Roz Kaveney (rozk) wrote,
Roz Kaveney
rozk

On a roll, seems like

Orpheus

We cannot bring them back. And yet we sing
or write of them we held but could not own
to honour them we claim, and lie, or moan
our loss aloud. We mourn, and cannot bring

them back. And our first father went to hell
and could not harrow it for her. He tried
and failed, and he looked back, and later died
all but his voice, which sang out like a bell

floating a severed head torn out of flesh.
We do not know the tortured song they heard,
his killers, maddened. Scream or piping bird,
angel or anguish. Music weaves its mesh

of sound from pain and joy, having and lack.
It's beautiful, but cannot bring them back.
Subscribe

  • Had to be a London poem

    LONDON Night in a city that has licked its wounds Two thousand years. And curls around its kits Feeding and grooming heroes cowards wits Lovers and…

  • What it says

    ON LIGHT Sentience basks where crystals just reflect. Blind kittens stretch and mew into the sun Soft pressure on their skin. There's straight lines…

  • A poem sort of about science

    LORENZO ON LANIAKEIA A feather or a skeleton of leaf A spiderweb that blows in breeze when torn Out on the edge of nothing we are born Blue void's…

  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 0 comments