The Lodger Poem by Fiona Sampson
The Lodger
You could figure it as a trapdoor,
blur of hinge and
down
into the unconscious of this stranger
moving around your garden like a trap—
making all the greens unstable
as the warble of nausea come bang up to greet you.
Bang to rights
is how he'd like to have your house. Cuckoo,
wool-wearing garden-dweller,
new-age Salvationist, holy among your cow-parsley
and roses.
Meanwhile, the unaccustomed heat.
Meanwhile, a sky tunnelling upward—
sense of proportion—golden section
of elder hedge; then the disgraceful paddock gone wild.
I'm not sure about this one—the meaning—I mean. I'm somewhat dense on the metaphors at times. I love the imagery and certainly enjoy a stroll in the gardens. There's something sinister at work here, though, something threatening to take over the garden. Is it a pest? A parasite? Chaos? Well done, anyway, and will keep me wondering. Perhaps my fellow PH colleagues can elucidate?
To have your house. Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
down into the unconscious of this stranger moving around your garden like a trap— making all the greens unstable as the warble of nausea come bang up to greet you. Bang to rights is how he'd like to have your house. Nice work.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/29/2024 9:06:04 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Congratulations, Ma'am Fiona for being chosen as modern poem of the day.....