#NaPoWriMo Day 21 and… yeah, so this one kind of gut-punched me and delayed everything else, and then I was overthinking the visual imagery, which stopped me from recording the audio version of this and, while I finished all the poems within April 2026 (technically, if you live in California), I’ve only recently started getting the spoons together to make the posts. Anyway, Day 21 and wrote a piece of free verse inspired by the prompt “Temples and Prisons”. The publication which supplied said prompt state that they “are open to traditional forms of poetry, as long as they provide a sensory experience and avoid cliches and emotionally loaded language,” which I think pricked me to some of the lines that follow.
In fact, there are quite a few obscure references in this, so jump down to the end if you’d like to see them first, or otherwise ignore. Please note content warnings for assault, and implied parental violence.
Remember that, if you’re a subscriber to my Patreon, you can hear a recording of this piece (and the twenty preceding it) there. The link to the relevant post is here: https://www.patreon.com/fayroberts/posts/envoy-162005431
So here I am, locked in memories,
seething behind a scarp of bone,
not as alone as I’d like to be,
breathing (just breathe), pleading
for Lethe. It doesn’t come.
I should start at the beginning,
sins brimming over in media res,
desperate to avoid the kind of ploys
employed by the terminally metatextual,
mental guests overstaying their welcome.
Impressed yet? Or should that be etched?
I’m sketchy on the specifics, but acid
clambers up my throat, and oh yes –
etched is definitely (technically) the
better word.
Le mot juste, but there’s no justice,
just us, right? I am a bran tub
of unsorted clichés wrapped in
ill-fitting identities, overlapping
map references and… stuff…
Breathe some more. In. Out.
He used to clout you, side of the head,
bed not a refuge like it is now;
cowering angers him, but defiance
winds ire up into the crack of leather.
That’s not cricket, is it? Thwack!
Howzat? resounds and
I’m out, reeling, feeling misalignment
chime down my ganglia,
a ladder to clamber, but… wait…
The ritual glitches, high priest teetering as I
finally see him clearly, outlined in jumbled
metaphors and a score of
awful imagery: this bleak wee bastard’s
weak. No titan he, just greedy Tantalus…
Put him away, find a grey rock to
lock above his head,
shed the presumption of his power,
shower the lingering shame off
your body and stretch. Deep breaths.
Drift outside to see the sunset,
let lingering warmth invest the
dreadful, hollow spaces,
chase sounds that won’t echo
over and over, soft surfaces absorbing.
We weren’t meant to live
in mausolea, cold marble
crafted to showcase only the past,
fastened into shackles dragging
at our heels.
We need to know our
starting points to map the next
steps, and I wish I had an apt
and natty end, could
send you off tidily, but… this is it.
 |
| Painstakingly drawn by me using Krita and a Huion tablet |
Notes:
- Envoy (also: envoi) generally means a (diplomatic) messenger nowadays, but there are a ton of historical and literary meanings: The mesage itself. The concluding part of a literary work, esp. a short stanza concluding a poem written in certain verse forms (e.g. the ballade or sestina); (occasionally in extended use) an author's concluding words, dedication, etc. The mission or errand on which the messenger is sent. Letter of envoi (envoy), from the French lettre d'envoi, which can mean a letter intended to accompany another (especially diplomatic) document (basically a covering letter), a letter formally opening communication between individuals or institutions, or even a letter advising of the dispatch of goods.
- The Lethe is a river from Ancient Greek mythology, where the dead go to drink to forget.
- Le mot juste is a French phrase which we use in English to talk about the right word at the right time.
- And Tantalus was a Greek king condemned after death to never be able to quench his thirst or satisfy his hunger, as justice for what he served up at a feast for the gods (purportedly in one version: his own son).
