Poems of Loss

I am certainly feeling the loss of the previous topic... there were some truly beautiful thoughts and images floating around in there.

yes, i know, sorry for no warning.

no 'sorry's Wolf -- I am merely musing selfish thoughts.

as were those of us who posted in there...

stealing someone else's words... (from a small poetry book I discovered in a even smaller used bookstore some years ago) SHE TELLS THE TRUTH by Ruth Danon Invention is not enough. These are facts and you need to know them. In 50 million years Los Angeles will crowd into the Aleutian Islands and chill slowly into the Arctic night. The Red Sea will dwarf the Mediterranean; the timing will be better. There will be no new oceans and no new continents but Oaxaca, where you and I have never been together, will sink gently into the water. By then we will have known each other through millions of lifetimes. Maybe we'd be wiser and we'd know what to do. The equator is where it is because that position is half way between the poles. The prime meridian was an arbitrary choice. Columbus thought the world looked like a pear and he was right. He had no reason for this speculation. Some facts are worth explaining. Right now I can think only of the wind in Chicago and how I would rather do anything with my life than hurt yours. There's more to making a map than taking a few aerial photographs. Invention isn't enough and on this sea green planet there's more going on than you know, more than you can imagine. How good a map is depends on the ability of the mapper to interpret what she sees on the surface. I'm having a harder time with your face than I had with the moon. When continents bump up against each other they leave scars and ridges on the earth's crust. There's a slow bleeding of lava onto the ocean floor. It took centuries to create the delicate instruments of measurement used by cartographers. Still, triangulation from a known point remains the basis of geodesy.

"maybe we'd be wiser and we'd know what to do"... (i liked this poem very much, stacey)

thanks, Stacey...

Sorry And so you assumed I said A thing. You flatter yourself. I was lured by mere words. In my heart, I knew them to Be that and that alone. So Speak naught of it, tis over And I have learned and you have too. Words can be misconstrued Even by the sincerest ear.

(and the most loving heart...)

(hey) contemplating one or other lying noble roman searching the bottom of the row (of the history shelf) absently even less aware than usually i am turned abruptly to my right without thinking or glancing not giving a damn (for oncoming traffic you know) i nearly plowed her to the ground (poor thing, nearly murdered randomly on a saturday afternoon at waldenbooks by a book-drunk stranger who should've had his browsing licence qualified long ago)- a pretty one, she was- kind eyes, brown and wide and an amused ironic mouth- and a smile that graced even reckless men that menaced chain-store aisles- mumbled apologies, so little aware was i- 'no problem', said she, looking up at me, still smiling as she squeezed on by- and i- and i- i looked at her- began the descent into my favored hell- nothing beneath me to break my fall- just fell and fell and fell into the place where's kept her face and i reduced and she was not and nothing nothing nothing nothing was i. contemplating romans at waldenbooks nothing was all.

nice (been there and done that myself), as is seeing you around, Nick... you ought to go check out http://www.spring.net/yapp-bin/restricted/browse/screwed/all I can see your Celtic barbs working wonders in there...

good piece and welcome back

thanks, y'all (ummm, should've been "nothing was all"... stead of "nothing was i"... hmmm, yeah...) (freudian slip i suppose)... checking the site out, wer... thanks

(no title) If delusion it is It's of the purest degree. And though it less It belongs to me, And purely. And if it so- If less is Me- if more Believing illusioning Fantasy- Was so, from the start. But even so- EVEN SO- Cannot cannot Dissuade diminish Deter dismiss This dimming damned Deficiency (that beats in me). Delusion, so pure Is true. And enough (in you). All (in me).

so how long is it gonna be before i have to kill this topic? (re: words floating around out there) this piece has a lot of d's in it....almost a tongue twister, but done in your style-nicely

sheesh, no offense....

geez louise (none taken) you make a relevent point re:'words floating around' and all... i am appropriately chastened... nearly coherent (sometimes happens, brief interludes, coincidence with expression rare but occasional)... (sorry)

good to see you around. you doing ok?

