My hands graze triticale wheat as I stagger across the field,
Worms they call it home; and no merits yet left to yield.
Leaden bosom of Winter, compassion before these eyes:
Disposition renounced of spirit, and an ego devoid of pride.
Nimbus vast remains only succor found,
No will left to stumble, a bolster lay on the ground.
Dirt the only shelter, the crop a single friend -
Left here now to witness together: the beginning, of yearning's end.
Weary, these orbs shut, never anew to absorb the light.
For the dreams impulse pursued; I alone now pay the price.
Even if to covet so:
To belong to you, and to you, I;
The chance is no longer possible, dear -
For the deceased won't bear the right.
-
Author:
Nicholas Browning (
Offline) - Published: March 16th, 2019 01:08
- Comment from author about the poem: Hello friends! Another dark and cozy write for you all. Comments and opinions are welcome as always.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 41
Offline)
Comments5
A fine write Nicholas. My feet ache, I can tell ya that! It's the long walk I took. lol.
Is that true? If so just take a rest my friend. Thanks for stopping by, and for the comment!
P.S.
I still want my dunce cap.
Doh! I must have the dunce cap then, for typing in K. lol
A great weave of the language - i won't pick out a favourite line - they are all good.
I've been reading a bit of Robert Frost, perhaps it's rubbing off! Thanks for the comment Michael, and for stopping by - It is immensely appreciated.
Frost - must read his work - it's eluded me thus far. Currently re-reading much of Thomas Hardy - yes that's where I get much of my inspiration from.
If you ever do decide to read some work of his, a one-stanza poem titled "Patch of Old Snow" is quite good. Cheers! I'll look into Thomas Hardy whilst I'm at it.
Some say his work is heavy going and the story lines belong to another age but I just love his use of the language - for that there is no other novelist to touch him. George Eliot and Mary Webb come joint second but not quite in his league. Mind you all very English. The Brontes are excellent weavers of story but again don't touch Hardy when it comes to imaginative use of the language.
I just read "The Darkling Thrush" and I have to say it is amazing. Oh man, now you've gone and done it.
I'll be reading this for weeks.
Yes it is one of my favourites - a super write - we'll have you reading his novels next.
I'm not sure I could handle that. I'd be busy the whole year-round.
This certainly made me ache, in fact it really touched me. You painted a poignant vision in my mind and it panged in my chest.
Not had that for a while. Powerful.
Good job.
Some paint the canvas, and others they paint the mind. Thank you for reading and commenting, Sylvia. I'm glad you felt something as you read this, as I certainly felt something writing it.
Best regards!
The sad feel which oozes from these worthy lines tugs at the heart in the way good poetry does....... "that which aches" is the perfect title. - well done again Nick.
Thank you very much, Fay. That feeling was what I was aiming for, and I'm glad it hit the mark. Not trying to make anyone sad though!
Such serenity in the inevitable
Loved every word
Thank you for your comment and for stopping by, Suresh.
I'm glad you found this enjoyable!
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