Friday, 4 February 2011

Chords of Life

Her Birthday, A. Palmer


Perched in the corner on a stool uneven,
there’s a guy who’s barely listened to;
he’s drunk and he’s drinking
and he’s singing my life.

I came here smiling, laughing in places,
believing I was actually getting better,
but whilst others take carefree for granted,
I thank him for knowing with brimming eyes.

His notes, though perfect,
sound coarse and bitter and out of place.
They whisk me on a whip to memories of you,
and I tell you I did the best I can.

You will probably never know-
there’s no real need for you to-
but I really did have dreams,
and, yes, I really did sketch in your face.

But that’s all in the past-
washed out to sea,
where it’s safe to be forgotten,
safe to drown in silent peace.

For now, I try to work out if
life can truly be enjoyed,
or whether it’s more a journeyman's case
of perfecting the art of bouncing back.

Something tells me I’m close,
but close, by definition, is never quite there,
so I return to the candles
and the soft salt of ale.

Perched in the corner on a stool uneven,
there’s a guy who’s barely listened to.
Later, I’ll come to realise
that I was him, and he was me,
drunk and drinking and singing my life.



1 comment:

  1. Great poem. The rhythm gives this poem a haunting quality, like the memories. Thank you.

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