I crawled through the fashioned streets
Warding off eyes with grief pouring out
like the mailbag of the postman,i never think off
He waits under a borrowed umbrella
Waiting for the ink on his own letters to dry
He carries them around all the time
with names in them,
he wishes someone knows
The asphalt grass cleaves to his boots
Like a few torn pages from
his book of gods and their coming,
He lowers is head and disappears
among the dripping collars of grown men
that i live inside day and night
I stand behind glass doors,
Its not my sun that is setting
Warding off eyes with grief pouring out
like the mailbag of the postman,i never think off
He waits under a borrowed umbrella
Waiting for the ink on his own letters to dry
He carries them around all the time
with names in them,
he wishes someone knows
The asphalt grass cleaves to his boots
Like a few torn pages from
his book of gods and their coming,
He lowers is head and disappears
among the dripping collars of grown men
that i live inside day and night
I stand behind glass doors,
Its not my sun that is setting
Not sure what to make of this Manik. But oh how I devour it. I can't tell...by the writing...if it is your eyes with grief pouring out, or if you are warding off other eyes with grief pouring out of them. But I relate to the first. There were MONTHS when I lived in this way. My downcast eyes could not meet the living gaze of another, so far into my own death I was. Hell. I need to write about that. Truly, it is not something I would want to live through again, in or out of the collars of living people. It was my sun. It burned out. I watched it die into the earth, unreturning.
ReplyDeleteThe title immediately reminded me of TS Eliot's "The Hollow Men," and I got much the same feel from reading your poem. The ending two lines are perfect.
ReplyDeleteAnnie,
ReplyDeletei've lived like this and still do...on both terms..we all do perhaps...i'm not aware of your reasons...sometimes i don't even have reasons...And yes,you do need to write about it...Please do...We can't escape the eyes of these words pouring out...They have been closest to us..Let them be our face....
Francis,
ReplyDeletethank you for stopping by...It is quite an honour to be told that anything from this poem led you to TS Eliot's work on the same road...i hope you have found 'passages' where sounds had begun forming walls...tell me if you are not put to sleep...