Robert Rorabeck

Bronze Star - 2,746 Points (04/10/1978 / Berrien Springs)

Hungary - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The trumpets are sounding
Because there is something grand;
They are heralding the sun,
Jove, bull-formed, trampling the land:
All of America under the hoofed meat
Of a man once-godly,
The stampede of cuneiform
Smoke-signals choking the cities—
The heat of this oven scorches my body
Awake, I struggle to breathe
First and foremost I remember your name, Oh Lord!
The angels sing like a choir of school girls
In the shade, on their knees under the trees—
Behind me, those old days are dust,
And my life, the murdered man walking
Around with a knife sleeping in his chest.
My dreams piled together forms of transportation
All a rust,
Your name like a serpent’s tongue tasting your breast—
Outside, you go swimming in the sky.
Upon the green bowl of earth I see you lay.
Birds hear me say you name when I cry—
Oh Lord! There you are swimming all day,
The first light of thought when my mind dives away,
Your thighs like marble statues high-heeled to the east.
I just want to go back to sleep and forget you today,
And let my hungry dreams be deceased….

Listen to this poem:

Comments about Hungary by Robert Rorabeck

There is no comment submitted by members..

Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Poem Submitted: Sunday, September 23, 2007

Poem Edited: Monday, April 11, 2011

[Report Error]