haven

Poem #53 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction


building walls
is not an art-form

they are made
from crude things
bricks
rocks
rubble

it just depends
on what you’re thinking

he has thought
twin rows of rock

he has filled them
with large barrowloads
of rubble

foundations
need to be strong
don’t you see

he has thought
bricks
thought them from clay
straw and water

he has thought them stronger
with white lime
and cow shit

then pictured them
laid down
row
upon row

growing tall

perfect corners
at ninety degrees
one
two
three
four

no need
for windows
and no need
for doors
there will not be any

come-and-go

here

this is a room
of his own

no familiars
no strangers

no

I was just passing by
thought I’d call

he can think up the walls
in a moment
he can think them away
if he wants

this is a haven
refuge
retreat

and no-one
can reach him
in here
at all


© Frank Prem 2017

Bachelard and me Poem #54: full (of sweet words)

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