"smokescreens" poems - Hello Poetry

Winters can be tedious. Sun dips into early dusk. A dead fire refuses to ignite. There's a quick repetition of opening and closing blinds over a barred window. In need of reflection I search a familiar face in an unfamiliar landscape. I have her in my grasp, half illusion, half real, a symbolic mask denies her true face, her glittering crown divides us by its radiance. Groping in darkness, I stumble over objects of wood and stone, my unsteady tread tripping over their contours. I light a candle. Bathed in amber light, our shadows merge. A new door opens, stretching the perspective. No formal borders here, they wouldn't survive the present climate. In their place, intricately carved figureheads and totems- a vision of the past. My eye is a camera, retinas branded with imagery for the photographer's delight- coloured pebbles, carved wooden animals, tin cans, bones..... ....A Glass Sentinel (though she isn't visible) I can see right through her- a vision of smokescreens and subterfuge. Past stumps of driftwood, past the uncut grass, a few flowers... ...to the fabricated backdrop of a burning house, black smoke rising in a thin stream. At the open door - The Guardian, (I know her inside out) unmoved, (she didn't bat an eye) defiant in a new skin, a softer version- The Mother protecting her children, arms splayed, prepared for fight or flight. A russet flame Licking her spine exhales 'Get out of my way!' but she wasn't listening. Smile fixed, eyes of a phoenix, a lion, a raptor, protector. We all need feeding, but not this way! Throw me a cloth, a napkin, a man-size tissue a lifeline! She wanted this, no, wished it- this symbolism, this burning of ironic portraits, to clear the deck, make way for new. It shook the house, its fate sealed behind closed doors. I compose myself, pull her back from the perilous edge, gather her in my arms. Fragments of shattered words flutter in the ether. What is real? What is fiction? A carbon copy of thousands? A charred corner? A forgotten candle? WARNING: 'Eating fire' is a risky business but can attract a large audience.

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Jul 12, 2014

Jul 12, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC

caroline-grace

On reading Margaret Atwood's selected poetry-'Eating Fire'

Winters can be tedious. Sun dips into early dusk. A dead fire refuses to ignite. There's a quick repetition of opening and closing blinds over a barred window. In need of reflection I search a familiar face in an unfamiliar landscape. I have her in my grasp, half illusion, half real, a symbolic mask denies her true face, her glittering crown divides us by its radiance. Groping in darkness, I stumble over objects of wood and stone, my unsteady tread tripping over their contours. I light a candle. Bathed in amber light, our shadows merge. A new door opens, stretching the perspective. No formal borders here, they wouldn't survive the present climate. In their place, intricately carved figureheads and totems- a vision of the past. My eye is a camera, retinas branded with imagery for the photographer's delight- coloured pebbles, carved wooden animals, tin cans, bones..... ....A Glass Sentinel (though she isn't visible) I can see right through her- a vision of smokescreens and subterfuge. Past stumps of driftwood, past the uncut grass, a few flowers... ...to the fabricated backdrop of a burning house, black smoke rising in a thin stream. At the open door - The Guardian, (I know her inside out) unmoved, (she didn't bat an eye) defiant in a new skin, a softer version- The Mother protecting her children, arms splayed, prepared for fight or flight. A russet flame Licking her spine exhales 'Get out of my way!' but she wasn't listening. Smile fixed, eyes of a phoenix, a lion, a raptor, protector. We all need feeding, but not this way! Throw me a cloth, a napkin, a man-size tissue a lifeline! She wanted this, no, wished it- this symbolism, this burning of ironic portraits, to clear the deck, make way for new. It shook the house, its fate sealed behind closed doors. I compose myself, pull her back from the perilous edge, gather her in my arms. Fragments of shattered words flutter in the ether. What is real? What is fiction? A carbon copy of thousands? A charred corner? A forgotten candle? WARNING: 'Eating fire' is a risky business but can attract a large audience.