Remnants

This poem I did in emulation of Weldon Kees, and I quite like how it turned out.

Remnants

I need that porch light to come on again,

in this twilight hour of resembled youth.

Back in Pawnee, an utterance; amen,

semblances of names. A cancerous truth.

Remnants of rhyme, in time, with my lament,

Sublime ignorance, I wish to assent.

The lives of neighbors in shadowed places,

fathers yelling; mothers in pretty laces.

They enjoy the failure, or eat on hate,

but in the river I control my fate. 

Laughter withers when memories behold,

as rocks do. Covered, cellular slime mold.

I am your daughter, an inconsistent,

mess, diseased, liable to resistance.

Reviews

[Everett DeValle]

Such a beautiful poem...I say that, because I got lost into your words...your words were vibrant and alive in such truth that was painted so immaculately.

[Honeypot]

I've never read Weldon Kees, but you poem makes me want to. I loved what you have done here. Its got a fresh, modern feel to it. The ending was fantastic:

I am your daughter, an inconsistent,
mess, diseased, liable to resistance

Great job with this.

[Drifter]

Hm, this leaves me in a thoughtful mood. It was enjoyable and reminds me of something I read in the past few months. Still, well done.

D.

[Pax Analog]

Ya know, I remember just enough of Weldon Kees, from "Kaleidoscope" poetry anthology, I believe. Now I'll be wondering where the book is. Anyway, your verse reads as eloquence from one named Weldon Kees -- even if it was a different Weldon Kees. ;-) Chalk it up to the old-school name.

"I am your daughter, an inconsistent,/mess, diseased, liable to resistance." And what a droll confessional ending!

I've emulated more prose-poets and songwriter-poets than verse poets along the way. Bradbury, Durrell, Nin, Paz, Dylan, L Cohen, D Barthelme. Always intriguing to hear or get inside another artist's voice, or have it be a spontaneous tribute in a more montaged process.

Remnants, indeed, all that remains, and is collage-recycled yet again. . .

Your poem shows a supple sure hand, the way it summons a known poet's voice, yet proceeds on its own idiosyncratic course re remnants to a kind of Dickinson-feeling conclusion.

This poem resounds like a slow-fading memory in the reader's mind's-eye and ear long after reading.