Sunday, October 05, 2014

A poem from The Rooms

Poem beginning with two lines by André Breton

The wardrobe is filled with linen,
there are even moonbeams I can unfold.
The roof has slipped back on the gables,
old trees march in from the cold.

The wardrobe is filled with linen,
the beds are slept in again.
Out of the air spill table and chairs,
the wine has crept back to the rim.

The wardrobe is filled with linen,
the drawers are packed with days.
The cabinet lies unsmashed in its corner,
there’s a harvest of sun on the floor.

The wardrobe is filled with linen,
the shadows come back to the wall.
They’ve gone to collect the children
from the strangers who stand in the hall.

The rooms are empty and cold,
the drawers are littered with bones.
The wardrobe is filled with linen
no-one can touch or unfold.

This appeared in yesterday's Irish Times but as the formatting got mangled on the Times' website I'm reposting it here. The collection it's taken from, The Rooms, will be published by Gallery Press in November.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

It's beautiful, Peter. Congratulations.

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