This is the eighth poem prompt of the year, so as seems to traditional around this point, I'll post all the verses I have so far together and we'll see if they're holding up :)
Scrambling Sunday, 3pm, and the sun is shining Low in the sky and catching pedestrians in their eyes I turn the corner, this one, like this, And the streets fade to gray and the ghosts come out to play
The boarding house is boarded up: Wall-eyed men ignore me as they hammer nails Through plywood sheets into rotten doorframes And shake their heads when I ask if there’s room to sleep.
A tunnel, made of red brick and circular Leads into darkness but is dry and tall enough to stand in. Shelter enough to sleep in, and the symbols on the walls Don’t bother me at all.
The Hulk is a rusting ship, lying dying in a lake It must have been built there for there’s no way It could have sailed in unless the water level were once so high It would have drowned the world around us.
I hesitate in the mouth of the tunnel, eyeing the Hulk, And then decide that here is place enough to sleep For what shall be my last Saturday night in this world. I try not to make promises I can’t keep.
Sleep is slow to come though the tunnel is silent And while the Hulk creaks and groans as it dies If I said it mattered, my words would be only lies. And I have pledged to tell the truth — a truth — until I leave.
My dreams are pointed and poignant, Scratching only the surface of the turmoil Of my thoughts and I wake, sweat-soaked and anxious To find the water-level rising.
I scramble to the end of the tunnel, hearing the titanic groans Of the Hulk as the water shifts its bulk. I consider, for a moment, of turning this way and then that And leaving the ghost-world to drown alone — but not yet..
Those last two lines bring a lot of insight into what's happening here. Very intriguing that your narrator can leave at any time, but is choosing not to. I wonder what's keeping them there?
This is the eighth poem prompt of the year, so as seems to traditional around this point, I'll post all the verses I have so far together and we'll see if they're holding up :)
ReplyDeleteScrambling
Sunday, 3pm, and the sun is shining
Low in the sky and catching pedestrians in their eyes
I turn the corner, this one, like this,
And the streets fade to gray and the ghosts come out to play
The boarding house is boarded up:
Wall-eyed men ignore me as they hammer nails
Through plywood sheets into rotten doorframes
And shake their heads when I ask if there’s room to sleep.
A tunnel, made of red brick and circular
Leads into darkness but is dry and tall enough to stand in.
Shelter enough to sleep in, and the symbols on the walls
Don’t bother me at all.
The Hulk is a rusting ship, lying dying in a lake
It must have been built there for there’s no way
It could have sailed in unless the water level were once so high
It would have drowned the world around us.
I hesitate in the mouth of the tunnel, eyeing the Hulk,
And then decide that here is place enough to sleep
For what shall be my last Saturday night in this world.
I try not to make promises I can’t keep.
Sleep is slow to come though the tunnel is silent
And while the Hulk creaks and groans as it dies
If I said it mattered, my words would be only lies.
And I have pledged to tell the truth — a truth — until I leave.
My dreams are pointed and poignant,
Scratching only the surface of the turmoil
Of my thoughts and I wake, sweat-soaked and anxious
To find the water-level rising.
I scramble to the end of the tunnel, hearing the titanic groans
Of the Hulk as the water shifts its bulk.
I consider, for a moment, of turning this way and then that
And leaving the ghost-world to drown alone — but not yet..
Greg - I would certainly say its holding up!
ReplyDeleteThose last two lines bring a lot of insight into what's happening here. Very intriguing that your narrator can leave at any time, but is choosing not to. I wonder what's keeping them there?