I had quite a bit of trouble with today’s poem: the tenses of some verbs didn’t suit, there was no ‘is’ or ‘am’, and the nouns and adjectives were rather pedestrian.
The resulting rescuee is somewhat surreal and has the hallmark darkness of most of my rescued poems – so different from the musicality and flow of yesterday’s ‘Bravura’.
This rescued poem floated from pages 295 and 14 of The Devourers and Marie Tarnowska respectively, both by Annie Vivanti Chartres.
how inevitable, the silent despairing
she murmured her tone-poem under her breath
no sound but the not so merry-go-round
her days swung by in a confused dream
his afternoon hand on her tender head startled her
she said: tell me, was there a promising us?
she touched his heart, but it would not remember
she spoke his name, but it would not answer
she drowned in a troubled stream of music
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