Yeah, that's working title. Help me come up with a better one.

Death and the Maiden

I sing to you O Aero planes
Buzzing above me my muses!
Why is my house so close to the
Airport I can see from my room?
That’s beside the point, anyway,
Send me some lines, inspiration,
To write and words to write them with
Send me a story I can dread
And turn to poems that can be dreamed!
So that I know I’m not a fool.
So that I know life’s not folly.

I bite my tongue and lick my nails.
I feel just like a flightless bird,
And every motion of my pen’s
Akin to flapping futile wings.
No words are in me, naught I write,
If naught I write naught I live for.
Jumping is all that’s left for me,
But wait the plane that’s passing by
Buzzes a message just for me.
I swear it sounds like fugal horns
Buzzing a message just for me.
It says, “Lie down and close your eyes.”
I do, “Now tell what do you see.”

I see a maiden on a field
I see nymphs dancing beside her
I see them laugh and her, she weeps,
So beautiful, and if I look
Closer I see the green, green grass
Is really tangling all her limbs
And pricking, causing her to scream
And she’s been bleeding long it seems
Because the nymphs’ feet are all wet
With red. Now there’s dark clouds above
All of a sudden. They rumble.
The nymphs now move closer to her
Until I can’t see her at all.
I hear her though, her muffled screams,
And then one last to pierce the skies,
Then silence. This dream isn’t sweet.

After I open both my eyes,
Dazed and confused, I make my way
Out of my room. I need fresh air.
Lie down on the sofa instead.
It crumples, and I feel what’s ‘Neath
Me, the paper, and as I read
I can’t believe the front-page news
About a girl who had been found
Dead in the woods, cuts all abound,
A victim of some cult it seemed.

My first thought was I’m genius!
A prophet! How else to explain
The vision of the maiden and
The nymphs, and oh that bloody grass?
And then my mother, bless her soul,
Asks me if I am perhaps sick
“It’s been a week throw that paper!
“You read that story every day!
“What is it with you and dead girls...
“Never mind I won’t picture that.”

I check the date, to my surprise,
It is from ‘bout a week ago.
Well mom you know if we didn’t live
So close to a god damn airport
Maybe my brain wouldn’t be fucked up!
“Oh now,” she says. “It’s all my fault?”
And then she starts screaming again.
Well so do I to be quite fair.
The aero planes keep passing by
Hopefully drowning out the noise.

Poetry by Sameen
Read 133 times
Written on 2017-10-30 at 06:12

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Subject matter and humor aside, you tend toward classical imagery, not in this poem alone, but often. Who else does that? Keats. Although Keats seems dreamy, his poems were grounded in the affairs of the day. No doubt he woke to find the crumpled news beneath him, and wrote of it. It's this combination of dream and reality in which I see the connection.