Turgis, My Brother

Am I this Turgis

I hear of on the radio?

Not so grotesque, nor a murderer

when taken from amour

but shaken and weary

to the core.

 

And where his eyes shine

a dull brown, mine,

a vivid green in the light

and throes of infatuation.

Our differences are superficial.

 

We’re kindred in that,

within us, is a hole

perfectly formed for the female hand

to snip our arteries

with their departure.

As you would snip wild daffodils,

drunk, on a whim, on an April night.

 

And April is the cruellest month

as Eliot said.

And winter kept us warm.

But now May has come in clear view

and I no longer say to you:

‘Mein Irisch Frau,

Wo weilest du?’

 

No use is there

to relate this

to these words or this character.

But Turgis, my brother,

has showed me

how ugly we can be

when taken from amour.

No longer wear an ugly mask.

Never again, taken.

 

Before anyone calls plagiarism, the two blatant references in this are from T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land, I. Burial of the Dead’ and J.B. Priestley’s ‘Angel Pavement’ from which the character Turgis influenced the poem. Both contextualised only for this poem.

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