In The Swollen Hours

After In The Huge Hours

14th August 2019


In the swollen hours when my bed is the last—
as though sorrow’s punctuation
—& mind inhales cold August night, scoffing
the dates leading to thirty-fourth,

I think, amongst the paintings; family portraits
where spirits in silver gelatin shelve the
once-holies, the remarkable—how much I’ve erred
—how joy dilapidated, (windows smashed

subsidence, raked by vines, neighbourhood
kids to kick & write names, leave newspapers,
tell ghost stories, & pleasant six weeks

)I thoughtful the damage done & held
to my chest the silence of my failings
the fluorescent pink & electricblue edges

of my sadness, the final shadows of day
& there’s no space, no sentence too great, even cities
reach for the nape of older frowns;

at last, when I fall down, godless & solitaire
there is the echoed golden streetlight of broken blinds
& I taste the flavour of life.

A collection of writings, poems and stories by the anonymous author ~  contact

Ah, we’re an ungrateful race! When I look at my hand upon the window sill and think what pleasure I’ve had in it, how it’s touched silk and pottery and hot walls, laid itself flat upon wet grass or sun-baked, let the Atlantic spurt through its fingers, snapped blue bells and daffodils, plucked ripe plums, never for a second since I was born ceased to tell me of hot and cold, damp or dryness, I’m amazed that I should use this wonderful composition of flesh and nerve to write the abuse of life. Yet that’s what we do. Come to think of it, literature is the record of our discontent.
T H E   E V E N I N G   P A R T Y Virgina Woolf