Poor Poem
At the moment of birth
when you move into focus
my eyes burn
at deformities
and jaundice
the way you gulp for air.
The cord is broke
and blood sponged up
the wedding robes
are coarsely cut.
My flannel wipes
the spittle from your chin.
Every orifice is plugged.
You lack a soul
and afterthoughts
just rot inside the skin.
Sprinkle scent
spread the shroud
count the mourners
bearing flowers.
You disappear beneath
the weight of others
give or take
an occasional bump.
I’m already pregnant
once again.
Ray Miller
Tue 15th May 2012 22:54
Harry -"Aristotle (somewhere)
talks about poetry using - sometimes - slightly strange, but relevant, words".I think it was probably Greece.
Thanks for the comments. The middle section, the couplets, can be better.
Originally, I did have "the cord is cut" but after a while it seemed too obvious and I also began thinking about vocal chords breaking. But I don't like it either. I'll come back to it one day.