Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Gig Ryan

Forfeit

Forfeit

Forfeit

1.

Unreal world I see from the cave with opinion, change and decay
and then the blinding forms
I wake up in a sty
in all the wet satin rivers
The shifting stars that move you further
I keel on, scraping out the fog
“Affliction is the way”
your voice a stone that summits and sinks
your green mouth is in my skin
I have to yield
my painstaking and ridges


2.

Europe’s jewels cowl in another smothered sunset
Health’s pavid I echo with his minions
You blurt out vocatives and credentials
That house’s mire That drubbed life
Your flash weakness a tribute to his cause
These pegs these languages travail

and toll constantly on him, a procession of him
in jeopardy in the tipped canals
his suspended film unrolls, sleep’s prison
I look west to the horizon’s walls of brass
and seem to see my sod and quick life frittered
in denizens of quasi-love, curriculum,
and rail against the stones, the bright-blue oscillating sea
and breathe hope’s cud whereby my gain, lover’s lack
that doped me, sweat and plaques
that lounged my shady stew
that splits my life’s purchase like a sack
and go with the “appointed to tribulation”
The creaking parched water saddles and repents
He moans across the oceans and his voice was like a pilaster
Close

Forfeit

1.

Unreal world I see from the cave with opinion, change and decay
and then the blinding forms
I wake up in a sty
in all the wet satin rivers
The shifting stars that move you further
I keel on, scraping out the fog
“Affliction is the way”
your voice a stone that summits and sinks
your green mouth is in my skin
I have to yield
my painstaking and ridges


2.

Europe’s jewels cowl in another smothered sunset
Health’s pavid I echo with his minions
You blurt out vocatives and credentials
That house’s mire That drubbed life
Your flash weakness a tribute to his cause
These pegs these languages travail

and toll constantly on him, a procession of him
in jeopardy in the tipped canals
his suspended film unrolls, sleep’s prison
I look west to the horizon’s walls of brass
and seem to see my sod and quick life frittered
in denizens of quasi-love, curriculum,
and rail against the stones, the bright-blue oscillating sea
and breathe hope’s cud whereby my gain, lover’s lack
that doped me, sweat and plaques
that lounged my shady stew
that splits my life’s purchase like a sack
and go with the “appointed to tribulation”
The creaking parched water saddles and repents
He moans across the oceans and his voice was like a pilaster

Forfeit

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère