DC: “I wrote this poem on Saturday the 14th November as a reaction to what had happened the day before. It didn’t happen to me, but obviously many of us feel various things when shocking events happen so close to people that we know and love. And it isn’t that I don’t care about all of the others out there, because I do. Very much. I’m still not sure how to talk about it. But, there are millions of people who seem very sure of how to talk about it, from whatever angle. It made me profoundly sad.”
Friday; A Wake
The cruelest dream of blood and milk,
Which waltzes mournfully through tricolore silk,
And binds your hands and cools no pox,
But crumbles love against cold rocks.
So Friday’s guttural and gilded groans,
For hard steel casings, for enamel bones,
Have come to shake and sway the still,
And unvase the Iris upon the sill.
And now one single and rueful beat,
Has torn all cobbles from unsolid streets,
And maimed the handsome and strapping boys,
To dust, to death, to silent noise.
Oh bastard Autumn’s unsaintly mist,
Has stolen mouths it should have kissed,
And danced a death which held too near,
And far away, I’ll miss you dear.