I submit poems all the time. Some days, I’ll post the latest poem that has been rejected. Feel free to check in regularly and post about improvements or comments about it!
I personally love this poem quite a lot and it has a very special meaning to me. I’ve always had a fixation with playgrounds when I was a young child. They were fantasy realms to be explored and having a rich imagination, a slide could be a dragon’s tongue, the flying foxes being vines that transported you to every echelon of the forest and being at the top of the playground was like being at the top of a mystical tower. This poem in particular documented a time in my life where I had a dear friend who was “leaving” this world because he was incredibly sick and one of the last days spent together was on the top of a playground nearby we went to at night. The shift of perspectives was intentional as I tried to capture the setting and my perspective in the first and his perspective in the second. Of course I’m a little bummed this didn’t make it as it was pretty much an excuse to use the title of the blog (it was what inspired my title as the “Crepuscular Philosopher” but I’m glad I get to keep this poem that is close to my heart all to myself. And now I get to share it with all of you. I hope you like it.
Playgrounds and Christmas
Snow has just come for the first time.
It hasn’t snowed for an eternity,
but I revel in the rare stillicide,
rather than ponder my grievous fortunes.
Where specks of frozen dust, of memory
fall gently, sometimes on the tip of my nose.
They allow me once more,
to relive a childish delight.
Underneath a roofless playground is where I lay,
From here, like falling stars,
powders of white, mystic in design.
Slowly they burrow my conscience and
I cry for more.
Christmas is death.
Although solitude in thought,
I see supercilious smiles from nearby windowpanes.
Suspended in their precious moments.
Bright lights, resembling not of heaven,
for I am close but heaven is nothing to me.
For rather it’s a meadow of cold,
not promised by the Sundays I did not attend.
Far away from home, they had twilight in their eyes.
Of clouds draped with velvet navy-blue curtains of above us in full view.
Jaded, he sat in silence like a crepuscular philosopher,
gazing ponderously at the crystalline fragments,
of the departed ghosts he finally saw.
Without words, he speaks an ancient language
and sings a tune that only he knows.
Nostalgic principles formed by the scent of roast dinners,
whiffs of cinnamon, sounds of carols and dim houselights
that are like small sigils protesting against the darkness.
He clutches an envelope tightly. Not a letter from Santa,
but rather a cold, heartless and inhumane report that holds his destiny.
Yet despite this, he ignores the answer to savor the moment,
and holds out his hands to catch a snowflake.