Tag Archives: Death

Autumn and Death (2 poems and a Conversation)

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Autumn

The leaves have abandoned

that chlorophyll thing

and are leaking yellows and reds

like a paint store catalogue.

Death (a slimverse)

A God’s voice

roaring: You!

You are not

in control.

Conversation with Slim

Me: Slim, in a previous post “Slim’s Advice Part 2” you said and I quote:

“Avoid Autumn and Death

they’ve been done before

there’s little more to say

on either score.”

Are you being ironic here in a self referential way?

Slim: No.

Me: “Slim, the first poem here is an outtake or revision of a previous poem (Slim’s Advice Part 3), are poems ever really finished?”

Slim:

“Words can be ‘

rearranged

if you just

talk to them.”

Lately, Slim has taken to talking in these 12 syllable bites he calls “slimverse” and I find it irritating and more than a little disturbing. So, as gently as I can, I say to him:

“Slim, that makes absolutely no sense to me, do you not think you are being a tad cryptic, a tad gnomic, if you keep on like this, you are danger of turning into a fucking garden ornament”

We haven’t talked since.

Poet’s Corner 11 – Slim’s Advice Part 2

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In which, Slim delivers a poem for aspiring poets.

So, after his outburst in the pub (see Slim’s Advice Part 1), Slim comes up to me, mutters an apology and mumbles something about having to learn how to control his anger.

“No problem” I said” it worked out fine in the end”

For a moment, there was a feeling between us that approximated warmth.

“Anyway,” he said “I wrote a poem for aspiring poets”

“Is it inspiring?”

Slim looked puzzled.

“You know, an inspiring poem for aspiring poets”.

My wordplay seemed to irritate Slim immensely. That warm feeling evaporated like sweat in the desert.

Here’s the poem!

Slim’s Advice

 Avoid autumn and death,

They’ve been done before;

There’s little more to say

On either score.

Also, waves like marathon runners

Collapsing on the shore,

The inexorable march of time,

Don’t go through that door.

 

By the way, as you have probably guessed the delicate-looking guy in the picture is John Keats, who pretty much nailed “Autumn” in 1819 at the age of 24.