I would like to get comments on these two poems I wrote.
Lately I've been trying to incorporate narratives into my poems, and I would like to know what people think about these.
I write mainly as a hobby but I would like to get better, so all criticism is welcome.
Interring Intruding Thoughts Could someone sweep this floor? The question lies in a coffin At the door of my consciousness.
A sturdy, ash wood, unmovable coffin At the door of my consciousness, Restricting thoughts To the dirty corridor.
My neighbor glances At his dad's image, Covers eyes faintly Reddened by tears As memories break Through levees thought To hold them back.
His lids are shut.
Mine are wide.
I can't stop looking As flies swarm The golden tassel, Clinging to the cob, as newborn maggots to decayed skin.
As he speaks, I imagine the thing Rotting, changing From gold and green To a brown, smelly broth, A feast for the earth below.
Feet shuffle on the sand.
Condolences, small talk To ward off grief.
Family comes From the house, shadowy Faces attempt to smile.
"Good sitting.
" they say, One after the other As they pass.
By The third time, I realise What the phrase means: Thanks for coming.
We don't see much of you.
We don't know what to say, Least know how to say.
But we are here to help.
Whatever you need, ask.
Could you clean this mess? The question whispers Through the coffin lid, Inaudible.
And as it's time to go, Stepping out the gate, I think: Could I have asked To help To clean the floor? Dancing Around The Fire I approach the smoke hoping to find food What they could be roasting, I wonder.
A rabbit family in its prime: plucked From the barn of a village farmer.
Or a goat: one of the many that roam The streets, idly gnawing at the women's laundry Having finally found a better use.
Or even better: an elk...
in Africa? I am delirious now.
I should hurry.
Whatever it is, sweet juices will be streaming from it And I shall thank God for his good grace: I am alive.
I have been walking for half A day, the balls of my feet Torn, my left arm enshrouded In a constellation of shrapnel Though I can feel it no more.
Only a few hundred metres to go.
Their village entrance has been blown to dust And half the thatch in town has been burned, Houses abandoned, left to burn Just like mine has.
But there is joy here They are celebrating a victory They were more fortunate than I was: They pushed back the rebels' guns and jeeps, Protected their girls from sure rape And revel in their victory( as they should) Though that smell is still here; The same smell that soaked my sister's burning body.
They lost some dear ones too.
Not many From what I see: Only a few bodies Soaked in red water, their final baths.
I see the people dancing around the fire They have their guns raised obove their heads Waving them at the sky like the black smoke from the flames They are wearing military Trousers and casual white shirts.
I can see it tied in the fire: my redemption.
Sounds of joy falling from the dancers.
It has been attached, feet together Glazing in the sun It writhes free and runs out of the flames They push it back in and it stays there That smell again.
I must be delirious.
For a moment I thought I saw the shape of lunch And lunch was a man.
I opened a blog fairly recently where I share poems.
If you liked these poems and want to read more or if you prefer commenting directly on the blog then go to http://robbyspoeticcorner.
blogspot.
com/ Hope to see you there.