Pound Poem by Peter Black

Pound, Pound, Pound
Out this life
Like an old irresolute watch;
Walking down the same old path
Covered by sycamores
Whose final end is dark...
Now take a seat
And listen to the clock
Pounding away in that park.

Relax, let the silence stop
And in its falter resume the walk
Down the one road whose final end is dark
And shaded by trees—
Sounded by snapping twigs
And cracking seeds.

Reminiscence sounds
In a cacophony through hollow spaces
In the corners of the mind.
Producing numerous echoes.
Breath recedes and drowns
The thought off a watch
Is outlines by its pounding.
The scraping of feet.
Draws back the world
You see the vision ahead
Of an endless path.
Now remark the boy up ahead.

He wears the familiar attire of youth.
Crying, crying, crying
Out the tortures of youth—
He looks at you.
Smiles, draws back in horror,
Screams turning his face towards the gutter.
Ask him what is the matter,
But he will never answer.




Search the crowded shelves
For that face.
See why he cries out in reproach
Towards the face of disappointment.
.

Ah! listen to, now, the ticking
That has been beating itself
Like a vibrant tom-tom.
Does it betray the paragon.
Look ahead through the silhouettes
Of past, future, and regret,
And dying sycamores.

Ask yourself what there is to say
To one who has taken from you
All, all that she could.
Say: 'There is nothing to say
In regards to how you stole
My heart; the way you tore
From me all my future days
Of you and I, and how can,
How can you hold that smile
In front the boy soul that you—
You! Conjured into dream like lust—
You, who when you left
Left nothing but human dust!
How dare you smile!
With those blue eyes.
Making in your stand
One last effort,
One last false front! '
But your grimace only
Bends wide
Exposing teeth and truth.

You wake again having passed,
Awoke from a thunderous pound
To see the moon.
She who looms.
The old lantern of the world—
Hold in her a vision for all.
You see nothing in the dim ball.


Please, stop.
Prepare for what lies,
What stands itself
Like an old rusty gate
And will with its whole
Clasp the chain and bar the lock—
What is it;
What sits and waits;
A reflection.

Take the few remaining thomps
That the old metal watch maintains
To one last time remark
How empty is
The pitch of night;
How famished are
The grips of the fiend,
The friendly foe the night.
Take this time to ponder
Chances missed,
The many hopes dismissed,
The folly this has been.
Faintly the birthing light persists.
You see its dim glow
That lingers
Back past the endless length
Covered with sycamores,
The little boy,
And her.
It remains alight as if to say
'Though you are alive
You do not exist in this day.'

But you had once again,
Once more dragged your feet.
Now take a last look
At this road.
If possible
Muster a smile,
Shake the seeds from your feet—
Produce the strength to complete
This end.



Break down this old, old man
Who dangles a dead watch
From a rusted chain,
Laughs through his beard.
Cast off the supreme smile
Which knows it frowned until the end.
Close the eyes that are dry.
Check and remove the scars
Upon his face arms and legs.
Make him disappear!
Make your last amends!

Does the path alight;
Future set, removed, and right
For all the possibilities
To be opened up and used;
Despite every chance passed
Again reset and new.
Friend, you know this is life.
The pounding has not stopped—
Take a seat in this park.
Take one last minute to remark
of this existence—
do not look to her above
she has no kindness
and only feigns you into friendship.

Take another walk,
Along a heavy seeded path,
Among the tall hard sycamores,
And strong quiet
And urgent ticking
Say: 'This is life—
these are phantoms:
this tree and moon,
this boy and girl
are emblems and demons.
They have no meaning.
This road is real.
It is dark and hard...
Life is very long.'