save me

it's nothing to do with me

i never nodded

shook my head

                       or smiled

to sweeten a sour guilt

what's that you say

                              i say

she's a liar front to back

through all the stations

bless my soul

ask anyone save her

who danced round and round

and gave us all the season's scare

dipping in the bowl

yes a stranger

i'm not the only saw him

leering eyes and long black hair

it was him who took liberties

at least it must have been

he was the compass point

to more than her

but she was most mused

as the bell counted up the night

someone must have seen me

take my quiet leave

feeling woosed

i leaned upon a wayward wall

that lead me lost until i stumbled

into a scoundrel's snare

who took my purse

and scratched my face and...

hands off it wasn't me

i never such a thing

                              ask

ask anyone save her

save me...

Author's Note

with a nod to mr browning, though i could never carry on for pages

Reviews

[iand63]

As others have said eloquent turn of phrase. Good enough to turn the keys from the jailer ;)

[Ed Hart]

been visiting your page...you're pretty eloquent your own self

[J]

such a clever piece -- as usual, of course. but methinks the perpetrator is 'save me.' the scoundrel who took his purse and scratched his face ~ well, save her. again, very clever ~ whether you meant to or not. :)

[Ed Hart]

who knows what a poet means to do, i always find myself in a mess of words...(got the cookies today...sending you a 'review' soon, love to you)

[patricia]

the way you end that sixth verse is a touch of genius. A fine poem, I could say a lot more but I don't want to make your head swell. Besides I'm turning green.

[Ed Hart]

i don't mind my head swelling, it makes me noticeable when i'm strutting down the boulevard

[Beccy]

Edward. You have no need to carry on for pages. It often took Mr Browning a very long time to reach his 'compass point'; and sometimes, it seems, he never did.

Praise be the absent muse when she returns; praise be the intellect that penned these lines.


Beccy.

[Ed Hart]

praise be the reader with deep eyes

[Abhra]

Ed it is great to see the play on the word save, used both as 'rescue' and 'except'. I love the way you play on words and they completely alter the meaning! The poem conjures up images of parties in france where artists different fields gathered(although i have never seen one myself except in cinema). Some images from the movie "midnight in paris" comes to mind.

[Ed Hart]

....yes...

[mysticgmekeepr]

Lovely, a lilting read. I come so infrequently to sit a spell amid the magic of your words.

[Ed Hart]

you are welcome as welcome can be

[Emily B]

beautiful observations, glad to be able to be back here briefly before work tonight

[Ed Hart]

busy friend, so nice to see your quiet hands

[...]

Hmmm...feels like a collage of eventful emotions creating a very intriguing poem. It's almost like I have read a dream here, Ed

[Ed Hart]

'collage' would be a better title...hi lynn

[Donald Meikle]

Maybe Robert was never woosed and maybe she was carrying on never the less I'm on our side

[Ed Hart]

the words placed themselves on the page...when i hold them to the light and turn them, they always tell a different story

[John]

A whirligig of a poem, a cri de coeur, that brings out the Freudian in us to interpret or piece together.

[Ed Hart]

oh, sorry for the belated "yes"

[John]

Better belated than never. Here is Harold Bloom on Browning's nuturing genius, which i thought could apply to this poem of various voices: 'His dramatic monologues are misleadingly named; they are subjective lyrical antiphons in which many voices, usually dwelling in a single person, play against one another.'