This poem has a "cuter" inspiration than a lot of mine. I was given a gift of a spiral inducing hole punch by a friend, and so I used to make little spiral cut outs that I would hang from my wall like streamers after linking them together. One night, the spirals fell down and I used the phrase "I guess this is the night the spirals fell." Around the same time, during the period I refer to still as the "Summer of Hell", I would often sit in bed and think about all the things that had went wrong that particular day. This combines those two ideas into one. Around the time of writing this, I would often work with spiral imagery and also would also work with chalk imagery (it shows up soon in the poem). The former was usually meant to represent life moving out of it's planned area while the latter refers to how temporary some words and ideas reall were.
"The Night the Spirals Fell"
in the black, the sounds of other days come out twice as loud, a mysterious rhyme, a love sonnet to being there, at that time. a memory weighing little in the quiet, quite heavy, reverberates, and once from that old mind where new replays recreate those days and you line the scene with chalk as though it might be a crime and somebody had to be a victim. on that night the spirals fell, you laughed, remember? At something like a joke, like a sudden hope overtook you while awake (though sliding toward sleep) and you told me, all seriously, "I am you." a slight taste in the back of my throat said "This will not..." "This will not," I tried again, then silence. And it hung there, in the light. there was time, falling. there was love, elsewhere. there were gentle whispers.
Original
in the black, the sounds of everyday come out twice as loud, once from the echo pangs off of night mist ears where recoil and shadow sounds reverberate, and once from edged mind where knives replay that day and you chalk carve the scene as though it might be a crime and somebody had to be a victim. on that night the spirals fell, i laugh remember and something like a joke, and a sudden dream overtook me while awake and (sliding) told me "I am you." a slight taste in the back of my throat said "This will not be..." i was quite okay, even then. on that night, the spirals fell and it was plagues of manna, blessed white clouds of some fat locust blue, feathers sensation screaming inside of me. there was a world outside. there was time, falling too. there was love, elsewhere. there were dark and gentle whispers.
This poem written by W. Doug Bolden.
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