For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Thursday, 7 November 2013

Alcohol

Without it
light is harsh
and blindingly real.

You feel
you’ve one skin less,
shed like a snake.

Jittery
as a jumping bug,
you make

words leap
in your throat —
it’s easy!

You’re not remote
but calm now,
rational, unfogged,

your thoughts
more linear
than labyrinthine,

your black dog
chained and kennelled
but still in the backyard.

It’s hard
to give up everything.
Cigarette smoke

mediates your day
which dazzles
blue on blue

till you
retreat inside
for tea and promises

and lies. Your eyes
look at me sideways
but so clearly.

5 comments:

The Weaver of Grass said...

You manage to capture that onset of winter feeling very well here Robert. Somehow nothing seems so hard in Summer does it.

dritanje said...

oh that heart-wrenching change of tone in the last stanza, so well done.

The Solitary Walker said...

Thanks, Pat (BTW, just to explain: Weaver meant to leave this comment on yesterday's poem not this one).

As always, thanks for reading, Dritanje.

Ruth said...

Quite chilling, Robert. This has a Plath-ian iciness to it, facing a difficult personality with those embedded rhymes and lyrical word choices.

The Solitary Walker said...

Yes. Would perhaps say 'objective' rather than 'icy'?