Poem Hunter
SOM (A Thursday,1987 / Tiobraid Arann)


Poem By Roald Dahl

The prospect of you paralyses me
though I cannot understand how.
You are a piece of paper, A4,
with some words, numbers, grades.

You should not shake me to the core.
All I have to do is turn up, accept you,
the systematically printed sheet
of misery in a brown envelope.

Well, not misery. That’s extreme.
You are extreme.
Your print I know will either
complete my task, the two-year struggle,

or erode me, debase me,
nothing but two years’ trouble.
You do not scare me on certain days –
most of the time – but in these

closing times you’ve become more eerie,
a daunting little slice of a tree,
treated, given life and ready to devour me,
my dreams, my sanity.

I'd like to be convincing or even just
a little bit Jekyll and Hyde
to be able to say to you:
You don’t scare me –

It’s me who’s coming to get you.
But I must walk down through the square
and the path by the fields
leading to the school gate again

where nearby trees are making a salient
summer’s hush and I must
walk through those doors, once more,
and claim you as mine

with a smile for everyone,
tear at your brown protection,
shaking, and believe, even if it’s not,
that everything will be fine.

August 15th 2006

User Rating: 4,2 / 5 ( 756 votes ) 2

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Comments (2)

This is good Sean. There is a great deal of angst running through the narative, but not the 'I'm going to hold my breath tillI die and then you will be sorry' type angst. This has a real pumping feel to it; \z constant rythme. In short: it's a bloody good piece.
Powerful imagry and a wonderful poem!