Geoffrey Long
Tip of the Quill: Archives
Lyric, echo.

These things she said, then said again,
this life he led, no matter when,
the lives we lived those miles away,
inside my head, where we could play,
the dream she dreamed, each night that year,
the coat he wore, that smelled like fear,
the snow that fell, upon the ground,
and fell some more, when we weren't around,
this all is that, her father said,
all that is this, his mother read,
with nothing left to hold us tight,
but a mother's kiss, and a daughter's light,
this dream I dreamed, a dream of snow,
a dream before, a dream below,
nothing less, naught left to tell,
but something more. Goodnight. Farewell.

(I don't know why, but the thought of an 'echo poem' bounced into my head about fifteen minutes ago. Apologies to those of you getting this in an RSS reader that might not parse the HTML correctly; swing by the permalink to see it as designed.)


Lovely. But I'm sad now.

Aw, don't be said. The poem is really more about the sound and the rhythm of the words than the content, and the experiment of building a poem that can be read with or without the echo.

Although you're right -- going back and rereading it now, it's a very sad piece about love and loss. Must be the winter weather getting to me at last.

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