the shadow play master’s
slender but crooked fingers
and neat paper silhouettes
grow and shrink for the last time
on the wall inside the brick building
oak brass tea steam
phlegmatic applause
the master makes his exit
while charming charlatan
with wild duck in basket
makes his appearance
door creaks fox flees into bush
coach passes by copper lamppost
three afghan hounds run after the coach
their paws hardly touch the ground
the frost fog in the grove
icy through respiratory tract
the shadow play master’s green coat
with black pompoms
becomes visible through the fog
but not his flour white complexion
hoarfrost on nostril hair
pine needles become blue
only frost no snow yet.
© Jenny Enochsson 2019
(This is a revised version of a poem I wrote in 2010.)
9 comments:
Oh, what a masterpice! I could feel the strange shadows rise and fall like breath. I really love this one. And the slight update only made it better. One to re-read time and again.
I can see myself in this one, this is a deeply felt one.
Ande and PO, thank you very much.
so very well done, like watching the opening of a BBC mystery- everything is so visible that you describe.
Hoarfrost on nostril hair Brr. Now I don't want to go outside.
Thanks Elaine. I am glad you liked it.
Cool! I like this shadow play master a a lot. Sad, but at the same time strong and mysterious. Like the kind of men I ususally meet.
Hey Jenny! Mucho long time no talk. Hope you're well in these crazee times. Not much new with me. Don't write much anymore. Living in Florida and trying to stay sane. Peace.
Hey Gerry! Great to hear from you. Yes, Ande and I are well. These times are crazy, alright. If you ever start writing again, you are of course more than welcome to post poems here. My novel is almost finished (finally!). Stay safe and sane in Florida. Peace.
Gerry, Sorry for the late reply, by the way. For some reason, I did not receive a notification.
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