by Juliet Wilson
He had the blackest hair,
the darkest eyes staring
from thin paleness.
Deep she thought – New Wave
French cinema and Proust
over cappuccino
in dimly lit cafes.
She wasn’t prepared for the nightmare
traumatised sleep,
waking eyes dark-ringed.
She tried to leave
but was in too deep, dark-placed.
Finally he left her
to grief
unsolaced.
–
Edinburgh based Juliet Wilson blogs at Crafty Green Poet and edits Bolts of Silk.
The Pygmy Giant 
#1 by oovj on June 18, 2011 - 9:43 am
Wonderful tight use of language and repetition used just as it should be to highlight not structure the poem. It draws the reader in with a couple of lovely contrasts too, so necessary to deepen the darkess. Very nice writing.
#2 by mark on June 18, 2011 - 4:16 pm
The brilliant use of hints and allegations paint a vivid picture.
#3 by Leanne Moden on June 19, 2011 - 5:23 pm
The repetition of deep and dark give this poem an internal rhythm that heightens a sense of urgency and danger. That such a short poem can give such a complete sense of both the character of the man in question and the feelings of the narrator towards him is a credit to the poet.
#4 by Crafty Green poet on June 21, 2011 - 7:32 am
Thanks for your thoughtful comments, Leanne, mark and oovj!