The archived rite returns in gothic gray:
a bruise-dark sky, a blunt and tugging rain,
a sheen of black umbrellas, spaded clay.
The camera obscura, mind, ingrains
his father’s plot; and next, to seal her pain,
within three months, his mother’s sudden grave;
a delved dominion sears the turf again.
Nothing breaks the burlaped afternoon, save
when lightning cleaves the murk. Magnesium
klieg lights stun the monochrome, a dumb
tableau: the mind is cued, replays the stark
and smarting slides on memory’s screen. Surreal
and jerky frames project from a silent reel,
expose a membraned refuge caved in dark.
WFD
[Variorum redux.]
Cinematically 'alive' with the atmospheric potency of a B & W reel. Swiss watch descriptive accuracy.
Beautifully crafted. I felt as I was at the grave site holding a black umbrella to hold back the chill and bite of the rain. I agree with Bungay, the language is indeed masterful.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I've been here before. A mere four years more reveal even more riches - bring its power uncomfortably near.