Creative Writing

A little poetry.

I’ve been looking at Hardy’s poetry in class recently and wrote a response to ‘At An Inn’. I won’t say who the narrator is, but it’s fairly obvious if you read ‘At An Inn’. It’s not the best poem I’ve written – I couldn’t be arsed to structure it properly so it’s practically prose-y diarrhea. So, here it is.

Reflections on the Night at an Inn

I sit as I sat then: white stockings

Sharp against the pine.

 

For hours my gaze would fix forward,

my nails left inscriptions in the floorboards –

a Virgin’s passion.

Whole days indoors with shutters closed. A stifling

veil, and desperately dim.

 

So, when you lifted my hand and touched it

to your mouth, you coaxed me from my Doll’s House

with sweet words – the ones I’d yearned for. I thought

to give myself to you, if I couldn’t be my own.

 

But no. The torch you held scorched me, both of us;

we blew it out together. Your touch was a pinprick,

your vacant voice a slurred monotone.

And there we sat. That room, a gap unbreached

and absence.

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