Poem #172 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.
Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction
that
is a scratch-ing sound
he claws his fingers
drags them down
a line
on the screen
compares
what he hears
with what he heard
a softened clomp
surely that
was a pounce
on carpet
he pounces
flat-footed
pounces again
more accurately
that though
was a shuffle
shush shush
he pushes his feet
backward and forward
sharply
across the carpet
before he has finished
a hollow
tap-ping
perhaps a knuckle
on an empty desk
or a cupboard
a smash
some sort of crockery
broken
he has no cup
to compare with
and in any case
that
boing
has to have been
some sort of spring
it’s too fast
it’s all too fast
and he can’t see
what the sounds
really are
can’t know
if what he is doing
is anything like …
oh
that was surely
the [slap]
of a flat ruler
it is too fast
he cannot …
he sinks to the floor
his back
to the screen
hands
covering his ears
how can he know
anything
if he cannot test
what he hears
if he cannot
see
© Frank Prem 2018
Bachelard and me Poem #173: to you and now a moment
