Below the horizon
of consciousness it starts,
barely perceptible,
the vague whistle of a distant train.
Then grows with the
slowness of a glacier,
drawing stark awareness
from the furthermost boundaries,
tributaries flowing to a single point.
Visceral it builds,
hot like shrapnel,
agony slicing inward.
Or -
Roman short-sword
thrust upward under ribs,
and then twisted before withdrawal
to maximise effect.
Exhausting episode
replayed with regularity.
Building, explosive,
overwhelming pain -
to bite the leather strap
and inward scream,
silently,
secretly,
so others not dismay,
while sweat pours down
cascading life away.
Chalk-pale the grimace
in the mirror.
Preparing to metastasise,
pushing organs to one side;
a ripening poisoned mushroom,
its lethal spores to be carried
on the bloodstream’s fluid wind,
seeking cellular soils in which
to root and grow again.
Pernicious anaemia,
bleeding inward,
the heart shall fail -
or else the mind go mad.
Lurking on the edge
of vision,
madness perhaps the
better option.
Its not my death I fear;
Christ has paid for that,
it’s the dying
that leaves me so unimpressed.
As a now dead friend had said –
‘Does it always take
this long to die?’
So, by choice
I lay upon a steel table,
and let some surgeon
spread my viscera upon
the green and sterile sheets,
that lethal tumour to display.
And I shall,
like Lazarus,
come forth;
humbled,
dependent,
but still living.
Grateful,
- oh, most grateful -
that the lethal mushroom
had not yet
sent its subversive spores abroad.
James Gagiikwe © 2008
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Author notes
2001
Comments
-
Excellent!
Wow! This is what I call a poem! I only started writing poetry, but you are obviously a practiced poet. You write like a professional poet. I wish I could give you better input as to form, meter and tone, but I am just beginning to learn what those are.
Have you battled cancer yourself? I'm sorry for you. Cancer is an excellent subject for a poem.
I liked the imagery: the lethal mushroom had not yet
sent its subversive spores abroad; a ripening poisoned mushroom,
its lethal spores to be carried
on the bloodstream’s fluid wind,
seeking cellular soils in which
to root and grow again.
Awesome poem.
language: 5, rhythm: 4, subject: 4, tone: 5, form: 4.
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Congratularions
Hi James . I just dropped by to return the compliment of your commenting on my poem 'The Big 'C''. It seems I may have struck a chord with you. This rings true, like it was written by somebody who knows their subject. If that is the case, my congratulations on what reads like a reprieve at the end.
As a rule, I try not to dwell on the specific content of poetry, believing it is not our business here to simply 'chat'. But sometimes it simply ALL about the content and I believe that is the case here. Nevertheless you have laced it with strong imagery managed to convey the FEELING of what you describe. The first stanza was particularly poetic and effective in that regard, I loved the reference to the train whistle and the growing glacier.
Your discussion of the tedium of dying was original and forthright, not to mention extremely courageous under the circumstances. It reminded me somehow of (forgive me) a quote from 'The Magnifecent Seven' that said 'Hell boy, dyin's easy - anybody can do it. It's livin' that's hard.'
I don't often use this rather clicheed sign-off but Thank you for sharing this, and nice to meet you. >W<
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