WINTER SOLSTICE
December 21, 1989
I am prisoner to conversation with an
old man with a broken nose, mute with catarrh, sedentary and limping.
The window is squealing like a small
animal, trapped.
Outside in the empty parking lot sits
an abandoned car, dried out extinct turtle.
Dryness scrapes skin off the flaking
season lying lifeless, electricity gone dead.
Clouds cast to the ground feeble eyes of
a pallid man.
Trees written in charcoal thrust into
the sky, exclaiming, “I am turned into a pillar of salt!”
Winter breaks its stony face against
the hammering wind,
Dust and rocks mix with air,
Grass grinds like pebbles underfoot.
A warm room withers faster than a
disconnected leaf.
Memories scatter twigs across the
carpet.
Deaf to clapping, hooded thoughts
wander.
Only blue sparks crackle in
recognition.
Originally published in Turk’s Head Review (November 11, 2014)
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| Winter Gloom (2012) by Andrey Samolinov |
“Only blue sparks crackle in recognition.”
ReplyDeleteIn dry wintry weather, static electricity crackles from your fingers to doorknobs, faucets, or other metal objects just before you touch them, because metal is a conductor while dry air is an insulator. Static electricity sparking is a metaphor for the dearth of human communication and for human isolation.
Gonzalinho
Photo courtesy of Andrey Samolinov
ReplyDeleteGonzalinho
In this version of the poem, a comma is added after “scatter.”
ReplyDeleteWINTER SOLSTICE
December 21, 1989
I am prisoner to conversation with an old man with a broken nose, mute with catarrh, sedentary and limping.
The window is squealing like a small animal, trapped.
Outside in the empty parking lot sits an abandoned car, dried out extinct turtle.
Dryness scrapes skin off the flaking season lying lifeless, electricity gone dead.
Clouds cast to the ground feeble eyes of a pallid man.
Trees written in charcoal thrust into the sky, exclaiming, “I am turned into a pillar of salt!”
Winter breaks its stony face against the hammering wind,
Dust and rocks mix with air,
Grass grinds like pebbles underfoot.
A warm room withers faster than a disconnected leaf.
Memories scatter, twigs across the carpet.
Deaf to clapping, hooded thoughts wander.
Only blue sparks crackle in recognition.
Gonzalinho