Wednesday, April 23, 2008


My roses have bloomed and withered.

Now I take my neighbour’s flowers

to your gate with thorny hands,

a trail of blood following my path.

I know, I won’t, I’m leaving…

I hear a voice, a woman:

Come in, it’s too cold outside.

Then I talk to a wooden door:

hope you like the daisies.


Paul Bernard said...

Nice imagery there, but you'll have to share the meaning with me. Sorry - I must be thick today.

Sucharita Sarkar said...

Nice poem, is it an old (withered?) woman or a rejected (trail of blood?) woman who is speaking. Or is it just everywoman (daisies)? Thanks for commenting on my blog, and for making it your daily sphagetti (more twice-weekly, though). Must have been interesting growing up on farms.

I really liked your posts, about dub poetry (learnt about it from you), environment-issues and the band Floetry (lovely name!). Keep writing, and I'll be back learning.

Paul Bernard said...

Hello - for some reason I get the poem today. I am a bit drunk so that might have helped!!
I wasn't getting the talking to the door bit yesterday - sorry for my stupidity!!

I am currently listening to 'Hey You'. I never heard it yesterday. Is better than most of the other stuff I heard yesterday, but I still prefer 'Say Yes'. I think it has more of a sleazy jazz feel which I really enjoy. A glass of brandy, low light and a bit of 'Say Yes'. Amazing!