“The world is dead to us.” With dry,
shaking hands Norma sits in her rocker,
those old hands fumbling with crocheting
needles and the foul spirit that, as a child,
she thought would hold them in the future.
But this is the future, and the world is dead
to us.
Norma says, “Darling child, you didn’t think
you’d run from it, did you? Oh, you poor thing,
haven’t you realised that time laughs at us all?”
But I did, I say, and I was never ready to accept
the lie that, though Caernarfon is grey and wet
today, the great man who built it feared rain, death,
and the blood staining the Holy Land. And your fears?
Happiness and the quest.
The world is not dead to me, Norma, and it
will never be dead to me; if it is, then I myself
will sleep in my own grave, unaware, for my mind
is my world; my body, its wheel; my heart, its
motor; and my passions, the molten lava beneath
kilometres of rock waiting for the perfect moment to
explode and encase those who hate the fact that they
exist in the fires of my visions like dead men at Pompeii.
Someday, I hope we’ll look back on Norma and
the modern men turned to ashen casts and shells
and be able to laugh. “Do you remember it, son, what
I told you about your great-grandmother, who was, is,
and will ever be?” Yes, I hope he says, yes, I do, and
with a smile, will return to his chair by the window of
this old house where I once lived, staring at the ruins
of men wandering below.
Men, I will write to him, are fickle and vain
and will deceive you simply because you have
something they do not have: a sincere appreciation
for life and a love of it. But we, dear boy, are the new
romantics, the men and women who know it as it is,
and, with a quick flourish, tone our worlds in sorrow and
ink and with a thousand melodies strung into one: our
ageless history. The world is not dead to us – but
enough of that, dear boy; you know this already.
Author notes
This poem was inspired by an image I had stuck in my mind, and also by the fact that people are always telling me that I should fear time, God, myself... and that I should sell out and live a cloistered life. I don't understand their hatred of the world, and I probably never will.
At the end of the poem, the boy I speak of is a descendant of mine, even though I don't have children. He only serves to remind you that while this generation will die and the next will be even weaker, the human spirit can still live, only if we encourage it to flourish.
Edward I built Caernarfon Castle. He's a hero of mine, hence the reference.
(Option 3. I'm fairly certain no one's written anything like this before.)
A contest entry
- Options!!! by A Poet Named Kyoto.
1050 points, ended August 4, 2007, 37 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Critique this, and be honest. If you can't give criticism, at least tell me what you liked/didn't like.
Comments
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Oooh, this is definitely something no one has ever covered/written about before, or at least that I've read.
One thing I love about your poems is that if you bring a character into your poem, you make them fully-rounded and believable as a real person (even if they're not). Aweshome write 
Jeanette*~
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"“The world is dead to us.” " a great way to start the piece I really liked that line along with the rest of the poem! great write! Thank you so much for entering! Excellent work and the best of luck in my contest!!!!
-Steve- -
WOW! This is quite original, I loved every line of it! The first paragraph/stanza sets a great tone for the poem! The one suggestion I would make is to use apostrophes when needed.
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