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.