Poetry of the week – rain
|April 30, 2012||Posted by Georgie Tindale under poetry|
It can attack as a torrent, a flood, a drizzle, a stream.
There are many words that can be used about rain, sadly it would seem…
That rain is seen as a constant and abysmal reminder of the cold.
The plop, plop, plop, of rain falling I do not doubt I shall hear until I am old.
Perhaps this rain comes from the God Poseidon as he cries tears of shame.
Or it could just be a natural element of the world, and nothing is to be blamed.
Some call rain tears from some sort of God, I don’t. No not I.
To me it’s simply a natural part of the world;
sadly it appears that this cold annoying thing known as rain falls a lot from the sky.
Yet all is not lost, as rain can bring life.
If time is a father, surely Nature must be his wife.
Rain, It can come in drops, or the raindrops can descend from the sky,
like a freezing charging army with cold intent to ruin someone’s day, in the world’s natural way.
Shame it doesn’t work, but when you see those ominous clouds above
I bet sometime in your life you have thought
“Rain, rain go away come again another day”.
By Alex Dib-Bennett
There’s a lot of dripping going on round here.
Dripping out your hair
And down your arms, streaming
Along the curve of your back
And hanging on to the edges of your mouth.
It’s raining outside. That’s probably why.
You’re standing on the edge of the worn step
Like it’s the end of a cliff, looking out at the sheets of rain
Rushing past into our eyes on the wind. The trees
Are bending in graceful arcs, and clear droplets
Of monsoon water splash at our feet, under the overhang
Splattering over our toes. It’s a laugh when it rains here, isn’t it?
The sounds are a texture of harmony against the spirals
Of our ears. The wind is cold against our warmth.
You’re looking out, blue eyes sparkling
At the puddles, they remind you of lakes where you come from,
Or the winds; so timid, so gentle- not biting or cold.
A few damp hairs cross your face, plastered there
By wind and wave and water; it’s not hard brushing them away
And staying there. Eyes meet and brown meets blue, red
Rises to the surface in mild shades. Fingers brush
Like dust on our faces, it sticks and it stays that way.
Hearts beat like the rain falls.
The car pulls up. It’s sprinkled in rain; the squelch of rubber
On tarmac breaks a spell we didn’t think was there.
I pull out the umbrella, and we walk out shoulder to shoulder,
The rain on the shade kisses on our heads.
You slide into the leather. The door shuts softly
And you pull away. I’ll see you again tomorrow,
If it doesn’t rain.
By Joshua Teo
Fluidity and peace,
Stroking my skin,
It surrounds me,
But never drowns me.
The coolness soothes,
My feverish soul,
Of the fire there.
Essence of life,
Wherever we are.
By Alaa Jasim
The smoke filled horizon is full of nothing
worth seeing for an upt0wn rich city slacker,
like me.The dryness of your skin rasping against mine
and bumping, turning me into smoke
which disappears in the wind.
With silver shot bullets which graze
the lazy southern drawl of the clouds.
I’m so terrified of that neon orange fire
throbbing inside. Where fantasies of
hitched up skirts and torn white blouses hide.
Your eyes which hold a thousand skies,
a thousand night spent under a desert sun.
And passionate feelings run,
like sweat through your fingers.
The moment lingers on
Let the rain come.
By Georgie Tindale
War in the Clouds
Throughout the months of April, and of May,
The rain it seems to “raineth ev’ry day”.
The great Bard’s lines have never seemed so apt,
As by a wall of raindrops I am trapped;
A silver sheet, that slowly shifts to grey,
Conceals the world that once to me seemed gay;
The melancholic air creeps through and through,
Freezing my fingertips to ashen blue;
Once passionate, the heart I wear now cols,
Fastened on a body grown too old.
Weary now and searching for a haven.
Yet still dark clouds obliterate the heavens;
Artillery rumbles, flashes and cracks,
The air lit up by anti-aircraft flak.
I fancy I see dogfights in the clouds,
The sky itself providing funeral shrouds.
Planes dive and wheel in the unearthly light,
Diving steeply to get out of sight,
Yet many perish, their machines destroyed:
The pilots vanished into the black void.
I cannot help but wonder why there are
Some men who’ll risk all for a little star,
Or cross, or band, to pin upon their breast,
Which tells the world they have passed some test,
That they themselves now number with the best,
And take this token to eternal rest,
And are forgotten.
I sit, surveying the dark leaden sky,
Up, up, up where the umbran bombers fly;
On me, I know, the clammy payload’s aimed,
And I, the one on who the problem’s blamed,
Just sit and wait, expectant for the call,
Which signifies the ending of it all.
It comes: “Target sighted”…
And the bombs begin to fall.
By William Taylor