It Isn't Much

Some days it feels as if

we are the only ones

left: the two sole survivors

anointed to begin again.

When I throw open the blinds

to the city, the expectation of

light becomes almost unbearable,

the memory of a half-rotten

apple a reminder of

how much we used to crave

a scaled down existence,

being forgotten.

I watch you, asleep, 

buried under the blankets,

still swimming through Fengdu county,

and try to decipher

the hint of a crease just

beginning to track across your brow--

what I might have misinterpreted.

Would we be better off

if I simply left the front door locked,

cancelled the pact with the Devil

and swore off breakfast?

I would if I 

could.

If only you could show me

how to make rose tea

without boiling water,

how to have the egg

land sunny side up

the urge to self-destruct

the tidy towers

might seem a little less necessary.

Perhaps, we might even forget

why it was we chose to go

live among the forgotten.

Though I don't believe in much--

any stake to a faith

of salvation seems

infantile, purely a sop

for the puerile minds

in need of a Sun day--

I do know what I want.

And it isn't much.

An apple, a peach,

sweet and sour chicken,

a freshly swept street,

clean water, honest brokers,

garbage pickup twice a week,

fewer guns, more poems,

and a bunk bed.

Ken e Bujold

Reviews

[W. Barrett Munn]

This is a splendid example of what a lyric poem should be. It feels honest and personal and not a single hiccup in rhythm. Congrats

Winston

[Ken e Bujold]

thank you good sir, and great to have you back reviewing

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I love how this starts out with the flavor of the Garden of Eden, Adam speaking out loud to himself about Eve, the apple and how everything changed....because of the devil's tempting.
And now how the world is so mixed up, so confusing...
and the speaker simply wants to go back to the mundane life that might have seemed boring before
but now poses as something that would be just fine.
j.

[Ken e Bujold]

you pretty much nailed it Jacob

[willweb]

Life does seem to get that way after a while...each day more or less blends into each other but in the end it is just that, the plain old day, the stuff we are used, what seems normal that makes us happy and leads the list of things we like. This was very cool. I like how you wove this together, the pictures you painted and the thoughts you created. Bravo!

[Ken e Bujold]

thanks Will. reading it over again and again as the reviews come in giving me perspective and fresh insights. If I do say so, it is one to be proud of. my list at the end came almost intuitively but reading it again I am a little surprised at how bang on it is metaphorically of exactly what it is I want and treasure in this life

[softlyfall]

The poem begins in desolation, sole survivors of some imagined soul apocalypse, or at least a door shut tight against the rest of the world. The genesis of light in the room is painful but welcome after that. And, of course, deeply meaningful, unless my imagination is running away with me again.
A few regrets, let go
A few Scarborough fair wishes, let go
then a comforting and comfortable conclusion.
Even a wee bit of humor in the bunk bed.
I am learning from everyone here, with a great deal of happiness and gratitude.

Were you forefathers from France, Mr Bujold?

[Ken e Bujold]

my forefathers were kicked out of every nation that wouldn't have us :)
French, English, Scots, Irish, a wee spit of Spanish (where the pirate came from) and snakes (cause I definitely spring from the ones responsible for the expulsion from the garden) :)

[Lillian Kirsch]

Now that, is absolutely stunning. The whole poem starts by painting a picture of modern monotony, but then it moves toward something more hopeful. As if you're pulling yourself out of the ditch inch by aching inch, asking somebody beautiful to save you. And all of a sudden that modern monotony looks enchanting. Beautifully written.

[Ken e Bujold]

glad u so enjoyed Lillian