When Fibre Falls Apart
October 1st 2008 04:31
I don’t actually want any comments on this poem. I’m just putting it up for archival purposes.
When Fibre Falls Apart
She left her cardigan behind
on purpose
as though she knew
I’d never wash the wool
treat it like a relic
some martyred saint’s
from early Christian days
not second class to me
Her shoulders formed a perfect fit
inside my winter gift
as if the wool itself was fashioned first
She would sink into the quilt, and drown
her eyes in Suskind’s Perfume
I would smell her nape,
her armpits and her hair
not quite the sensitive Grenouille
yet in my own olfactory way
she was my ‘girl behind the wall’
All my days have turned to night
Now each night’s an empty seat across a table that never seemed so wide
A cluttered room
that never seemed
so bare
My bed is empty now
it can’t be filled with anyone
not while her cardigan lays
draped across the bedpost
Calendar on calendar on calendar
remain fixed upon the wall
The circle on May 31
marks the day we met
and the thick red ring of Artline’s mark
can’t be easily erased
All my months have turned to winter
Maybe I’ll never see another spring?
But if …
and when …
I bunch the wool into a ball
a horde of odours escape
like thousands of transparencies
captured on slow shutter-speeds
those autumn drives in eastern hills
when apple-blossoms overwhelmed the dust, and dirt
on leather car-seat ribbing
transferred to my cuffs
That itch on my skin?
Is that the summer sand we rollicked in?
It could be
a thousand places along the coast
from the green-black splash
at Wilson’s Prom
to the endless stretch of blue and white all along the Coorong
I’ve seen her with her new man
He dines her at duChamp’s
on the corner of Blithe and Spree
I gather he’s fond of her
new buttoned jumper
he wears it
so close to his chest
I can only hope she tires of
pretence, and expensive tastes
never replace her one true love
Simplicity.
Now my only joy is
that of the beloved Apostle, St John
his Epistle, Chapter One:
To have seen and looked upon
and handled the divinity.
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Comment by Bryn
Horrorphile
I haven't read any of your poems for quite awhile, and that one was superb.
Where's the pic from? It almost looks like a still from Disney's Snow White ... how curious.
Comment by Bryn
Horrorphile
Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
I've actually posted this one a couple of times before. Hence why I didn't want people who'd read it before to feel obliged to re-comment. What was the name of that blog again? The one I used to delete everything off periodically? And have shitfights on?
As to the pic? I just did a few Googles on cardigans, women in cardigans. That got very frustrating, so I Googled 'woman on bed', and found this pic. When it comes to poems, I tend to just look for a pic that fits the image I have in my mind. Her cardigan must be on the floor somewhere.
It's definitely not Grumpy or Sleepy. lol
Comment by Damo
For the Sake of Argument
My Apologetics
I like this poem.
Comment by Bryn
Horrorphile
Ahh, yes, I remember that blog ... although there were two actually ...
The pic fits the poem, so nice choice. Google's good for that.
Let me know when I can purchase a collection of your best poetry.
Comment by Kleonaptra
Kalikapsychosis
Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
I've got twenty-two favourite poems. Well I had twenty-two favourite poems. I've only got two left. This is one of them.
I thought I'd dredge them up from my memory, and repost them. And this time, hopefully I won't go spastic and delete them all again, this time.
Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
I actually wrote to someone who used to keep my poems on her pc, but she had a crash and lost them all. So, if you want to purchase my collection, start downloading now. I don't charge for them, man.
And yeah, Google is a great search engine. As soon as I saw the pic I just went, yep. That's close to the image I had in my mind.
Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
Well, it's a poem about the delicate nature of femininity itself, and it was a pink cardigan I had in my mind when I wrote it, so I thought, well, I can't spend all day on Google. That's close enough. [But the pic did arrest me.
There used to be this woman/girl who wandered Rundle Street back in the early 90s. She was as beautiful as women get. Put most models to shame type. And she always wore pretty floral dresses, and a pink cardigan, and Blundstone boots. [Well, I thought it was a good look. She could have worn anything. Or nothing?]. And she always had two dogs with her. Not the drink. Two real dogs. On leashes. Not ex boyfriends either. The type that go woof. I'm sure I wrote this poem with her in mind.
In terms of the pic itself?
Why do women like wearing pants?
The woman in this pic is a feminist.
PS: I usually put a pic with my poems. People might not read the poem itself, but they usually like the pic.
Comment by Kleonaptra
Kalikapsychosis
I am very appreciative that you say the dress worked with blundstones, because one of my excuses is skirts dont go with Redbacks.
Comment by Bryn
Horrorphile
Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
I'd never ask you to wear a skirt. Or pants.
Or shoes.
Or socks.
Comment by Kleonaptra
Kalikapsychosis
David....Well, thats a relief....
Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
Comment by Kleonaptra
Kalikapsychosis