My colour filled
a memory alive,
shaking me awake,
tearing me down,
takes my soul,
turns me upside,
around to thank
you, are gone.
— By Iain Sutherland (26.2.13)

8 thoughts on “G^H#O_S*T

  1. The strange thing is that I read this yesterday and couldn’t really connect with it. I wondered if it’s one of those things where the thoughts are clear in the author’s mind but are obscured to the casual reader. Then I reread it again today, after a bit of a rough night, and it snapped into clarity in that it seemed stencilled from my personal emotion but onto a frame not my own.

    • Hi Rebekah, thanks for the comment! I’m glad it snapped into focus–which makes you perhaps the first of my friends to get it–I’ve been drawing blank stares. It is the weird nature of poetry. Often only quality time can unravel the true meaning of the poet’s muse. Good poetry is like a good wine, to which you must swirl sniff and sip, only then will can you appreciate, and understand its flavours.

    • The special characters are like what you would see in cartoon expletives, “@$#_*!!”

      I can explain, it was purposely dense. I wrote this about an ex-girlfriend who I once loved very much. It had been nearly two years when I wrote this. The memory of her was like that of a ghost, filled with colour, so that I remembered her with more vibrancy than was the reality. The image of her would often keep me awake. I wrote this because I felt I was finally able to say my colour-filled ghost was gone. I was thankful for those times, but knew any thought I had of reconciliation was just a false image I had built up overtime. If was to reconnect, I would find I’d fallen in love with a ghost.

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