The Dead Man's Garden

Gold cherry

By Jane Hyphen

Tue, 11 Oct 2016
  • 2979 reads
12 comments
 

 

I dug a dead man’s garden on a molten summer’s day

When his bones had turned to ashes and his grass had turned to hay

 

Too rare was it for scuttle, too hot for stinking toil

I paused to feel his imprint in the crumbly, purple soil

 

Some jewels among the verdure were shining here and there

Saw the slackness of his artistry, the soak of his despair

 

I grappled with his demons, unearthed his deep desires

Among crimson-red oxalis and soaring, jagged briars

 

I cleared the faded labels, the litter of his chores

The blur of his last efforts - of after and before

 

I sat and lapped his vista, heard the tenant robin sing

How father time can drag his heels then suddenly grow wings

 

I sheltered in his garage, inhaled the sailing dust

Held his hand via the handles of his tools, the turning flakes of rust

 

Saw the faces of his women in the blooms of his Damask

I cut their slender necks and let them fall into the grass

 

I heard a whisper from the rafters of an ever-after tree

Let nature take the garden back as she has taken me

 

 

Certificate U
Poem

Comments

Submitted by VeraClark on

This is superbly arranged and sits on the fence between Romanticism and pastoral. I found it refreshing.

 

Submitted by Jane Hyphen on

Thanks Vera, hopefully it was an identity crisis that worked. Many thanks too for the cherries..

 

Submitted by Rhiannonw on

What an interesting musing, and rhythm. Rhiannon

 

Submitted by Philip Sidney on

Some startling images here. I love the doleful tone and heavy rhythm.

Submitted by Jane Hyphen on

Thanks so much Rhiannon, it's kind of a true story. I know you too are an appreciator of the natural world.

Philip, thank you for reading and commenting.

 

 

 

Submitted by Ray Schaufeld on

Good 'double exposure' storytelling; you give us the life cycle of the garden and of the dead man. And you bring yourself into it in a way that engages the reader. I like the sensual Damask roses(?).

Submitted by Insertponceyfre... on

A garden can say so much about the person - some wonderful observation here, and I love the way the story unfolds so beautifully with the planting. This is our Facebook and Twitter Pick of the Day.

Please share/retweet if you like it.

Picture Credit: http://tinyurl.com/gqgf972

 

Submitted by seashore on

This is so good, no more to say.

Submitted by samhennig on

So excellent. Well done

Sam Hennig

Submitted by celticman on

brilliant, starry and not just the oxalis. 

 

Submitted by Jane Hyphen on

Oh what a nice surprise. Thanks for pick of the day! 

Thanks Noo, the soil pulls us all back in the end doesn't it. Elsie, thanks for commenting, yes indeed, Damask roses. Gardens do reveal so much insert, I dream of an immaculate mess.

Seashore and samhennig, your comments are really lovely, thank you for readingsmiley

Celticman, I'm still getting over Lily Poole, my god, it's dark and disturbing isn't it but well-written and thoroughly engaging, don't know how you hung together all those threads. Thanks for your comment too.

 

Submitted by Di_Hard on

This is so like my Dad's vegetable garden! I hate seeing it all overgrown and full of brambles. The line "held his hand via the handles of his tools" I could not touch them, it was as if they had electricity round the curved grips, I would burst a bubble and they would no longer be his tools, just a spade and fork, wood and metal, not the magical weapons against anarchy. I like wilderness but the wilderness of the vegetable garden is like his dementia, all wrong. Your poem brought up so much. The third stanza is my favourite, but it's all so beautiful, the sounds and rythm too