Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Aunt Jena's House

Aunt Jena's House

Ridgepole broken
joists barren and twisted

loosed gutters flopping
in a dry wind

eyeless
old house

A rusted weather-cock leans
into the hollow

rubble
piles against the lean

ground gives way
under our tread

Why, I ask can they not bury
these bones
of my memory?

3 Comments:

At 3:00 AM, Blogger Unknown said...

Fascinating and haunting Fran. Like all your work it is so visual, so real, this one leaves me with the hair on the back of my neck standing up.

 
At 12:46 AM, Blogger Unknown said...

Hummmm. I am rather fond of the last line - it sort of grabbed me by the throat. I felt emotion in it that the words "bones of my memory" would not convey. This emotion was sharpened by the change to the single line. Fascinating how we see things so differently, so much the same.

The comments are great Mike - no intrusion as far as I'm concerned. I would bet that Fran feels the same. Looking at your thoughts made me look at the poem from a different angle and clarify what I was seeing/feeling to myself. Looking, thinking, reflecting, wondering . . . these are always good.

 
At 1:05 AM, Blogger Heather Blakey said...

I have not been commenting as much as I would like on this forum. There simply do not seem to be enough hours in the day.

I hear what you say about the last stanza ruhdwulf but like Winnie I found myself gasping at the question posed. My mother, who is a similar age to you Fran, would love to be able to bury some of the bones that persistently haunt her and somehow posing the question in this manner highlighted that overwhelming desire to forget things such as the desolate ruin of a place once loved.

As for the appropriateness of making comments I appreciate such constructive feedback.

 

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