Mold

May 4, 2009

There’s a town in Wales called Mold
but it’s not like the stuff in my flat,
though it’s old French name
means High Hill
and me my mould
have a tower block.

But we’ve never hosted the National Eisteddfod
we’ve never possessed a network of trains
and our railway was never dissembled
to make room for a Tesco
to service our tastes.

And we never had
The Great Mold Riot
I never angered my mould
by announcing a paycut
I never banned the use of its language
being spoken by miners inside of my flat.

And we never discovered
a cape made of gold
and sent it to the British Museum –
we only have china
that’s slightly cracked
and blossoms of mould
like blue perineums.

Oh Mold of my Mould
that’s not my Mould
I and my Mould salute you.
We hope you are happy
ontop of your hill –
maybe one day
we’ll come see you.

One Response to “Mold”

  1. Martin said

    I like this one most out of your recent “mould” poems on this blog. Have you used a particular structure, or come up with one yourself? It seems like there might be a structure where, within a stanza, each line has fewer syllables. Am I right? The later stanzas don’t seem to follow this pattern, or am I miscounting?

    Anyway, I think this pattern, even if unintentional, gives the poem a lovely feeling; starting with a flowery thought about something “out there” in the world, elaborating but gradually becoming more succinct, discovering what you really mean, and saying it with more clarity and certainty, and becoming more personal, immediate. Then starting again with the next stanza.

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