Michael Wride

Rookie (December,5th 1968 / Wells, Somerset, England, UK)

Fire, Flames And Fantasy - Poem by Michael Wride

Words flow through tinted mists
Falling out of holes
Words flowing from a fire
Like glowing coals
Inflamed orange with pain.

Light the mists with a red tinge
Reach the spiralling heights of a whirlwind
Of swirling incandescent sparks
Pulled upwards
Pulled inwards
On themselves
Screaming in pain.

Flames floating, flickering, flying, dying
In vain they cry
For fear of frozen liquids
Of snow
Of ice
Of rain
To dampen the heights of their power.

Above all the church spires
The angels cry at the heat
The heat from the fires below
It infests their minds
And again makes them cry.

Holding invisible irretrievable sparks
Like rain
They stain the ground when they fall
Born on the air they burn it
With languid histories of heat
They tell tales
Into furrowed brows they burrow.

And then
Then they provide the time to know
Provide all the time of life.

For ever
To show how beautiful they have become
Falling upwards to fill the gaps they made
In the stars from whence they came
'To return to whence we came' they say
And now they return
With stories of heroism
And heroes and cowards killed
Stifled when the wind blows away
All thoughts that they should have stayed.

Below
The life force lost
The sparks have gone
The fires are black and the coals have cooled
Cooled
Cold as cold
Colder than ice can be
Like a frightened, fantastic, ill-fated life.

A nightmare of whiteness
There is now no form to things
No one can mourn the many moons there once were
'Once were'?

Strips of paint on flat paper
Are all that remain
And the news at which the poor things gloat
Is the same as their fingers of nastiness.

All they say is
'Blackened light is nothing'
And they leave.

Now the flames have gone
The sparks have flown
The coals have cooled
Forgotten how they glowed.

The stars have become real again
But who cares?
But indeed who knows?

Who the hell is there left to know?


Poet's Notes about The Poem

This was written around 1988. Staring into a fire...a vision of apocalypse maybe? Maybe a T.S. Eliot influence here.

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Poem Submitted: Friday, May 17, 2013

Poem Edited: Wednesday, September 11, 2013


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