The Rape



Night shrinks into day
The sun pummelling door
Black turn to gray
The swallowing of the poor
In the blurred light of noon
Under the figment of a moon
The old women were taken
Their brutalized breasts forgotten

The cry fringes the truth
And virtue is exposed meat
The worm eats the root
Where flies dine and fete
What shall she do with rags
Alone? Her shrivelled bags
Is old skin over bone. Vent
Not when the treasure is spent.

What then the meaning
Of post modern governments
That strip all our saving
To fund their impediments
Trust funds and pensions taken
Too late we are left forsaken

Battered, bruised, bleeding
The innocent flesshed jarred, torn
No place for forgiving
Is left in the dimlighted morn
Hobbled and afraid
The sun stumbles over the glade
We shrink too into night
Trembling at the sound of light
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Submitted on July 07, 2013

Modified on April 16, 2023

43 sec read
17

Quick analysis:

Scheme AXAXBBCC XXXXDDEE FGFGCC FHFHIIJJ
Closest metre Iambic trimeter
Characters 784
Words 146
Stanzas 4
Stanza Lengths 8, 8, 6, 8

David Smalling

I have been writing poems since I was 12 years; but writing had been my blanket for loneliness since age 11. My father died when I was 13 and poetry was my therapy for pain since then. Only I wanted the world to think, feel, laugh, but not cry. I had been forgotten in the grief of my father's death because everyone else needed the consolation I did not get. I became the even more the withdrawn loner, and saw a world more aggressively hostile. Books became my better friend and drove me deeper into academic seclusion. I wrote thousands of poems everywhere: on rocks, trees, sand, and all over house and school - this was how I interrogate the world, and how I weep alone. Poetry was my quest and comfort. I trusted paper and pen and spoke my truths to them above all else. Yes, I am graduate, a business major, a science major, an humanities major ... still searching for consolation, love, security, and joy obtained in poetry. Then again Jamaica is such an ideal place to live as a poet; the history and memories, juxtaposed against the world, is pure inspiration. more…

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