Apr '18 17
I took a while to wrestle this poem out of the pot of scrambled words. The disjointed feel to this intimate, one-sided conversation has much to do with, yet again, the limited words and tenses available to me.

Of course, having words such as 'poison', 'feverish', and 'hallucinated' sent my head off down a particular route; however, I'm not sure I'd want much to do with the speaker who emerged!

So, this rescued poem escaped from pages 5 and 40 of The Devourers and Marie Tarnowska respectively, both by Annie Vivanti Chartres.


The small round room of recollections

What’s the matter, my darling?
You are feverish.
Your face is scarlet and your mouth is black.
But where is she now?
No, she’s not running back to you.
Why should she
with yourself all confused and ill
because of the poison you took?
Oh yes, you should have thought of what you meant to me,
you should have thought of my frenzy over you.
Ah, no more singing and larking about, baby.
I miss you.
Now, come to me with your handsome gold head
and the livid room of your brain;
I should sing to you to calm you.
The grass and stone called to me
to tell me you hallucinated them
so I danced down the brown mountains
to see you,
to be with you.
But you are adrift now
staring at hideous visions,
and peering forlornly
at the horror of what you felt for her.



Posted by Jennifer Liston

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  1. Mike Hopkins says:

    *Ooh! Some dastardly deed being done to someone in payback for shenanigans it seems. Amazing how you can create a story with such rigid constraints on your word choice. Well done again.

  2. Jennifer says:

    *Thanks Mike! This guy sounds like he's in big trouble!

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