Dear Mr D Thomas I do not understand your poem

You made me bark my shin,
It was the pedal of Dad’s bike in the darkness
Of the living room  - odd name living room.
 
You dragged me through the various ochres of night and dark,
But I did not wander in the park,
Nor did I throw stones at lovers;
 
The bark was the only sound in that muffled place of shadows
When I crept from my blanket bed to the living room,
to kill the carriage clock.
 
I felt my way to the sideboard,
Barked my shin and stuck my finger in
The back of the clock to stop it striking the hours and halves
 
Which had been keeping me awake;
I had school next morning and
I had been trying to force myself to go to sleep.
 
It was the small hours but
Those hours are anything but small and after stopping the clock,
I floundered awake in a great abyss of silence.




(A memory of childhood prompted by reading
Once It Was the Colour of Saying, by Dylan Thomas)

Location: London, UK

Comments

  1. Kim M. RussellOctober 6, 2023 at 5:27 PM

    I have a huge grin on my face after reading your poem, George, it’s such an original, surreal and enjoyable response! I like the way you picked up on colour in ‘You dragged me through the various ochres of night and dark’, included a school and the stones. I smiled at the lines:
    ‘It was the small hours but
    Those hours are anything but small and after stopping the clock,
    I floundered awake in a great abyss of silence’.
    You definitely captured the flavour of Thomas.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Morning Jog

Getting on for 8 a.m. Along a dirt track from the main road, through the allotments. Young woman hunched on the ground. Could be fifteen years old, or perhaps between twenty and thirty. Hello? Are you okay? No response. Seems to be insensible, or asleep. Shoulders bare, long hair hanging forward, obscuring face. Walk on, but stop and look back. Are you alright? What’s your name? Man with dog arrives. I seen her and I said I’d come back and check in half an hour. Give her time I said. She tries to stand. She is floating like an intoxicated string-puppet. She staggers, bends over, looking down. Feet move in a crazy flat-foot dance. Topples and bangs head on a concrete slab. Groans. Rolls, and reaches out an arm to stand. Stay down! Sit down! Sit down! Three other people staring: man with dog, silent refugee woman, and smiling refugee man, toting a bag of carryouts. Man with dog says don’t go near, she might have something sharp. We get a lot of that. She’s on the browns. Do...
Read more

Sunday, 1958

Cooking and cleaning done, Sitting at the upstairs window; Sunday-best twopiece and heavy butterfly brooch, A cloud of talcum in sherbet pink;   Polishing the classroom floor made Bloated sponges of her knees; So hot last week almost naked under nylon workcoat, But today is day off and sardines for tea with a thin slice of   Cold beetroot and lettuce from Dad’s allotment; Rolls kiss of lilac lipstick in the dressing-table mirror, Laughs: All dressed up and nowhere to go! Nods at runners and riders on the street below:   Here comes the ginger cat with its tail up, Look at old woman and dog they walk the same, See Mr Upstairs On The Corner and his backward boy and Mrs Downstairs Over The Road with a black man;   Checks hats coats hair with a giggle, Pronounces age and frailty and degree of Meanness and goodness and the kinship of brutes; Divines several errands from the back catalogue of Interviews and habits and the movement of troops; Smiles while embroidering the dr...
Read more