I wrote this in a pub, remembering someone from my childhood, a face from the past. It's not a very good memoriam, but it's what I had to offer.
Tears never mattered much to me
They never changed the look of things
Or brought back the way they used to be
No home with sun and birds to sing
Just cloudy skies and rolling seas
Which no salty drop could dent
So take another glass of whiskey
And work away to pay your rent
But stop the tiniest moment, see
The smallest part, the larger brings
A drop of cachaça, a step up Mount Shasta
The grace of a moment, and life is spent
It is poignant; there is a clear meter that nonetheless doens't obscure things; the rhyme is tight, yet unobtrusive, and not too regular.
ReplyDeleteIt doesn't tell me much about your friend, that I can discern --- unless, was he inclined towards climbing? Perhaps that's what you mean by "not a very good memoriam"; it's not bad at being what it is, though.
+JMJ+
ReplyDeleteWhy cry when you can drink?
Do you write your poetry at the bar? ;-)
The mood of this poem is very sombre, but I love what you did what "cachaca" and "Mount Shasta"!
Thanks for sharing it with us at last, Dauvit!
Bat,
ReplyDeleteThank you. No he wasn't into climbing, that was my word, and that line was the beginning of the poem. I didn't write it about him, or even really for him, as much as I was just writing while drinking and thinking, right around 3 years after he died.
E,
Silent, streaming tears contain more grace than ten pints of beer, that's why. And no, I don't often, this was more a one time thing. Couldn't get on the bar's network, and the owner was there so I wasn't sure about asking the bartender for the new password, so I was stuck writing.