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Mrs. Poole


dedalus
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Hang on, Mrs Poole, and you'll be all right,

as the building crashes down in showers of dust

around you and you are, like, somewhere in there, and I

have to say I never liked you much Mrs Poole, for you were

a right screechy bitch, when me fambly and me

came down for the holidays.

 

Oh, so you're dead now. They'll be giving you the Albert Medal

posthumously. So very sad. HA! But I want to be sure

you are really really dead: I can see you coming back again

as a ghost, something not too far away from you ....

 

The worst possible facet of failed communication

is murder, face to face. But it has its place and time.

 

I step out into the narrow thronged alleyways, sure

of my way. Canals, canals. It doesn't take that long to learn

the ways of this city, the water taxis, no, I can walk,

I can walk, but the matter of escape is a different thing.

 

There is no escape.

 

The Furies they can come roaring after me

times, times, some day they will find me

either here or there, it doesn't matter.

Edited by dedalus

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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Hi Brendan, How did this poem go unnoticed? I can't believe no one has commented as yet.

 

It seems like 2 separate poems to me. The first poem ends with "But it has its place and time." I loved it. I actually related to the first 3 strophes better than the last 3 which seemed disconnected somehow.

 

However I read it, your characters come alive to me.

 

~~Tink

~~ © ~~ Poems by Judi Van Gorder ~~

For permission to use this work you can write to Tinker1111@icloud.com

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Much allegory and Irish irreverence here. There is a sense of exile and retribution about this and a grim finality in the end tercet. I wondered about the mention of the Albert Medal (for saving life,) which was abandoned in 1971, in favour of the George Cross. I've read some of your other pieces on TWI. Most impressive. Benjamin

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I stayed confused with this, Bren. Should I laugh or cry?! :). But at the end this poems becomes more serious and striking. Nice, as always.

 

Aleksandra

The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth - Jean Cocteau

History of Macedonia

 

 

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