saw you hanging from a tree

I bowed upon the stroke.

There was nothing but this night

and I was happy then. Who knows

 

the poetry composed

that night lost in the gaps

between the stars? I strummed

 

six golden strings,

but never nailed it.

Peter, Jude –

 

I too have walked home,

got lost in the mist of a lit

lamp post; failed

 

to imagine myself

some years from now

anywhere but here.

 

I heard the stirring

strings of a string

quartet, which hurt,

 

and which I could not

express in words.

 

17-18 March 2016

4 Responsesso far.

  1. Mark Prisco Mark Prisco says:

    Thanks Angela. True. Could have done without the first line too maybe.

  2. Indeed……lovely

    I heard the stirring strings ……you could have even ended it there?

  3. Mark Prisco Mark Prisco says:

    thanks Peter. And you’re welcome. Thought of your Man Of It poem. no-one in mind but I’ll go with Beethoven: good for hurt

  4. peterlebaige peterlebaige says:

    Flattered to be called forth in such a poem, Marco. That string quartet, ‘which hurt’ might well have been one of Beethoven’s, so I guess. This shines back and forth between its stanzas. I feel I know well:
    the poetry composed
    that night lost in the gaps
    between the stars? I strummed

    six golden strings,
    but never nailed it.

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