Poem: Lock and Key
Jan. 3rd, 2013 10:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
summerstorm posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
poetreeHi! My name is Lix Hewett, I am a self-published poet, and today I am sharing a poem I wrote for this week's cycles theme. I only recently joined this community, but I really like what I've seen so far.
Lock and Key
by Lix Hewett (summerstorm)
The jungle is crawling in. Every day since you freed me
has been a day gone from my calendar, struck through with claws
that stop at eye level to plead with me. One more attempt
at senseless violence, one more attempt to make
a real mess of things. Once something has blown up,
been set on fire, burned to a crisp, there's nothing left
to do but sweep up soil and breathe in dust and pack
and go elsewhere. It is your pick. It is your will to walk along
muddy old paths and crunchy leaves until you fit
in a pride of lions. They curl in around you. They
crowd you in and protect you from the jungle. But the wind
blows branches in, and big birds that squeak
fly overhead. The rooftop's far gone from our heads. The lions' claws
kindly serve as lock and key. Their paws pass for a suitcase
kept by the door, ready to roll in. You did free me,
and here is my new homeland. The old one's unsteady.
The new one's unsteady. It stands tall and it stays still
and the claws stop at eye level to plead with me. One more hour,
one more strike, another chance to set down roots. But can I go
anywhere I choose? Does it say anywhere that I have to?
Lock and Key
by Lix Hewett (
summerstorm)The jungle is crawling in. Every day since you freed me
has been a day gone from my calendar, struck through with claws
that stop at eye level to plead with me. One more attempt
at senseless violence, one more attempt to make
a real mess of things. Once something has blown up,
been set on fire, burned to a crisp, there's nothing left
to do but sweep up soil and breathe in dust and pack
and go elsewhere. It is your pick. It is your will to walk along
muddy old paths and crunchy leaves until you fit
in a pride of lions. They curl in around you. They
crowd you in and protect you from the jungle. But the wind
blows branches in, and big birds that squeak
fly overhead. The rooftop's far gone from our heads. The lions' claws
kindly serve as lock and key. Their paws pass for a suitcase
kept by the door, ready to roll in. You did free me,
and here is my new homeland. The old one's unsteady.
The new one's unsteady. It stands tall and it stays still
and the claws stop at eye level to plead with me. One more hour,
one more strike, another chance to set down roots. But can I go
anywhere I choose? Does it say anywhere that I have to?
no subject
Date: 2013-01-03 10:17 pm (UTC)I'm struck by the structure of this poem, the density of longer lines that swallow caesura periods and relentlessly push forward. The content of the beginning didn't do much for me, but I found the following lines in the middle powerful strong:
There's something about the shift in sentence rhythm here, and the simple directness of how you phrase these lines that makes me want to run my mind over them again and again.