The Pugilist.

Inspired by Boxing, Martin Edin (London), The Loneliness of the long distance runner (Alan Sillitoe), The Panther (Rainer Maria Rilke).

His knuckles, from the steady smashing of bones,

have crumbled. His tired hands cannot grasp

 the things he wants. It seems to him he’s flown

a thousand years; and beneath his skin live wasps.

As he hammers the broken goblet, over and over,

the sheath of his dominant hard eyes

is like a sacramental glance through ether

In which his weakness disappears.

 

Only at times, the curtain of the theatre

opens, slightly. His stature emerges quick,

charges through the mass of treacle,

and plunges into your heart and is gone.

Author's Note

All comments are welcomed. What works, what doesn't etc...

Reviews

[R J Askew]

Like the first and third verses best, with the line about wasps being great, love that one...likewise I really like the last line with the guy vanishing. Boxing is pain and speed. This is great stuff. When I compare this to your Venice story I think two very different writers...with the poet winning!

[Emily B]

Your writing has certainly changed over the years. The words are measured, pound for pound, this is heavy and solid. It works on a very real level.