On 28th March 1941 Virginia Woolfe committed suicide in the river Ouse in Sussex. She was not found until 18th April. This poem is about the time she was lost. The idea was sparked by the Serendipitous Oxymoron generator as mentioned on the Napowrimo entry for 6th April, which gave me melodic and drowning.

No sound save muffled slides and shifts
of hopelessness and sorrow. No sights
to see save grey on grey – depression,
deep and dismal. No scent lingers
on stale air save the sourness
of regret. No taste on tongue
but loneliness – a dry and bitter tang.
Stone filled pockets scrape
on brittle, fragile bone –
throat no longer swallows,
heart at rest,
time run out.
Trapped in the melody
of drowning, finally
I find peace.

I have also linked this to One Stop Poetry for One Shot Wednesday.

4 Responses to Suicide

  1. brian says:

    heavy piece…the stone filled pockets and giving over to the drowning is particularly chilling…

  2. Chilling Sally, but there is an essene of “her” style in this poem that I rather enjoyed. Great piece x

    • SallyJ says:

      Thank you Shan. I need to feel strong to read some of her stuff, but when I was given melodic drowning, she was the first to jump into my mind, closely followed by Plath of course.

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