Wet Season

Days shouldn’t be dark, bewildering senses
into endless, disturbed sleep.

Rain is droning a Bob Dylan number
on the corrugated iron roof, not one of his better songs,

going on and on and on,
stanza overload, eating away at my sanity.

Peripheral vision of my brain, still inundated with sleep
takes in the gloom and hypnotic monotony,

you are so tired, sleep, sleep,
you will keep sleeping.

It’s been raining for days now.

There’s no point rising, it won’t go away,
it’s hopeless, there’s no getting out.

I can feel my heart taking a dive,
weighing up another day of endless barrage.

I have reached saturation point
and my insides have started to decompose,

in concert with the forward marching mould and mildew.
I can’t stomach anything anymore.

It’s been raining for weeks now.

The stinking rottenness of it all has taken over,
invading new territory,

complete obliteration of nerves
that were already shot to pieces.

Fabric is beginning to decay
in the sodden, suffocating humidity.

Rank mud is infiltrating cracks in my foundations,
like a toxic secret which slowly corrupts.

Dread rises with the flood waters,
and is trapped with all the other mind junk.

It’s been raining for months now.

31 thoughts on “The Wet Season

  1. That is very grey and appropriately droney. It has a rhythm and sounds that accentuate the long slow slide into depression too. Perfectly made and very evocative. The sky is very blue and shiny today.

  2. Hi Gabrielle!

    I had to tell you how great this stanza was:

    ‘The rain is droning a Bob Dylan number
    on the corrugated iron roof
    not one of his better songs
    it goes on and on and on
    stanza overload
    eating away at my sanity.’

    I nearly laughed aloud when I read ‘not one of his better songs/it goes on and on’ – what an excellent description of rain when it’s not welcome, a song that just won’t finish!


  3. “I can’t stomach anything anymore”
    we all know this…it is a good phrase to say, saying it aloud, phrasing it help me to deal with it.
    love your poem, I can smell the rain.

  4. This is great, the tone really pushed a depression into me, love the Dylan reference, that it was one of his endless monotine pieces, I can feel the pain of being stuck in the house. Next time maybe flick the Dylan tape to ‘Rainy Day Women #39’.

    1. Ha,ha,ha – where the hell did he get that title from (they were all stoned and drunk when they recorded it – he said he wouldn’t record it otherwise). Thanks Mark – I’m glad my poem had that effect on you – that was the intent. Maybe I should post a warning with it – do not read if feeling depressed.

  5. Thanks for the rain. It made me feel for a moment that it was raining here. So dry – as a chip. You soaked my senses anyway. Ta.

    1. We’ve got fires everywhere at the moment – Rocky, Bundy, Childers. They nearly closed the road to Bundy last week cause the fire was up against the road. Lucky it rained heavily here on the weekend.

  6. Oooh, Gabrielle — this gave me the shivers and evoked a great deal within me. Many feelings, among them appreciation that for me, a period of “rain”, much like you described, has hopefully (oh please) ended.

    But as you say so well in your poem, “Some of it will stay for decades after the flood / retreats back behind the usually tough banks. / The dread rises with the flood waters.” We are never the same after such a deluge, particularly months of such a deluge. But oh, the appreciation when the rain finally stops, despite the dread that it could come back…

  7. Gabrielle, you would have to post the warning for life generally regarding the dangers of depression and pleasure. The poem really catches it — I find recollections here too, like the others. Also, this sense that poetry creates something out of it, out of what would otherwise be only sadness. The poetry crystalizes it, and you can stand apart and look at it as a thing in the world. A crystal catches light.

    Very telling your comment to Brad about striving for imperfection. My head is still full of my “art rant” in which I feared being mistaken for a curmudgeon (with a pun on mud in light of your poem). Yet all the fine honed skill maybe gets us imperfection, and that imperfection has a nub to it, like sand paper, like a file, with a texture that wakes us.

    And we do want to wake! as your poem attests –ak

  8. Thanks Aletha. I loved your ‘rant’ and couldn’t agree more. As usual I am referring to people when I talk about perfection (the perfectionist attitude which causes depression) and all people have imperfections and they are still wonderful and lovable.

  9. I particularly like the comparison to Bob Dylan! Definitely an appropriate time to repost the poem!

    Crafty green Poet

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