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One Star in Sight by Rowens

October is my favorite month,
and so the most difficult month,
washed away on gallons of thought,
my nightmares come to be friends
and my dreams are sweet and breathed
into me on the air of autumn.

The old middle school and dark backroads
and underground towns I seem to find myself in.
These are not symbols but real.
I see evidence in the rock quarry
and the stone tunnels under tiny bridges.
I see them in my family and in my friends.

There is a light between the sun and moon
that is not a reflection but is;
like the self beyond the mirror and accepted
knowledge. The love (that brings her back)
like Greek gods and local folklore
and proven urban legends on streetlit highways.
Bright melancholy of doubt and acceptance.

A certainty beyond faith.
The fields are dark now but
yellow, and I can feel them.
The breeze blows gently in voices
the humming silence in the distance makes frightening,
frightening in the still silence of all present moments
day or night, but especially night
in October, where she, or something, anything,
could be there, listening.

I've read this poem more than a few times and each time i'm amazed at how well some of our poets write. for me this is one of rowens best poems and well deserving of the spotlight.
the poem and thread can be found here
Well done rowens and good pick billy. I like the combo of the bluntness and the ethereal, it works. Thanks for the read. Smile
Nice work rowens. This gets better with each additional read.
I've been spending a lot of time at the crossroads lately, where the horny beasts creep around. Trying to lose myself as much as possible. At least my social self. I just want to die into the poetry. Which is, after all, all society is, and a small portion at that. So thank you for mentioning the poem here, and forgive me if I continue to obsess over the validity of every aspect of my poems as if they are tiny people I brought to life to keep me company. Because they are. Even if they're ugly sometimes, like most people are.
The narrative voice is strong and compelling. October is the time in Mayan tradition when the wall between the living and the dead becomes porous, permeable.

The last two lines are magic.

Well done.
It meant something to me when I wrote it. But Auden was stronger when he wrote, Poetry makes nothing happen. . . . And I am hellbent on making something. Something that will bring the dead back, happen. . . . But still, Poetry makes nothing happen. Or whatever the Auden line is. Is stronger. . . . And this poem is weaker and weaker every time I read it. It has made nothing.

Not to offend you, Lizzie. I get offended easily, too. But I strive on it. And get, and stay, drunk.
I read this from time to time and I have no idea what it means but find it deeply relatable
This is beatiful, rowens.

Thanks for bumping this, Miley.