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- Of the Wind and Water - (homes) I remember the water and the wind, he said… They slapped my back, desolation spat from my mouth, a rope still tying me to the lake of my mother's womb. A memory of waves, tides slapping fleshy banks, fists clenched on the key of a home I would never go back to. Colorless eyes closed. The surge of cry in puppet's chest, shouts hurt toothless gums… I dangled between two lives, single beat beat beat, double heart cut sharp. Panic reddened me while wrapped in artificial light- I remember the water and the wind, he said… My eyes no longer closed, long summer nights, a blend of stars on damp skin. Shells on hair, sand embedded bodies, the breeze whispered to the ear of silence. Fingers walked, danced, played the music along the path leading inside firm anvil hammering hammering hammering single beat beat beat Double heart welded, flesh climbed up the furnace, burned the banks of streams free to flow singing lifelong tides. The nights rustled with invisible wind, fists clenched on the key to new home, while wrapped in waves of sunrise - I remember the water and the wind, he would say… Their eyes blinked at the neon lights, laughter poured down drenched clothes. The wind, hissing through gray doors of sky, shifted direction to animate bullet. Few grams of lead charged with death painted crimson flower on his coat. Kneeling, he left her hand. His eyes open saw the curtain fall. Single heart Beat beat beat Beat beat Shouts froze against teeth, fists clenched on the key of unknown home while sucked into the womb of darkness- © Paula Grenside |
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Commentary: Someone said (I don't remember who) that a writer or poet has to write about what he knows to be credible and convincing. I don't know whether this is true for all writers, but it's the only possible way to write for me. I mean that all my poems rise from a personal experience, or from how an external event, observation, perception become part of me. I was present, saw the tragic end of a robbery during which a man died; a man, who while walking with his wife in the rain, was shot by accident. When his hand left his wife's, for seconds (as long as centuries) I was in complete darkness. I started from this; the last part of the poem was, actually, the first to be written. I wondered about which "home" that man would go to, and considered it would be the last one. When I completed the now third part, I realized how our life is marked by three homes, three wombs, the liquid element and, finally, the violent "blow" that accompanies each phase. I tried to develop the poem on this theme and make it cohesive through the recurring images of water, wind and heart beating: Birth, Love, Death. Paula Grenside Bonfire contributor |