Crossing the Center Line
by Bill Yarrow
He was a Decembrist but he was not
one of the hanged. They dragged his
frozen bones to Magadan where he
toiled in the ruined mines. More than
fresh air, he longed for glimpses of the
speckled light that sparkled off the sea.
He was used to the moldy smell of gold
ore and the whiskey whispers of his
comrades in hell. But he never adjusted
to the crisp loss of Ludmilla to scarlet fever.
And the white nightmares never left him.
One day, he got a letter from his brother.
Their mother had died in a suspicious fire.
He lit a cigarette and filled his shrunken lungs.
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Author's Note
This poem appears in WRENCH (erbacce-press, 2009)
The poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX, 2012).
Other stories by Bill Yarrow
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Powerful tale.
I like the form of your poetry.
The music in the lines works so well, Bill.
"He was used to the moldy smell of gold
ore and the whiskey whispers of his
comrades in hell. But he never adjusted"
Great form. Strong closing line as well.
Thanks, Matthew and Sam. I appreciate your kind comments.
Oh, and I LIKE this, from beginning to end. Crisp language, and all the references, from the Road of Bones to Ludmilla (is that a wink to Ludmilla A. Trigos, just wondering). Those white nightmares come through loud and clear here. Nice!
Thanks, Michelle! Apreciate your comments. Don't know Ludmilla A. Trigos. It's a generic Ludmilla here.
Wow, what a coincidence. My vague recollections from studying Russian history made this poem speak to me, but I googled Ludmilla to see the reference, and came up with Trigos! Don't know her myself, either, but I was sure this was intentional on your part (check this out: http://us.macmillan.com/thedecembristmythinrussianculture). In any case, the name fits!
That so funny! Thanks for the reference.
* from me