10-06-2011, 04:01 AM
Hi Aish 
Thanks for your generous feedback. I've tried out your suggestions below. I've kept 'unhomely'. There is a German word 'unheimlich' which literally means un-homely, ie not homely, but also is used to mean the uncanny or unfamiliar. I like the Yom Kippur association. It wasn't my intention but I do like the association. For some reason I hate October, I always have, and all I can think is that this is some echo memory from my father, whose own father died very suddenly one October when he was a boy.
This is the month
of the death of the father,
the month of desultory grief.
October, tensile, resonates to
the tarnished metallic despair
of unlove, bluntly stabbed into the gut
This is the month of undigested sin,
sitting in the mineral sharp stomach.
Cut adrift from all names, nights
lying exposed on bone cold streets,
cold and callously pure.
These are the nights of flickering film stills,
the chaff that blows unhomely in
unanchored hours.
I have danced in the wake
of a long past vessel, hidden
face down from the shadow
echo spat out by fire
and the salt tears cried into walls.
This is the month of the Hunter's moon
holding me captive
all your years.
Thanks for your generous feedback. I've tried out your suggestions below. I've kept 'unhomely'. There is a German word 'unheimlich' which literally means un-homely, ie not homely, but also is used to mean the uncanny or unfamiliar. I like the Yom Kippur association. It wasn't my intention but I do like the association. For some reason I hate October, I always have, and all I can think is that this is some echo memory from my father, whose own father died very suddenly one October when he was a boy.
This is the month
of the death of the father,
the month of desultory grief.
October, tensile, resonates to
the tarnished metallic despair
of unlove, bluntly stabbed into the gut
This is the month of undigested sin,
sitting in the mineral sharp stomach.
Cut adrift from all names, nights
lying exposed on bone cold streets,
cold and callously pure.
These are the nights of flickering film stills,
the chaff that blows unhomely in
unanchored hours.
I have danced in the wake
of a long past vessel, hidden
face down from the shadow
echo spat out by fire
and the salt tears cried into walls.
This is the month of the Hunter's moon
holding me captive
all your years.