Broken by Robin Robertson

He’s back in the ghost house
where he, himself, is the ghost.
In this slow silt of neglect
half the light bulbs are blown, the drawers
jammed full of emptiness; the mail
still drifts unopened by the stair.

Outside the old house
—which his mother would call
broken, a ‘broken home’—
he’s trying to clear his head:
sweeping leaves into piles
that the wind just blows away.

From: https://theamericanscholar.org/four-poems-robin-robertson/#

Date: 2012

By: Robin Robertson (1955- )

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2 Comments to “Broken by Robin Robertson”

  1. That was quick.

    Here’s one of his I saved on my computer.

    Donegal

    (for Elie)

    by Robin Robertson

    Ardent on the beach at Rossnowlagh on the last day of summer, you ran through the shallows throwing off shoes, and shirt and towel like the seasons, the city’s years, all caught in my arms as I ploughed on behind you, guardian still of dry clothes, of this little heart not quite thirteen, breasting the waves and calling back to me to join you, swimming in the Atlantic on the last day of summer. I saw a man in the shallows with his hands full of clothes, full of all the years, and his daughter going where he knew he could not follow.

    On Mon, Jan 16, 2017 at 8:31 PM, From Troubles of The World wrote:

    > flusteredduck posted: “He’s back in the ghost house where he, himself, is > the ghost. In this slow silt of neglect half the light bulbs are blown, the > drawers jammed full of emptiness; the mail still drifts unopened by the > stair. Outside the old house —which his mother ” >

  2. Don’t know how that got sent. I was trying to attach another poem of Robertson’s I particularly liked. A friend didn’t. Said it had too many names, but I liked the names–found poetry.

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