ON THE VERGE OF RUINING MY LIFE
I drink too much red wine,
drowning in its brilliant color,
and let the wrong men whisper to my blood,
their voices low and crooning.
Whole days pass when I accomplish nothing.
Over and over, I promise reform, then
find myself leaning over another blue drink
staring into dark eyes to see what develops.
The next day my head is a garishly lit room
where I wait for the hour
when I can collapse in shadows on the couch,
blind with self-recrimination.
But even there the forbidden stalks me...
Frank Sinatra singing Fly Me to the Moon on disc,
a cat with a tail like a plume of smoke
tiptoeing over the piano keys,
his touch so light I’m not sure
if I heard the notes he scattered
or just imagined them.
(A very old poem. Hopefully, at this point, I'm not on the verge of ruining anything.)
drowning in its brilliant color,
and let the wrong men whisper to my blood,
their voices low and crooning.
Whole days pass when I accomplish nothing.
Over and over, I promise reform, then
find myself leaning over another blue drink
staring into dark eyes to see what develops.
The next day my head is a garishly lit room
where I wait for the hour
when I can collapse in shadows on the couch,
blind with self-recrimination.
But even there the forbidden stalks me...
Frank Sinatra singing Fly Me to the Moon on disc,
a cat with a tail like a plume of smoke
tiptoeing over the piano keys,
his touch so light I’m not sure
if I heard the notes he scattered
or just imagined them.
(A very old poem. Hopefully, at this point, I'm not on the verge of ruining anything.)
posted by Patry Francis at
1:30 PM
6 Comments:
We all begin somehwhere. When your poetry is published, they'll want to know your origins:)
By
mermaid, at 9:04 AM
love the last bit about the doubt about the scattered notes and your head as a garishly lit room, perfect description of a hangover, sadley an experience I've shared on occasions. Children sorted me out, they are no respectors of lay ins or hangovers, but it brought it all back including morning repentance and new days reselutions
By
Sue hardy-Dawson, at 10:46 AM
There is a sense of sounds made in silence in this poem that is really remarkable. Thanks Patry for this technical detail.
By
Russell Ragsdale, at 5:04 PM
mermaid: I feel like I begin again every day.
sue: You are so right. Children tend to "adjust the lighting" for most of us.
russell: thanks so much for your finely attuned "hearing" of this poem.
stranger ken: As a huge fan of Monk, I take this as a compliment of the highest order. Thank you!
By
Patry Francis, at 8:08 PM
I relate to this fully Patry as you probably expected I would.
By
Perfect Virgo, at 12:25 PM
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Perfect Virgo, at 12:29 PM
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