A Walk in Hereford Park, Summer

[Tyler]

A walk through a path upon which

sunlight sits in rays between the canopy

The parkland fresh and the grass, wet

silence brushed aside by soft wind,

her arm around your own.

 

 

The slipping, stray thought unbound

out of

place

here--

it cuts into the moment; cuts the moment free

free from the smell and warmth

torn away, ferociously inward

where the rhythm dies

the insipid cry lingers alone

above, around

the dragging pitchfork against

a gravel road

I am dying, you think

I am dying; I must be dying

and what's worse: before you

all-time approaches

jagged, tumid, nebulous

engulfing you with every moment;

every present overlapped over

this--

this

very

thought

displayed in a poisoned amber

preserved forever, and ever after.

Past drenched in sin

the future webbed with worry--

inevitable are the failures.

These moments of clarity allow you to see

time laid out, with every mistake underlined

yesterday, tomorrow, for aye.

 

The fig trees wither around you

their limbs stiffen and go rotten

forming a hollow shell...

 

The heart begs forgiveness

and her voice echoes worry

the gravel meets your knee

while birds sing, free

and in fact, while the children play catch

while the river is filled with fish and moss

and the sun lingers on an otherwise perfect moment

you realise it will never end

[Mokrie Dela]

I know better than to try to analyze poetry these days. I'm too out of practice, but simply: I liked this. It's got a strong sense of its own style. Nice language, and i liked the "out of place" bit. Not sure about the "I'm are dying" - perhaps that reference is over my head, but good regardless.

 

I guess that was a kind of analysis...

[Ziggy455]

Alright. I'll give this a crack.

 

I think it's about the stability of relativity. How, even inside us, there's pain and death, and worry inside us even though we're surrounded by beauty, or relative beauty. I feel like it's as if somebody having a panic attack, and those feelings change the surroundings: "The fig trees wither around you their limbs stiffen and go rotten forming a hollow shell..."

 

Yet the beauty returns after the death. Even though there has been death, there is still life and beauty, and it's eternal because there is never just death, there's always ying and yang, life and death, and beauty, which most poetry is about.

 

I'm sorry if I was completely off--I am not good at analysing poetry.