Thursday, April 12, 2018

In My Room, A Cricket

In my room, a cricket sings his heavy heart.
Outside, his million brothers, star-drunk beneath a lemon tree.
Why these walls? Why his song? Why my clocks, taken apart?
In my room, a cricket sings his heavy heart.
Why alleys? Why walkways? Why my brushes sick from art?
Why my open window and the summer drowsing carelessly?
In my room, a cricket sings his heavy heart.
Outside, his million brothers, star-drunk beneath a lemon tree.
_________

A triolet for day 12.

 

7 comments:

hedgewitch said...

I love triolets, and this one is so much more than that--it has the cradle-feel of the rocking cadence, which gives it some of the essence of dream, yet it also is so finely crafted and clean that it reminds me of a scrupulously painted portrait--not of a person, but of a state of mind, of perhaps that amorphous pail of sorrow and sweetness known as 'the human condition.' I especially am dumbstruck by the clocks and brushes--and the metaphor of the cricket, a being I have been known to write of myself, couldn't be more unobtrusively perfect.This month is truly bringing out your best, Shay.

Anonymous said...


BING!!!!!!

Sherry Marr said...

This is WONDERFUL. I love everything about it. But want to rescue the cricket and return him to his tribe. Smiles.

Kerry O'Connor said...

Like Joy, I too love a triplet, or any element of repetition in poetry, so long as the poet can choose the perfect line for the refrain... Not only have you done that but used the repetition of questions in between. In all one of the best triplets I've read. The questions themselves sealed the deal for me.

Margaret said...

"dare to post unprompted" ha I enjoy your labels as much as your poetry. Crickets - I wish I actually heard them more often - but not in my room. I was terrified of them as a child - I can't pick them up even to this day and I will go around them - but I don't cry anymore :) . and they do have a bit of a melancholy about their song, don't they?

willow_switches said...

star-drunk beneath a lemon tree -

I'd like to squeeze my legs like a fiddle saw, of the rusting to dust song, with a heart as long and drawn as these brothers ...
star drunk, oh yes ....
as clocks disassemble themselves and I fall to pieces
as my brushes dry to thick edged sticks for all and no reasons -
yes, I am pulsing in this soul song

purposefully and powerfully, and thanks for mentioning the form, I would have wondered but not duly noted it as such -
am familiar with them, in passing, and as an unlearned I'd rather hide in the closet than consider them, I can say, you've really just worked this to perfection - summa cum laude my friend.

and to me, this is both [an] aubade + nocturne

Mama Zen said...

Oh, wow. I love this. "My brushes sick from art." Just gorgeous.