unblanketed

this was my entry for Jason's and Stephen's contest named 'uncovered'. entering is now closed.

Jason was sorry not to have found this entry eligible for the contest, qoute: [...] the danger of rhyme is that it's exceptionally hard to make it look natural and effortless. In this poem, phrasings are often bent and strained for the purpose of the rhyme, and that makes the technique detract from the substance, rather than enhance it. The last stanza, however, was superb. You are never short on bravery, Szelsofa, and I have such respect for that! -

i am especially proud of the first part of the last sentence :)))

because i do like experiencing with new formulas.

and Jason's right - at some places the meaning, the sequence of the word gets twisted for the sake of rhyming. which is not a sure sign of good poetry... :S

well, at least i gave it a try....

in the past years i have entered at least four of Jason's contests - this was my fifth attempt i guess. out of the five contests i have made my way into the final fourties only once.

Unblanketed

‘got a bruise on my finger
that may never heal
the pain is set to linger
do you care to feel?

I used to have a wooden box
that I filled with my precious things.
I hid the box under the rocks -
it was the chamber of the kings.

I used to go there every morn’
to watch the marching of the knights -
the glory of their costumes worn
took away my fears of the nights.

I used not to mention my place,
the secret world to anyone
but one kid came, a happy face
my former joyeous life was gone.

He said he liked it – but he lied;
pointing fingers at me, laughter
from the kids as I nearly died -
and I stayed closed ever after.

Closed within walls, safe from the world
silence has become my blanket,
I touched no-one, as no-one stirred
me, nor the peace of my casket.

Years passed by, the mould on my wall
grew thick with age, dry with sorrow,
the flowers of mind learned to crawl
to survive, hope for tomorrow.

One day there was thyme in the breeze
felt like spring, though it was winter,
he offered his heart on his knees
my wall has begun to splinter.

summer news

dear all,

we are working on the house again, renovating.

building is done but now we have smaller tasks to complete such as cleaning up one room, plastering its walls and making a wooden floor.

sure we'll do it all by ourselves.

even if it means that a work that lasts an hour for a specialist is done for a couple of days. because we do it more carefully and yes, with less expertise. so... like trial and error, you know.

-
in the meantime, Jason at the clarity of night's having a contest. have a peek and read the entries. i will have my own entry, provided it makes into the final 40s.

to which my chances are low.

well.

that's what i've got :)

-
cheers,
szf

homeward bound - part three

this is the final part.
if you want an introduction to the mini-series, click here.
part one, click here.

part two is over here.

-

3.

Ten years have passed. I frequently ride Road 44. I have never seen the woman in orange again.
Why is she on my mind?
Is it the early rise, the long trip? Or the fog that has been sifting for hours. Or the erased trees: ragged bushes, empty trunks; black, dark grey and whitish-grey stripes. Berries and dead leaves on the branches. A winding road bordured by hawthorn and blackberries. Dewdrops on grass.
This is not Road 44.

Tomorrow is the birthday of my first grandchild. I saw him on photos, but have not held him more then thrice. His head smelling milk. His soft fingers closing on mine.
I took a deep breath and pressed my eyes beneath the glasses.

I heard a neigh from the left. Her feet wet with dew, a heavy mare trotted on the field. She had no saddle on: her back was steaming.
I checked upon the empty road, and back to the meadow again. She was far away. I turned up the volume.

Housetops, reddish-brown rectangular patches appeared in the fog. From the right, a tractor with a trailer lurching along turned up to the main road.
A bus was coming. The driver kept his hand on the giant steering wheel. The wiper struggled with the steam. The yellow curtain beside the driver’s seat was jigging behind the window. The rest of the bus was yet lost in the fog.

I saw a low-built red car behind me in the mirror. It was coming unexpectedly fast, and wanted to pass from the left, so I pulled a bit to the side. The sports car accelerated. The seats were covered in cow pattern.

I heard a bang and a crash from the front.
The trailer swayed. There were pineneedles encased on the creased sheet. There were water bubbles on the needles. Within each bubble there was the red car, and the bushes, blurred greyish-black.
My car spinned and I held onto the wheel. My legs became tense, as if I was balancing a heavy burden on my back.
I saw the bushes real close.
Then I saw nothing for a while.
Bushes again. Hawthorn twigs, slippery with dew, rounded, grey leaves. Ice will turn blue fruits black soon. I saw Grandma Lily facing me. How long have I not met her? Twenty, or twenty five years? It must be at least twenty five.
- Poppy, are you all right?
- Grandma Lily?
I was standing in their kitchen. I felt the smell of dill. Grandma was laughing. Her hands were sticky with eggyolk. She wiped them into her apron, took a couple of mittens and put the dill pie into the oven. I just had to smile, for she was smiling, too.
How much she did smile.

I felt dizzy and wanted to have a seat.

Actually, I was seated. The safety belt was pressing my belly.
Fog crept in from the windscreen.
The left window was lacking. I saw the mare again. She looked at me peacefully. I felt her breath. If I had just reached out I would have been able to touch her.
I was unable to move my hand.

I looked at Grandma Lily. I was standing beside her.
She hugged me. We went upstairs. She brought a photo album of unknown people in strange places in strange clothes: past, embedded in past. I remained happily silent, soaked in the album.
- So this is the terrace, where we usually were having breakfast. It is not visible, because this photo was made from Gretchen’s room. She did have a large amount of flowers, you know. And all those books. Oh, my. So, and this is the new shirt I bought your Grandpa just for the journey. And from this window, we could watch the sea.
The shine of the furniture in Grandma’s room was cloudy with age. I kept moving my fingernails in a hollow and watched Grandpa in his new shirt.

My cd-s were all messed up on the bottom of my car.
They were spotted with some liquid, and the damp from the top of the car kept dripping.
Some of the bolts of the roof’s carrier got loose.
Blue and white lights were flickering. There were more vehicles on the road. The bus, standing across the street was blocking the way. Some passengers left and were stamping and looking for one certain direction; some were cursing.
Footsteps were slatting on the wet blacktop. Somebody was standing beside my car and studied it. He was talking on his cellphone.

I was sitting in the garden, at my other grandmother’s. A huge pine casted shadows on the grass. I ran to the group of hortenzia bushes. I held one of the shrivelled, pale-brown blossoms in my hands. Between two faded petals I found a spider. His legs had so many tiny joints. The grass felt hot in the sunshine.

The village remained covered in fog. A grey ribbon, patched by small blobs moving about. An emergency car arrived. Bodies were lifted into vehicles.

There was an acorn moving back and forth on a branch of an oak. A strong wind shook it off to the ground.
Grandma Lily squeezed my hand in hers.
- It’s allright, hun. I’ll be taking care of you.