova does. What is it about being awake at night that makes one feel these things so intensely? You've captured it all perfectly, and the image of the blue shirt One arm draped over the edge/Touching the floor... after the desolate Nothing/Nothing is almost unbearably poignant.

Write on John,

Nell.

roovacrag at 17:11 on 22 April 2004  Report this post
Well done.

All our glories die like sunbeams.
Beautiful line.
Well done, loved the poem.
xx Alice

Skeetr at 17:55 on 24 April 2004  Report this post
John, I enjoyed reading this -- the last stanza

Except that pale blue shirt
In the basket in the corner
One arm draped over the edge
Touching the floor
Is it forgotten
Will it still be there in the morning.


... is sublte but still full of intense feeling. Added to the opening images of glories hunted by the night for sport... very good stuff. I need to re-read in order to get the most out of this, but these are my first gut reactions and thoughts, for what they're worth.

Best,

Smith

gard at 00:04 on 29 April 2004  Report this post
Hi LJ

had not realised I had not commented on this though I read it
a bit ago now.

It almost talks of uncertainties/loneliness, or perhaps death and the now is the only certainty, what one sees in the physical at any one moment. This is the only reliable thing. It seemed kind of sad..but also secure in the arriveing back at the material things in the last stanza, the familiar....

loved

"what do you touch now/the air is no friend/it chills the hours.." such a beautiful poetic phrase!

G


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