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Remnants of a Saturday night

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Below is the poem entitled Remnants of a Saturday night which was written by poet harry horsman. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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Remnants of a Saturday night

Sunday morning early, five a.m to be
precise, my mind awakes, then gently succours
the body to arise from one’s mundane sleep. I
then transfer to Britain via 1ZB, listening
to the English football commentary, it’s worth
the lack of sleep. Six a.m when finished,
my jogging gear I engage, then to the streets
of Manurewa and beyond, I go to record this page.

Mahia road, with scattered glass set out
like a sculptor mad kaleidoscope, sometimes
giving the impression of an artistic master piece.
Yet!  always pointing upwards, in the parks, on the
pavement, along the roadway, abundance of glass,
complemented occasionally with odd smithereens
of windscreen, to add a more neutral effect to
the greens and browns, laying in profusion there.  Moving

on towards the hallow Gallagher Park, one espy two
young girls sniffing glue, like it was an art, then
pacing up and down the hedgerow as in some
hallucinogenic dilemma. Alfriston road where a
dilapidated Morris Oxford stripped of its bare
essentials, sits naked, the unscrupulous thief not
in any hurry to close the door, after his implicit
plunder. Redoubt road where two youngsters

returning from a night on the town, decide to
hit a speed limit sign, this on the easiest stretch of
the road, they had to hit it, there was nothing else
to hit. “An idea flashing through my mind, tells
me ‘These lads would be useful in a desert looking
for water’” Hollyford road where poetic scenes one
does greet, the fresh ice blue morning sky, beginning
to fashion a hint of cloud rouged in cosmetic

splendor, metropolitan Auckland spread evenly ahead,
Rangitoto Island, majestic, yet languid in a shroud of
northern mist, as one contemplates, ancient sirens beckoning
one forth, into their watery grave, for the scene is one of
conceivable beauty. But as one ventures towards the sleeping
establishment, an odious smell begins to develop, an odour
of the masses, akin to the morning after a piss up,
booze, farts, belches and spew the sudorific populous

at its worst, one could feel the stench lavishly within the breeze,
my senses begin to absorb the stimuli, my lungs the slithery ooze,
as the unseen prehensile seeps through the walls, the open widows
and chimney flues, trapped in a massive air pocket, no escape for it,
waiting for nature to absorb, as with all others that man has seen fit
to produce. Boundary road, vehicles rushing by “Thank God”
for the exhaust fumes, I hypocritically say, knowing now I was back
into civilization. Wind assisted spinning bicycle wheel, laying

where it’s unaccustomed rider had left it, no doubt glad of
the ride and probably thinking “Stuff the owner, stuff the
world,” Stuff! me if it had been any darker, I would have
fallen over the bloody thing. Soaking farm beast glaring
at me as though I’m bloody stupid, and probably right,
theirs a force situation, mine entirely voluntary. Pokekoes silently
stalking the grass verge, one of them on the roadway
never to stalk again (not in this world anyway.) But worst

aspect of all, is the transmogrified hulk that drags itself
out of the shop doorway, awakening from a stoned
related sleep, one red eye just managing
to open, trying to look into the other,
to see why it is not. Then a sudden impulse
of shame as I approach
quickly disguised, into a couldn’t care less attitude
of the hard guy he wishes he was,

one cannot be in awe or disgust,
but feel a great sorrow, surely someone loves this thing!
Someone somewhere cares. One tries to imagine
the innocence of a child babbling in it’s
cot, not a care, no poison as yet entering
it’s feeble brain.  This!   this transition of matter,
with the sun, rising
to serve a brand new day!!!

 © Harry J Horsman

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  1. Date: 12/26/2012 8:05:00 PM
    My my Harry, sometimes I wonder how your thoughts work. I wish one day to write like the wise pen you own. I like the way you talk to your self and poem, and only allow us to follow. Now that is amazing. Life is all about the bottom of the pits, and climbing out to the newest day and velocity speed of entering any path,, some scenic view hu... you took me in every which way of change here... enjoyed... love this poem... understood or not...love it...love it..LINDA

  1. Date: 12/18/2012 6:04:00 PM
    Awesome! So, descriptive..I wish I was there to witness these scenes...And, I loved the last paragraph..So, true.."Transition of matter"..we all started out untarnished..so sad...Thanks for reading and commenting on my work....Hugs, Holly

  1. Date: 12/16/2012 3:16:00 AM
    Awesome piece here Harry, got a kick out of the two lads lookin for water in the desert, you've captured all you've seen very well. Kudos my friend, blessings, Carl

  1. Date: 12/14/2012 1:02:00 PM
    Harry,your poem here is a major reason to why I love free verse poetry so much.A solid masterpiece that puts your talent where it belong: on top of the game!

  1. Date: 12/13/2012 10:31:00 PM
    oh, my what a beautiful craftsmanship of some perfectly horrible images. I like the word Mohammad used below: graphic. That surely describes many of the scenes depicted in this very fine poem, harry. Take a bow, your talent shines here.

  1. Date: 12/13/2012 12:44:00 PM
    An amazing poem showing in graphic detail a sunday morning on the streets. The last stanza is stunning. I am a late riser these days as I work on the computers writing poetry till past midnight. But I remember the days when I used to get up 6.00 in the morning on Sundays to play a round of 18 holes golf in Lagos, Nigeria. Those days are a dream now. Thanks for visiting my Haiku The Flame and for your kind appreciation. Have a nice day. -Mohammad

  1. Date: 12/13/2012 7:25:00 AM
    Hi Harry excellent must go for a run myself if this is what can been seen, all the best Owen

  1. Date: 12/12/2012 7:40:00 PM
    Will the real 'arry 'orsman please stand-up, please stand-up, please stand-up! And there yousbe, standing up as the Babylon-Kid I knew you are, from the moment you joined the Soup. So many strong lines in this poem! Superbly raw, real poetry here. I don't jog so much as I enjoy going for a bike ride instead....and I have had similar musings, just in a different place, is all. A quadruple 7-Up~!

  1. Date: 12/12/2012 3:07:00 PM
    wow, harry! i'm wondering how you got all this down as you were out running! your language is simply amazing here - so descriptive and so fresh and spot-on! it was surprising to me to read of some of the dark pictures you've painted so well, though...

  1. Date: 12/12/2012 2:40:00 PM
    Harry; This is a heck of a write. This was a very intense Saturday night. Thanks for sharing and for a brand new day. Lucilla

  1. Date: 12/12/2012 10:24:00 AM
    Bloody hell harry some sort of Saturday nights you have had, this is so good yet sort of scary xx