Monday, June 13, 2011

Of Poems III

One poem, two forms. The first is a sonnet, the second is free verse in triplets (and one couplet).

I'd Forgotten What I Said About Her Hair

I had a dream wherein I met a girl.
Her world died, inside out, while I watched.
I saw the last light fade, then unfurl
and fold back in on itself, worn and notched.

Awoken, dreaming done for now, I wait:
Remember this, she says, and points her fair
hand at a lock, a ray of light, one plait.
I'd said something then, about her hair.

Forgotten words; they follow, clear and bare.
I'm focused on doors now, always when shut.
They draw me in. I see their outlines flare,
and I'm concerned: I feel this in my gut.

The words I need are here: I can't recall.
She's waiting, singing, ready above all.

I had a dream
that I met a girl
in a dying world.

She asked me to remember
her hair.
The last light of that place struck it just so:

it scattered, bronze and gold, metal and fire,
mounting beauty,
a liquid that held me as it burned me.

I'd said something then,
something important, something
rarefied and diffuse.

Awake, dreaming done for now:
I remember the feeling but
not the look.

We've become overly concerned with doors:
they give us pause,
a glimmer lying

in wait for us, quietly subsiding.
We reach for the words: they come easy
just before awakening

but now, and always, they hover at
the edge of consciousness: I'd forgotten what I said about her hair.


That's all for now.

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