A very old and silly and sweet pseudo-poem

Oh the gentlemen are talking in another room,
And I listen, still and silent, like the peering moon.
Shadows cross the lick of light beneath my door,
While their boots knock ditties on the wooden floor.

Through the wall I hear them singing
Of a woman who is far,
Of the march of the cossacks,
And the red eastern star.

And before my dreams will claim me
I will hear their glasses clink;
“Here’s to home, and health, and future.”
“And to me,” I think.

I edited this from the original to better reflect what I was trying to get at when I first wrote down this memory (because it’s more of a memory than a poem, for sure) – the sense of being excluded, while, at the same time, the sweetness and familiarity of these male adults in the next room.

I had originally conceptualized a poem that did not rhyme, and was a whole lot more serious and probing. But the more I thought about it – the more I realized that the sleepy subject matter should be framed as a lullaby. And so it goes.

5 thoughts on “A very old and silly and sweet pseudo-poem

  1. (long-time lurker, sorry!)
    It took me a moment to realise this was your own work – not out of doubt for your awesomeness, but because it’s so resonant I couldn’t believe I didn’t grow up reading/hearing it. Thanks for providing the best kind of false nostalgia here, and for everything else you’ve written.

  2. Sometimes poem and metaphors are a more ‘resourceful’ way of revealing one’s thought than prose.

    Memories, poets, thoughts – the boundry is not always clear ….

  3. Thanks, shan! “Work” is a strong word here, ;).

    Yep, E. Although some people’s criteria of what constitutes poetry is very, very stringent. And it doesn’t make much sense, but, like obscenity, you know it when you see it.

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