yup... (and you?)

just busy as a beaver (almost literally-no trees down on my account)

maybe, but it's still a helluva dam, Wolf!

haha!!!

wrote this tonight... has no title... never forgiven this earth that gave and took you away. cold careening amoral rock that hid you under dirt. never forgiven the boy who loved Love more than love could take. who for the sake of Love and Pure- spent your love away. it's all finished, that time ago. unforgiven, all we turn and spin and breathe and be as if you hadn't been. what more to say, that isn't said? nothing left but for that i've bled and left undone. sleep, and well, my dreaming one- and the face of night which is become the ghost of all your days but touched will merge to one- one light and such as star or sun as heaven's never seen- till you are free (of all, of me) and dreaming better dreams.

very sad

beautiful

Title it. Publish it. Write more!!

nick, are we going to hear from you ever again after you move?

yep, i imagine... sure i'll be online purty quick... (and i'm gonna miss austin really really bad... just leaving texas is traumatic, too... every time i've done it in the past, and i've done it a couple of times, i was really homesick... and it's funny, really, cause there's so many things about this state that embarrass me... but damn i love it) (not so bad moving off to colorado, i should think... being that colorado's rightfully a part of texas anyway) oh, and thank y'all for what you said bout the poem... it's nice, i appreciate it

(damn) from belly cross to nervous thigh lingering at the gentle swell of your hip- the subtle ripening angle there the delicate sway dancing girl swimming in sheets writhing, to rhythm writ on wanting skin from wanting finger tips

I like it. you ought to publish.

erotic, nick....

wrote this yesterday... sort of a bridge/continuation thing for some ideas banging around a few months now... has no title, really... 1 (rememberance) gape-mouthed flailing at a scorning moon light entered in. stars ground to vapor dreams then swallowed full light the way to dark leeching lessening coming thick and dull and blunt as failing fingertip's reaching fumbling grip- the waste of mind the want of heart thick as droning moments ticking dissonant parts rigoured- not bidden or aware (no matter. it is on the air) the thing impends. and so more it is than ken can coalesce to even one idea of might or would. But closing eyes, waking, could (would and did) forget. And Dream can mingle every all- can bleed into some better whole- and falter, at it's end. It too, must serve that best unto- so impervious is unconcious to- that damned impend. Certain, i within the curse of darkening mind and Reason's worth then reason's final utter waste- humans blind epochs dead- centuries strung from undreaming heads (the dull the purposed men) flung from out the hands of we asleep, in rhapsodic reveries of never-certain dreams (memory, transfixed and steeped within some lingering lulling imagining sin of Never Was and Never Be). Certain to empty empty to waste waste to absence of every trace of thinking's dreams or dreaming's thought- 'til we are become what others be- bought from out a legacy of never-yielding need. 2 (intent) Upon this city in sleep (not)light descends and casts a pall of forgetfulness over each roof. Morning bends what's left, within that silence- each bitter reproof of belief conformed with dying days. And promises, remembered in the dreaming haze are mirrored in the imaged words of men- reforming, receding- becoming, again connected-seeming days. � Perversity, this. Time forms whole; and sensation diminishes, every one. Replenish each, in it's time. Uttering each- let metered rhyme transform the seeming way. Absolve them all, from their curse and by one thread of slender verse dissolve corrupted day. 3 (consolation) cold here now. fading light through the square little window above my bed mirrors in aspect cold- rhythms dead- imaged chaos in my head. i could- in a chosen instant could- decompose. each wasted breath, thought, want, sensory perception beating there- wash away. that i don't- this instant, next- means some little thing less. being man of Man- fool of Fools- given, thus am to subversion's rule- i subvert too. no less than any- undoubtedly so- this is the single rule of that i know: follow that light, however it goes- follow it, whether it to some store of love mislaid in a dreaming heart or within the blackest waste of that some way come dark- follow, whether you live at midnight or noon, whether your god speaks sun or moon- follow that light, dissolving through every spiralling eternity misspent upon your disappearing soul- (it is there to go then to know- finally Finally FINALLY know- each little thing that's left to know) 4 (postscript) ("remember him poor dreaming thing- didn't know, from one to next wherefore to think or go or be- he was swallowed up, finally, in his goddamn poetry pass the potatoes won't you please?")

i lose myself in the words sometimes nick your words can make me feel so lonely, so loved, so hopeless... they are not meant for me yet the come across so forcefully i sometimes dream about the images thank you for sharing again

Nice to be able to read your stuff again, Nick. Thank you.

