losing

studio.jk

Losing

In that north-facing kitchen,
When sheets of misty rain
Trampled across the grey horizon,

You stood, pale as the early dawn,
Your hand trembling slightly on the table-edge,
Refusing to believe his simple words.

And me, in foolish comfort - 'Its probably for the best.'
My voice, crackling like a scratched old 78,
Tore a gaping hole in the silence it replaced.

Your look, slow and sorrow-wise, as if to say,
'It'll happen to you someday',
Made me the unwanted stranger at an ancient wake.

Clairecluck

wow, i really like this, its powerful yet simple, well written

QwertyDanish

I love it too. Always big on giving nature human characteristics in my own stuff, so I'm quite jealous of the "clouds trampling" bit.

Only criticism would be the "old 78" line, as there's a real sense of ancient mysticism in this poem. The wake, the repeated nature mentions/similes, the early dawn, the ghostly presence of "he", the slow dignity and aching sorrow of the movements... the reference to something so modern seems a bit out of place for me.

Tohugh I do feel a bit presumptious to give you advice, as it's fantastic, and I'm not even sure i even fully understand it. could you share the story of the poem?

Thanks

Clairecluck

You are too critical danish, poetry can just be about how someone is feeling at that point or what's going on around them, it ruins it if you feel it necessary to start applying textbook rules to it, or lengthening it just for the sake of it, sometimes they'res beauty in random streams of conciousness;)