Author Topic: A poem acting a poem of Dillon Tomas  (Read 846 times)

Offline Pieinsky

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A poem acting a poem of Dillon Tomas
« on: August 05, 2006, 06:04:13 PM »
This is a draft poem I wrote a year ago for school.

This Narrative Poem is an attempt to copy the style of Dillon Tomas.

Clonmactose: Narrative Poem

Let us go back to the beginning, where not only the beginning began… On a winter’s morning dew, Listen, listen to the owls hooting under the woodllike sky, its sharpened voice echoes, hitting of the trees like needle on stalk. As the leaves hustle in the breeze. The night is still, with where one might hear the rare sound of an animal scurrying, as it rustles through the leaf stained floor. Be wary, a perched spectre lye’s sited on its woody vine. Its prey a victim to its desire. A spotted mouse below scurries under the brush like a Fugitive on the run. Swoosh. The large wings of the owl go. The mouse has been strangled by its demons claws.

Below is a Green sea.

Up up any mountain, down the rushy glen. Parsley.sage, rosemay and thyme


Down down into that hollow hole which is Clomactose, no one ever leaves, nor no one ever acknowledged existed.


Oh not again. The presidented politician mayor of all Clonmactose slumbers sureingly enough upon his pillow, pilling dash upon dash of endless complaints, constantly continuing through his mind. In one ear out the other, they go. His currency is overrated.

Shh, one must keep quiet in Clomactose, so not to awaken those asleep. Lawyers, doctors, politicians, schoolgirls, schoolboys, teachers, hairdresser, police, woodcutters, coalminers.

Each a sleap, all awake.

Schoolboys dream of wondrous adventures where ye must fight hand on weapon with a band of companions, against the forces of evil.

Schoolgirls of adventures too, but these of horses, and how they will have to attain that wonderful prize be it golden egg or crystal cup.


But now morning is coming, and one can hear that cunning cock while it plans its crow, while crouped upon its coup.

 Morning has come and the sun is peeping its head above the horizon, and slowly seeping through the forest, bark after bark.

The silence breaks as the continuing thud of the woodsman’s axe, hears its way throughout the forest as it carves its way into a tree.

A statue UN built. It may be

I share creation, kings can do no more.

The silence is slowly dispersed, into that which is nothingness, as the chirping of birds can be heard, which is the recognition by all that morning has come.
The chirping of the birds start as flame but soon flame turns to fire, as noise erupts throughout the green woody like wood, as its inhabitants leave their homage.

As there is a lot to be done.

So that eternal wheel, which is Clomactose, slides down its infinite hill and the woodman cuts as in every morning.

Clang, Clang, Clang goes Clomactose.


Bits underlined  here are not my own.


2005. Age 15

This poem is ok and its format is peculiar, but takes a look at it if you want.

What do you think of it?