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The Castle



The Castle
By Pope on 01/14/2009
Viewed: 358
Reviews: 2
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The castle is haunted
The night has lain down in meadows
Buttercups are leaning on pansies drunkenly
On such nights
When the moon is wedding its clothes
A light from a small window
Throws a question: Who lived behind it?

Someone more obvious
A strange event when we were yet happy
However well-fed these clouds are
We are not their slaves
Evening mists in a lowland
Understand the course of a river
A higher ground of birches, rose-hips and grass

I strolled there more than once
My head laden with eternity
I turned around at voices, shouts, implorings
Then there was that vacuum between us
On every walk
Saying goodbye was heart-rending
I wanted to live in the sun

What did we have?
The same unswept corners
In which spiders laid out their plans
Or rather their imitations
A plan was a forbidden word
A crystal was its substitute
Then a plane that would not take off

A picture of la Riviera
Where two play with a ball in shallow water
While a boat in the background
Is rusting in the wind
A plan to extricate all available living tissue
From rotting weeds nested in a cove
Spring did not know its door

Days darkened after midnight
Happy as we were, happier though
She climbed on a tree
And played an ephemeral pear
We were back. Sometimes I wondered
If I felt anything extraordinary
That would approximate a revolution

A doughnut, for example
These painful holidays robbed me of images
As far as I could see
Seasons were skipping over a tight rope
A man suffered in public openly
Where they asked him for directions
All that because of a down-to-earth beauty

Then I supposed relations were fruits
A greengrocer''s alphabet
I had to put on faces
To be allowed to stay at a stove
I had to lie next to a picture
Depicting a grammarian''s passion
A pinching smell of burning autumn

A memory out of my light years
I regarded my body as an object
I was expected to come to terms with
I was scared, I thought it was unreal
It had been taken away
I began to feel too insubstantial
I missed my fingers and hills

Now I feel regret for every day
I missed not spending in the city
My odourless womb is a compensation
For stolen hornets and villages
The truth is under a carpet
I was a conman''s son
Convinced a little too soon


© By Pope On 1/14/2009 4:12:16 PM
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