On Fractions Of Verse

I have a lot of unfinished poems; and a lot of poems which I have finished, but which I was not happy with, at the time. Rather than have somebody rake through the ashes of my notebooks after my death, I have decided to assemble all of those poems into collections while I’m still alive. There are now four such collections, called Fractions Of Verse.

It is possible that, some day, when I am stuck for something to do, that I might return to those poems, and try to finish them, or improve the ones which I felt were substandard. But, until I do, those scraps of verse will find a home in these collections.

Don’t look for these collections to appear on Kindle any time soon. They will be among the last things which I ever put on there, and will only appear if I feel that my writing has come to an end.

Anyway, here are four bits of verse, each of them taken from a different collection of these rejects.

Twelve from Fractions Of Verse

Beyond the farthest horizon;

Where the sea, and ships,

Fall down into the abyss

Where the sun goes to rest awhile;

I wander; through the unseen groves of Hesperus

Through Hyperborean avenues

Where I am greeted by my secret name

The one which the wind

Whispered to me when I was born;

And I have told to no one.

The Flowers Of Spite from Fractions of Verse 2

The flowers of spite

Closed up at night

Thorns prick your skin

The bleeding begins

Red teardrops fall

The nectar of gall

Petals litter the floor

A scent you abhor

You cast it away

This bitter bouquet

And curse the grower

Of these dread flowers.

Games from Fractions of Verse 3

Summer toys are balls

And bikes; when cold winter comes

We play other games.

Losse from Fractions of Verse 4

Faded wallpaper, sun-yellowed, and streaked

With the sediments of time, tapestries

The old brick walls of the once upon a

Time house, the rooms that echoed with laughter

When the sun was younger, when the berries

Still grew in the back garden: where, today,

The only crop is weeds. Grown cold, after

The departures, the bare floorboards uncreaked

By shoe or sock, the hearth has not known a

Fire in many a year. Once sought-after

Knickknacks, abandoned here, play hide-and-seek

With cobwebs and dust. All things must surcease,

And there is no happy-ever-after;

That faded minstrel, Time, has come and wreaked

His ruin here, where life has fled its lees,

And only the damp still prospers today.


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