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From An Old Poet

Old poetWARDLEY BARRY

I don't take to poetry
For fun or for the thrill –
Not anymore.

I don't take it lightly.
There's a darker feel,

An even darker story
To every line, every jot,
Every ill-gotten thought.

I am a victim of
Beautifully cursed words.

The labour pains I keep
Transcribed in flesh,
When my womb contracts
And the fingers are drawn back

To make way for the birth
Of a piece that will
Be subjected to the savagery
Of an ignorant pack –

Not valued for its worth,
But for how it appears
Or seem in their
Warped delusions.

Dream
Some more and
Scream!

You will hear me
No matter how much
You stuff your ears
With Mozart or Beethoven
Or one of those contemporary
Mumbo jumbo.

I hang To-Do lists on a tree,
Leave them unfinished
And turn on my heels.

I am bashed up,
Battered and bruised.
But I love the pain
An ugly poem leaves
On my lips.

I mark the geometry
Of lovers and farmers
In a lemniscate using
Dead leaves and twigs.

There is no shape to death.
It looks like poetry
From afar.

The symmetry
Of sunshine on a window sill
Invokes Holy Book promises,

A preview of the seventy virgins.
In such a heaven,
How do eunuchs celebrate?

My organs are worn out
From conceiving too much,
Bearing too much,
Caring too much,

Carrying too much feelings
For others,
Mostly politicians and hypocrites.

Before I turn into a barren shack,
I'll stack my anthology
With mannequins and stuffed animals,

And leave it for vultures
To feast on.

I'll fill

The topography
With nouns and unverbed forests.
I'll leave a trail of
Duicidal notes and pills.

Find me in an
Orgasm-less paradise.
We'll make love on gum packets
And old jackets.
While you search my pockets
For a machete.

Comments

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Philip Fitzpatrick

A very striking poem full of fascinating imagery.

Where on earth did you stumble across the word 'lemniscate', which may or may not be the sign of infinity?

And what really can a eunuch do with seventy virgins?

Lindsay F Bond

May your path be strewn with epithets, evocatively, earnestly.

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