DISCONNECTED #10

DISCONNECTED #10
Gillian Prew

Brides do not touch me unless dead in their gowns;
the endless bloom of bouquets remaining tight
as innocence, while I, wide open
– a gutted fish, a lost iridescent –
have shown too many bones for ceremony.

I remain a walking silence in this. Dumb
to the violence of promises; a buried skull
laughing regardless. I am not

cream silk
nor eternity.

There is no lace in my lungs;
no filigree of breathing. I am
further from fury than before –
failure clots like a bloody memory
settling in the foreground,
all the distance indistinct
as a shadow.

I long to make peace with my anxieties:
they are cannibals. They are hungrier
than all my reconciliations. I

pick solitude from my life’s arrangement –
the most hospitable of its monsters.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.

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Posted on November 7, 2012, in Gillian Prew, POETRY and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. MM welcomes Gillian Prew with three superb poems. I was impressed by her use of language and imagery, which, in the way she’s uses them, amounts to work from the depths. And there are some unforgettable lines in this.

  2. Gillian ‘s poem has the innovative Poe qualities which stings at our heart and lungs in a melancholic epiphany allowing us to feel the essence of what moves mortality in a benumbed
    spirituality undermining in a subversive mode of language life’s epigraphy and death’s loss.

  3. Reblogged this on proud spots and solitudes and commented:
    The first of three poems from my chapbook, ‘Disconnections’ to be published at ‘Misfits Miscellany’. My thanks to Philip Vermass.

  4. Hi Gillian

    Brides do not touch me unless dead in their gowns; a bit melodramatic
    the endless bloom of bouquets remaining tight endless? too abstract maybe dried?
    as innocence, while I, wide open
    – a gutted fish, a lost iridescent – a gutted fish wouldn’t show it’s bones, would need to be filleted
    have shown too many bones for ceremony. love this image

    I remain a walking silence in this. Dumb like walking silence, not sure the enjambment of Dumb is warranted
    to the violence of promises; a buried skull
    laughing regardless. I am not

    cream silk
    nor eternity. not fond of grand abstracts like ‘eternity’ unless qualified by something more specific

    There is no lace in my lungs; great image and alliteration
    no filigree of breathing. I am also ‘filigree…’ lovely phrase
    further from fury than before –
    failure clots like a bloody memory bloody seems vague , there for effect rather than describing a memory
    settling in the foreground,
    all the distance indistinct
    as a shadow. love the above S, best so far

    I long to make peace with my anxieties:
    they are cannibals. They are hungrier
    than all my reconciliations. I

    pick solitude from my life’s arrangement –
    the most hospitable of its monsters. again monstors is too melodramatic, solitude is hardly a monstor,
    I think the enjambments are overdone, but that’s just me.
    I sometimes read your poems, Melody (not sure if she is still one of your f’book friends)has two of your books and when i stay with her in Byron a poem of yours often suits my mood.
    best wishes for all your words
    Ross

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