Poem #268 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.
Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction
you cannot know
the weather
he said
you live in houses
huddled in a row for safety
in concrete
on tarmac
you are in shock
when a wet hand
of water
of rain reaches down
and slaps you
as though
you do not matter
I
I know this storm
he said
I know his name
I watch him grow
his temper swell
I see him
the old man mused
as he approaches closer
crying out
that he has come
for me
I am alone
my shack is small
and it is filled with holes
through which he sends
his early breezes
I name him Tempest
that makes him howl
no-one should know him
for what he is
but it was whispered
in his song
on a day
when he took my home
and the world
away
I name him
Devastation
to make him shriek aloud
and cry
he named me
Defiance
blew me down
then he whistled himself
away
yes
I know this storm
you
huddle closer
it may be yet
you could
be safe
© Frank Prem 2018
Bachelard and me Poem #269: the balloon
Felt that.
Your poem stimulated some memories.
When you wrote:
” you are in shock
when a wet hand
of water
of rain reaches down
and slaps you
as though
you do not matter”
You described this so well, Frank.
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Thanks Tamara. I felt this piece ended up having a strong/crusty voice that I was very pleased with. Glad you enjoyed it.
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