Group Portrait No 2

                             D’ya know what I mean Michael

                             That rasp of her raw mind

                             Circumstance bound in a single orbit

                             Tenacious the mantra -‘Harold’s got pneumonia’

 

                             Here - spit sprayed in a listening

                             Of debris spew of gabble rant

                             Perpetual the crash of retold narrations

                             And tornado assault of harsh rhymes

           

                             A glare from gargoyle eyes

                              Pell-mell and deaf to rationale

                              The id despairing - shuts out - ignores

                              The exiled sacred power of silence

            

                              I want him home he’s dehydrated

                              I can tell - he’s dying -Michael

                              I can tell - he won’t speak

                              Do you give him the time?

 

                              Would he see a priest - No

                               Should he not fine a peace

                               “A man owns his own death”

                               She only admits her own denial

                 

                              Today they drink coffee -al fresco

                              Allied in their nodding social coterie

                              Basked in their wit of opinioning 

                              As today's lips contort a present 

                        

                      

             

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

maybe like Oedipus, he feels there is no salvation...
what he has learned of himself at the end---is a lack of spirit and hope...very sad...
because....there is always that possible comfort at the end...reaching some sort of terms of agreement.
i really like this conversational poem.
reminds me of Creeley.

[Michael Oliver]

Thank you Jacob- the starting point of this type of poem is a book of James Joyce I brought in Cambridge one day. As I browsed it over a cup of coffee I started to note the conversations around me and worked them into a poem. Began me using a notebook as a sketch book, scraps of conversation the odd snapshot of things scene . Wanted to get back to this style of working that is why I wrote these last two pieces