Not titled, yet..
When I was nine years old,
My father carried angels by their wings
From the highest walls I'd ever seen.
He brought me with him
And I watched from plaster-rained floors
The colour of sacramental wine
My legs used to shake when I looked up.
We were better off that summer
The house resounding with the psalm
Of drills and table saws
I walked a hall of plaster rain and
Watched the men working on our kitchen
My mother smiled at him back then,
The papers and cheques signed in repetition
Lord have mercy,
Lord have mercy,
Lord have mercy
Fortune brought on the wings of fifty-one angels.
It is much quieter now
We fixed the caulking on the sink
A couple of times
Papa gets up early for services, and I
Stir once before returning to flight in dreams.
Time, like hummingbirds, carried me fast and far
Beyond the shores of my adopted country
To a place in shades of green.
I walked in whispers through a ring fort
Veiled in moss, and crossed myself.
The same day brought me riding on the back of a tractor,
Mud pattering my face from its great wheels
Saint Patrick, resting wooden head, was silent company
I shyly held him round the waist,
Eyes averted to the fields.
I remembered how my legs shook, watching angels descending.
My father carried angels by their wings
From the highest walls I'd ever seen.
He brought me with him
And I watched from plaster-rained floors
The colour of sacramental wine
My legs used to shake when I looked up.
We were better off that summer
The house resounding with the psalm
Of drills and table saws
I walked a hall of plaster rain and
Watched the men working on our kitchen
My mother smiled at him back then,
The papers and cheques signed in repetition
Lord have mercy,
Lord have mercy,
Lord have mercy
Fortune brought on the wings of fifty-one angels.
It is much quieter now
We fixed the caulking on the sink
A couple of times
Papa gets up early for services, and I
Stir once before returning to flight in dreams.
Time, like hummingbirds, carried me fast and far
Beyond the shores of my adopted country
To a place in shades of green.
I walked in whispers through a ring fort
Veiled in moss, and crossed myself.
The same day brought me riding on the back of a tractor,
Mud pattering my face from its great wheels
Saint Patrick, resting wooden head, was silent company
I shyly held him round the waist,
Eyes averted to the fields.
I remembered how my legs shook, watching angels descending.
posted by Olgasm at
3:47 PM
2 Comments:
Olga,
(Despite my instinct not to do this, I will just copy an edited version I came up for your poem in this comment:)
I was nine years old.
My father carried angels by their wings
From the highest walls I ever saw.
I watched from plaster-rained floors
The color of sacramental wine.
My legs shook as I looked up.
We were better off that summer.
The house resounding with the psalm
Of drills and table saws.
I walked a hall of papers and cheques ,
Watched the men working on our kitchen,
Signed in repetition
Lord have mercy,
Lord have mercy,
The wings of fifty-one angels.
We had fixed the caulking on the sink.
It was much quieter.
Papa got up early for services,
I stirred once before returning to flight.
Carried me fast and far
Beyond the shores of my country
To a place in whispers.
I shyly held him round the waist.
Eyes averted to the fields.
I remembered how my legs shook,
Watching angels descending.
(Not quite sure the best way to edit on this blog thing we got going, but there you go.)
Chris
=\ Your instinct was good. In thinking about it, I don't know why I posted it to workshop. It's really personal.
Thanks for the comments on the other one, though. The version I posted is edited by a professor whose advice I asked on it. Kind of a funny version of exquis cadavre we got going..
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