Poem #144 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.
Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction
through the morning
his agitation grew
he had done what he could
to distract himself
emptied the six-sided old bottle
left to sit
forgotten
on the shelf
with a few brief
unrelated phrases
remnant within
he had swallowed those
in a single mouthful
nothing
he had pulped
liquefied to a purée
an old novel
decanted the black
from the grey
shaken it
swallowed
still nothing
a dross
of undistinguished
and unmemorable ink
never used
to pen beauty
to tattoo a flower
in her colours
onto a page
a mere
almanac
a word salad
with no dressing
he needed
a fresh bottle
new-distilled
cleansed
black
gleaming
only ever used on poetry
he needed to ingest
his substance vitae
by mouth
intra venous
misted in a gas
he didn’t care
but
for the love of god
he needed to take in
a good poem
~
when they found him
he appeared normal
enough
no jitters
or twitches
rational
lucid in conversation
it was only
only his eyes
the irises
that looked odd
it was remembered
they had been the colour
of sky
blue
but now
they were pale
as the shade
of thin
grey
cloud
© Frank Prem 2018
Bachelard and me Poem #145: he and alice
190618
wonderful! and you wrote this in my future…
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Thanks Barb. Glad you enjoyed the piece. Prescient, I must be!
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I so loved this poem!🌸
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Cheers R. Such fun to swallow the essence of poetry in a jar!
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