not quite midnight yet the page
hustles me to suddenly note –
the catch of desperation in my throat
outside Earl’s temptous winds a beggar
on their wayward trek to Maine
clacking round my lonely legs bare lain
with echoes of a lonely man
whom outside speaks maniacal tone
“where am i going?” i couldn’t know
and the north winds of a sweet
counter-clockwise spin round, a round
saying lonely child, silence is yet a sound.
reading Sylvia Plath (on a Friday night)
Press Send Poetry 
silence is yet a sound…smiles…i like that…that bit with the lonely man in the middle, intriguing….like your use of clacking as well…very tangible sound…
silence is yet a sound…smiles…i like that…that bit with the lonely man in the middle, intriguing….like your use of clacking as well…very tangible sound…
Sounds, and allusions lead to a lonely and rather desperate end full of beautiful poetry and a tapestry of textures. A rich take on both in this poem!
Sounds, and allusions lead to a lonely and rather desperate end full of beautiful poetry and a tapestry of textures. A rich take on both in this poem!
thank you both for reading ~ always love your perspectives!
thank you both for reading ~ always love your perspectives!