Deserted Son

Some hidden memory,

of your time in the womb –
your small thoughts flashing, dreaming
of desert dancers and gyring dust.

A soon to be birthing majnūn,
A mum’s janīn, the bitter surprising result
of tousled sheets
and nights with a nomadic bar back…

The brooding, bastard boy –
restless hands, like his father,
curdled naivety, like his mother…
fathless heart, like all sons

Hands that lash, beat, tear…
almond eyes that hide
a dancing tempter,
a whisperer,

Jinnī…

Hidden, such hidden
thoughts,
the brooding boy, the failing scholar,
with a drunken tutelary spirit
whispering nonsense,
a broken old thing, best heard in the Latin,
lost in the desert
beneath the brilliant son

who pounds
and beats
and spins to dust.

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About Martin

I'm just... filling time.
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Poem, poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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