Poem By John Thorkild Ellison

They killed it.
And ever afterwards
There was something dead inside of her,
A failure of feeling.

She longed for a time
When food would taste again,
The days no longer be joyless, nor the nights interminable.

She longed to escape from this misery,
Where time itself was sick, and the years were extra,
Where daffodils and all the emblems of spring
Were just the pale remembrances of her abortive dreams.

Comments about Hilary

Yes abortion can be a bad thing, but I am not one to take away people's rights. My friend experienced one and he drank himself almost to death.

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Other poems of ELLISON

A Certainty

</>Blond bicycles writhe in the swimming pools
of dark professors.
'What rubbish! ' you say, but I've seen it myself:
Blond bicycles writhe in the swimming pools


Outside the surge of the wind, the wind in the trees,
The rush of leaves, and the sighing in the pine-needles,
Outside the sound of the sea-shore, distant, remembered,
The waves breaking on the gray rocks, and the evening approaching,

A Monody

In spite of my pain,
Inexplicable sweet strands of soured mist twist
In the echelons of salt streams,
The fist of kings is lost in the parting waves,

Poetry Can Damage Your Health

The day my doctor died of smoking
I bought myself a fat cigar -
I realised he must be joking,
His funeral was so bizarre:

A Day In March

Through the window the still yard.
A cat runs across and disappears through the slender doorway.
What to do on a day like this?
Such emptiness!

An Alcoholic

You poor dear guy with fishy eyes,
The kind of man my mother would despise,
I'd love to end your hopeless sorrow
And make you well -