his name

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

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2 thoughts on “his name

  1. 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.

    Like

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