That was good. I was sorry to see it end.

thanks y'all your words are encouraging, and appreciated (the words are meant for anyone that braves them... only hope the images/dreams aren't too difficult to endure)

nothing, I think, is too difficult to endure with the right words...

nick, they've created new characters in my mind... i think about them and they've actually triggered a few brief verses of my own creation. (have you moved?)

that's really cool stacey... thanks for telling me that... (you mind telling me what kind of characters you mean? and i know that you've been sort of reticent bout posting your own verses... but if you ever did, know that i... everyone... would feel honored to read them) far as moving, just half-way... currently in houston, trying to wrap up some outstanding business... still have my apartment in rollingwood till the end of the month, hotel room in vancouver, where we'll probably stay till summer... this past months, been dividing my time between there and austin, but should be there more or less fulltime before christmas...

(I'd like to second Nick's aside, Stace)

(pretending I'm ignoring you both, although am incredibly honored by your interest... still thinking about violating that false sense of security I hold so dear and near)

(and after all we've done...would it help to beg?)

I would also like to see some of your poetry, Stacey.

ok, this piece probably doesn't belong here, but it is about loss and it's new.... I have no poems to write Gone are they from my muse. Lacking inspiration, only excuses Flow from my pen and I waste Precious energy to appease The empty paper that I long To fill up with sounds. Yet I keep marking the lines With empty, lonely sentences. Is it to prove that I write? To enjoy fulfilment from my labor? What a lie to Vanity! And have we not all lost A moment or two to Time? So is this it? My talent Truly gone away forever? Or a mere lull in my Movement through Life?

just a lull (i'm sure of it)

thanks sweetie!

once again, I'd have to agree with Nick...

*hugs*

alright, stacey, we're still waiting for your poetry! (and yes, the muse of mine is still AWOL)

how're yall? been gone awhile... been pretty much offline, mostly... living in seattle... (miss texas a lot)... anyway... it's august... the twenty-fifth marks twenty years... so... this is for teri... there was a park here once. oleander bushes and ponderosa pines. a seesaw, missing a bolt- shimmying action, good for a jolt, if you weren't ready, coming down. swings were...over there. the type with plastic seats, weathered black- affixed to squeaking chains that screamed to heaven and back- over and over again when the northside kids let out of school at 3pm. and she liked the swings but just to sit sometimes and think. or gently rock as we would talk when i first began to know her, then (and she was fifteen). we played horse sometimes (between horsing around) on the half-moon court with the rusted hoop and the chain-link net. will never forget the trinkling, swishing sound of 'e' rolling in that first time we played (when i let her win. and no better proof of love nor more profound has ever been than that). it seemed an eternity that day enduring, to that kiss. she was standing with her back against a crooked tallow tree and her head was raised, just slightly anticipating me. such breathless terror persuading lips those lips one foot opposed could, in this life, or any, desire the touch of a thing composed so poorly, as this trembling mouth. but when i worked the nerve at length to form my lips with hers- i found therein my moment and bound my love to hers and to every fragile thing that is- then's not. and tied myself to stars. no park here now. the city deemed this place in need of further cement. and too many trees detracts from the spirit of urban renewal, i guess. but nothing's static. everything goes- changes, to some lesser/greater/different thing. whether it's the languid thoughts of a poet replacing a living girl or a parking meter for a swing everything alters and we endure from change to brutal change. convicted, as we are, in what is- but still connected and buffered by stars. yeah... that's the end of that... gonna re-post one i posted awile back, if y'all don't mind... never forgiven this earth that gave and took you away. cold careening amoral rock that hid you under dirt. never forgiven the boy who loved Love more than love could take. who for the sake of Love and Pure- spent your love away. all was finished, that time ago. unforgiven, all we turn and spin and breathe and be as if you hadn't been. what more to say, that isn't said? nothing left but for that i've bled and left undone sleep, and well, my dreaming one- and the face of night which is become the ghost of all your days but touched will merge to one- one light, and such as star or sun that heaven's never seen- till you are free (of all, of me) dreaming better dreams. anyway... twenty years... hard to believe...

