Poetry of the week – pride and regret
| April 10, 2012 | Posted by Georgie Tindale under poetry |
Pride
Turning to help,
But not offering.
Turning to speak,
But never vocalizing.
Turning to look,
But not really seeing.
Turning to God,
But not really believing.
Sitting above and looking below,
The actively passive, and proud to be so.
By Maisie Poskitt
Ice Man
drip drip
drip drip drip
Painstakingly precise.
Each movement of crystal water.
My crystal palace is falling.
Outside I can make out
a faint pale yellow glow
which bounces off
the powdery snow
surrounding me.
I can sense
the lice on my skin.
They begin to crawl again.
But I can’t shake them off yet.
Painfully slowly, my nose
is thawing, and I can
smell my own
scent.
Not surprising after
months spent
in solitary confinement
soon my fingers will allow me
to crush crawling
creeping scavenging things.
drip drip
drip drip drip.
By Georgie Tindale
As it Happens Every Day
I am a painter-artist-lover
Sketching the picture of your life:
A rural girl, bred under the sun
Buried in stone without the last rites.
I am the God that makes the puppet move.
You are the first puppet with something to prove,
To cut your strings with blades tempered
From obsidian and dragon-glass;
You are the first puppet I left alone.
In the village under the hills, in the evenings
You dance with boys, hearts on sleeves
Rolled up to elbows and drink from caskets of ale;
When the sun sets under the vale
The black clouds sow wrinkles on your face,
Chipping away at time and place with windy howls
Of death, death, death while the gods of the mountain
Rush down their eyries, in the distance;
They watch you burst from under these buttons,
Pleats and seams, and cry.
Village girl! You are growing old. The same thunder,
The same angry forks of lightning; the same ale,
The same fattening, wizening boys; the same song and dance
Is eating at you, but on my mountain of the gods we stay forever.
Your kind live to fall and fall to die while your makers weep
And snivel and cry, and when the time comes
We will rush down the mountain in forks of lightning
And avalanches of stone, to bury you immortal under us.
In the name of this beautiful mountain, village girl;
These boys, these dances; all the laughs and casks of ale –
They’re going to break your heart but don’t let them take you;
Come back to the fold. Pull the curtains on the old life you lived;
Stop wondering where the years have gone, village girl.
Break your back on the lonely mountain and laugh your soul away;
Fade, at just the thought of being alive.
By Joshua Teo
For he
Sometimes, alone I wonder,
If I hadn’t have gone
Would you be here?
What would you have done?
No one knew your plans,
I wouldn’t have, If I’d known.
Forever, they kept going
How you changed and grown!
From happiness to sorrow
In just one day.
After that call,
We began to pray.
I saw once, perhaps..
Your face on our screen,
In the dark. off.
But it could’ve been a dream.
You should’ve been with us.
We could’ve had our fun,
I guess I’m sorry.
What’s past, is done.
Once we played a game
We each had different powers.
I saw the chuck the dirt
I helped drop the flowers.
By Ellys Sugarman
Each week The Student Review publishes a collection of poems about a particular topic or theme. For this week’s theme, or to submit a poem, go here.
