Today’s guest poet: Margaret Atwood
Night Poem
There is nothing to be afraid of,
it is only the wind
changing to the east, it is only
your father the thunder
your mother the rain
In this country of water
with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,
its drowned stumps and long birds
that swim, where the moss grows
on all sides of the trees
and your shadow is not your shadow
but your reflection,
your true parents disappear
when the curtain covers your door.
We are the others,
the ones from under the lake
who stand silently beside your bed
with our heads of darkness.
We have come to cover you
with red wool,
with our tears and distant whispers.
You rock in the rain’s arms
the chilly ark of your sleep,
while we wait, your night
father and mother
with our cold hands and dead flashlight,
knowing we are only
the wavering shadows thrown
by one candle, in this echo
you will hear twenty years later.
5 comments
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October 3, 2012 at 2:16 pm
Erik France
I dig it ~ cool poem. The style reminds me in some shimmery way of Apollinaire, who died in the Great Influenza Pandemic in 1918.
October 3, 2012 at 2:33 pm
Seasweetie
I’m not familiar with Apollinaire. Will have to look. But I was just reading about (and thinking of writing about) the Great Influenza Pandemic of 1918 two days ago..
October 3, 2012 at 2:45 pm
Erik France
I’m not surprised on the synchronicity . . . I know two Apollinaire texts pretty well: ‘Alcools’ and ‘Calligrammes.’ ‘Alcools’ has an English trans. here: http://wikilivres.ca/wiki/Alcools_(transl._A._S._Kline) Cheers ~ adieu ~ Margaret Atwood rocks ~!
October 3, 2012 at 3:13 pm
suzicate
ooooh, I like!
October 3, 2012 at 3:27 pm
Seasweetie
:-), suzicate