Villanelle, I think it’s called.
Not exactly Dylan Thomas. Something about this reminds me of that one by Sylvia Plath about the mad girl in love (r at least I think that’s what it’s about) — maybe the frankness if not lyricism of the language. I may just be deluding myself, poor versifying poetiser that I am.
Anyhow, here’s poem number five. We all surrender ourselves in different ways, and if there’s some therapeutic benefit in this, then I’ll take it.
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No.5
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Today, I met a man with half a head,
Met his silent wife, his dad and mother.
The rest was on the wall behind his bed.
.
Still in his hands, the gun on which he’d fed.
Belated birthday gift from his brother.
Today I met a man with half a head.
.
A paramedic touched my arm and said,
Watch them, or they’ll turn on one another.
The rest was on the wall behind the bed.
.
Nothing left behind, no last words said
That could the sight of him in some way smother.
Today I met a man with half a head.
.
The term we use is ‘processing’ the dead.
We do our work behind an opaque cover.
We photographed the wall behind the bed;
I won’t forget the man with half a head.
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No.5
Erik Kaisson, 2017