Terence John

Remembrance As Soliloquy

Now the world is simply
me and not the two of us together it’s harder.
This light is of a harsher degree,
its remedies

in flux, its Autumns keener
to approach, its Winters sharper, its sounds
a grinding of knives. And when I try
to support these clouds

their weight is heavier than before
and silence is vigorous in its intent, but makes
no sense when I attempt to question it.
My poems are whispered

laments at night, my soft cushions
intolerable rocks.
My clocks you’ll find unwound and what was
once amusing to us both has lost

its original edge. Memory is less clear
than it was, my ambition to survive vacillatory,
weakest on Sundays, my rooms
a poor example

of life after the event :
the burnt-out ruins of a struggle, with nothing
left to impress but odds and ends
like a photograph, a hair brush and brooch,
an embroidered cardigan across a bedroom chair.

Terence John lives in Scotland. He was short-
for the Bridport Poetry Prize in 2018
and his poems
have appeared or are forth-
coming in
  Southlight,  Orbis,  The London
Magazine, Acumen, Glasgow Review Of Books,
The North, The Poetry Review and Stand.