My Mind

Personal website of M.G. Daniel. Sharing poetry, my writings, snippets from my life and whatever's on my mind.

Is a poem ever too old?



Harvey dredged up a hurricane poem from my late teens scribbling. Last night, watching video from Texas made me go ‘wait a minute, I did write a poem after Hurricane Allen’ — my first experience of the devastation of these storms. I am sharing a draft I marked as version 1 (ver 1 in image) – there is a version 2 but it shows no evolution; only the line breaks are different. I may  have forgotten about the poem in the swirl of cleaning up, clearing fallen things, having a much longer commute time to and from school due to the condition of the roads, rebuilding and generally making do that took over our lives for some time after.

Harvey, in its early days, was headed straight for my homeland of Saint Lucia, but turned away at last minute.  I am wondering if this poem is too old to try to rescue. And new sensitivity about what is looting following a disaster has me pondering the ending. Anyway, here it is.

Paradise Found  (ver 1)
                                            – Melania Daniel
That night, at nine o’clock

Our clattering roof sent us jolting out of sleep.

Up in time to witness an abduction, we heard

The scream of clouds being dragged out of the sky

Into the vortex of a cyclone; with every bang

Our eyes, hopeless nails, held down the roof.


But only for a while.

The wind, like a merciless tyrant

Showing contempt for our huddled forms

Soon yanked it off, the inquisitive sky

Blinded us with a spotlight of lightening.

When all thought it over the stars tried to peep out

To see what the commotion was about,

A sudden gust spat its rage in their eyes,

A blackness so sudden descended as if

The stars had shut their eyes fast like falling trapdoors.


We saw next day trees plucked from the back of earth

Like chicken feathers and everybody’s business

Drawn out of homes like entrails; headless palms

Stacked in rows like victims of a medieval inquisition,

Innocence sent to the guillotine for just being there.

Battered faces of villages, broken branches

Of family trees bent over, moaning lost ones.

Beheaded houses groaning, liberated rooftops

Menacing their former masters.


The day was smashed to seconds

From metropolis factories and friendly neighbours,

We could only live one at a time.

Paradise was lost in the gale

And found


(Awe and ugly of a beached whale)

An instant garden of Eden blossomed

Carpeted with fallen fruit,

Cultured beauty destroyed

All walked at one with their nakedness.



Where all the men were of one calling,

Carpenters rebuilding the spirit of togetherness,*

And all the women gatherers

Rounding up possessions rejected by the storm,

Making head counts of the children.


Sifting through the workday

Ground to a halt

To find permanence,

I saw looters

Who had proclaimed the island

One vast self-service store.

I pondered

Was paradise found?

(UPDATE: The line marked * is taken from version 2 and substituted for “Architects redesigning the spirit of togetherness” of version 1)



Author: M.G. Daniel

I am a lifelong scribbler who is now focusing on poetry and becoming more established as a writer.

2 thoughts on “Is a poem ever too old?

  1. Proof that a great poem has no age^

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Proof that a great poem has no real age


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s