it was unsaid, walking into the cave
pale, skinny chest puffed out, regulated.
not here not here in the rat's lair the sound
of dripping water upon ear, Antigone's
dried bones rattling in the dark. A quorum,
sharp teeth sunk in wet loins while the shadows\
look on, an aperitif of flesh, lustrous
in gloom. Those skulls were heroes once, maidens
with soft breasts, old men with bent canes, crones. Chill
between slick thighs will be licked off, back pressed
against wall knees high, rain is only a note
in the song; brittle limbs broken in time
the incessant drip the sun that neither
rises nor falls in eyes that are not here.
In a list
A contest entry
- Poetry Contest by Don Michael.
1050 points, ended February 22, 27 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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I paused on your title, to let the rich flow of associations work. Then felt like a hero in an epic quest, following your words into the cave.
Beautiful poem, with the sad acceptance of mortality that the sight of human bones evokes. Loved in particular 'rain is only a note
in the song' but the poem has an organic unity that is stunning.
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Your use of punctuation to create flow works wonderfully.
I read this as a story of love for myths and legends,
and how people aspire for the greatness often attributed
to the stories of past heroes. I also get a feeling
of how we hold our memories; they're what we make of them
in a way. The imagery is quite a view to behold in its
own.
Is the backslash on purpose after shadows?
Thank you for entering this.
Off topic: Sophocles' Antigone is what inspired me to
write and love literature.
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It's lonely. A little sad. A sonnet? Sung into the vacuum winds of the waste land.
empty maybe despite all the presence. how'd you do that?
Good luck in the contest. I don't know if I've mentioned it lately but, you're my favorite poet to read.
So that means you should keep on writing.
Your friend,
Lisa
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you can lay down metaphors
on the noun walls of atlantis
or step back further,
scribble abstract portraits
on melted wax from the candles of mu;
the skulls would whisper of future,
the limbs of dust --
sight would be presence, a chord
yourself, a navel attached to it.
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It sounds like one of our committee meetings
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I enjoy how you can tiptoe our minds through a passage of time and of life, so rich in it's metaphor yet simply laid out. So true how the ancient is still a circle that never ends, the faces change but the evidence remains the same
C
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