#DylanDay: “Garden of Clouds” (To Dylan Thomas) poem by Peter Thabit Jones, UK – Painting by Fotini Hamidieli, Greece

Fotini Hamidieli

http://fhamidieli.weebly.com/

 

 

GARDEN OF CLOUDS

(To Dylan Thomas)

 

Your life had become
A speeded-up film,

Moving too fast, sickly,

Each frame flashed by,

Too quickly, not settling
At all in the scrapbook

Of your mind. Your voice

Was left behind, in rooms
Of strangers sipping wine,
Their politeness like fresh paint
Drying on walls.

You were always traveling,
In a plane, a bus or a car,

Yesterday was always lost
Above a garden of clouds,
In a station of tired faces,

On a table in a café
On a never-ending road.

You felt so alone, your past
Blocked off by each city’s dream
Of sky-threatening stone.
Your dramas drowned in each smile.

 

The ash of your words
Smouldered in the books
That they bought and shelved
In their unknown lives.

You were losing yourself.
Your emotions rode

The conveyor-belts of their eyes.

You got as close as a lover
With your pockets of songs.

You wore the garments of death
With the laughter of a clown.

At night, when sleep played
Games with your soul

And the traffic smothered
Your slow pictures of love,
New poems dripped into
The wounds of your life

Below the garden of clouds.

Peter Thabit Jones

http://www.peterthabitjones.com/

“Swan Song” by Miriam Margala and Deron Zambruno, USA

 

Swan Song

Their swan song rang out from the start…

Slowly, patiently,

Enticing with sweet words

He conducts the feverish symphony

His golden baton laden with honey

Luring the graceful swan

Who until then had been drifting

Lost in her own music,

In her own pond – her own world

Of melody and peace.

But the conductor wields his slathered baton

The swan song rings true.

The harmony is pleasing, unceasing

Like a siren – a male siren

Calling out to her, the swan

With the supple curve of her long neck,

Proud in her domain

In her beloved realm,

Shifting the smooth surface of her pond

The calm waters of trust and satisfaction

Storms and wild swells she must navigate now

But the music promises secrets uncharted

Untasted pleasures to partake in

The conductor – inscrutable and wise,

Sings his song and insists, comforts

The swan’s every qualm and question.

The maestro wields his glistening baton

The swan song resonates.

The waves lull her

The song seduces her

Never mind the churning waters

Or his smile scored on empty bars.

The time comes for the swan to hold the baton

The time comes for the swan to taste the sweet nectar.

She forgets that honey is thicker than water

Greedily – she’s drunk all that he has offered

Luscious. Sensuous. Sultry. Succulent.

Every drop – a hot wax seal

Suffocating but so very tempting.

Unknowingly, the swan has started to sink

And the music has begun to lose its sweetness –

The baton so fierce and final without the honey

Still, the swan song carries.

Too close to the depths now

Sinking deeper – she looks for their silhouette

But the swan can see only the shadow of herself,

In panic she searches – but he cannot be found

The meter, the melody – a relentless refrain

She cries for calm waters

For peace, tranquility and solitude

And the world she once knew.

The swan song recedes

The conductor is gone.

The quiet dreadful and heavy

The once-flowing honey now all consumed.

Who has been the siren?

Who has been the listener?

What has been gained?

What has been lost?

The music has stopped.

Miriam Margala

Deron Zambruno

USA

swan 1