thanks for trusting us with it again, nick. glad to see you back, please come by more often *hugs*

Painful and profound, Nick. My belated sympathies for something too soon taken from you. Thank you for sharing.

thanks, Nick, just drank a toast for her again... and I second Wolf in telling you to bring your butt around here more often...

and I third it... (drinkin' already?!?! I'm envious...) ./

thanks yall... we're not drinking tonight, though... (at least not yet)... paula read at the world poetry cafe, in vancouver, earlier... (she read 'sir'... knocked 'em dead... she's been reading a great deal, both in vancouver and in seattle)... now she's playing pool (not exactly knocking 'em dead)(but she's enthusiastic)... anyway... yeah, that's that, i guess...

congrats to paula! btw, I noticed living in the northwest hasn't taken the Texan outta ya, just the apostrophe outta ya'll... what about you nick?? reading? writing? working? playing?

I guess I gotta drawl "y'all" to fit in here. I noticed most--but not all--of the poetry here is original--and quite good I might add. I think this is quite good (or I wouldn't post it) but it isn't original. Oh, well. It IS a poem of loss. When You are Old When you are old and gray and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. --W. B. Yeats (when you're not as talented as Nick, Paula, or Wolf, cite a master...)

Lovely, John. You cannot be talented in ALL the arts...you are mortal, after all. However, before I swallow that modesty whole I might remind you that elsewhere on this conference there are original poems by you - very good ones, too. No false modesty here, I beg you!

Thank you all. I am no master either, so bring this to the table: It might be lonelier Without the Loneliness - I'm so accustomed to my Fate - Perhaps the Other - Peace - Would interrupt the Dark - And crowd the little Room - Too scant - by Cubits - to contain The Sacrament - of Him - I am not used to Hope - It might intrude upon - Its sweet parade - blaspheme the place - Ordained to Suffering - It might be easier To fail - with Land in Sight - Than gain - My Blue Peninsula - To perish - of Delight - Emily Dickinson, 1862

Amazing that Dickinson only published somewhere between 8 and 11 poems in her own lifetime and those were edited (not to her satisfaction). Thank God, someone mined the "gold" she left in her steamer trunk!

(and you can't sing it to the tune of The Yellow Rose of Texas... YEA!!)

...or the New York City version..The Yellow Rows of Taxis. (sorry...)

funny! i like it!

Space Available In the chill before dawn when the alarm clock clatters for my attention and the rooster insists he spoke first I snap out of my rapid-eye reverie. Sometimes I reach out to stroke the vacant place where your hair made the down inside the now lonely pillow jealous of its softness. --John Burnett, copyright 1993

MMMmmm... I like...

Thanks, Stacey.

I am getting painful intimacy here again...perhaps I should read these when I am old and jaded. Lovely, John...I am so sorry!

Thank you...my poetry professor (Alan McNarie) made me write one that doesn't rhyme--he always preferred free verse and I always seem to write stuff with rhyme and rhythm...it was therapy (the subject matter, not the free verse) when I wrote it...now I actually like it.

Poignant and evocative, John.

Your professor, Alan McNarie, has written some really fantastic stuff. You need to put some of it in Poetry in the appropriate places...please!

He is a terrific poet...he's also very territorial about his stuff. I would have to contact him first. He's been a little scarce--and way underemployed lately. The university screwed up when they didn't give him tenure.

You're kidding!!! Why was he denied tenure when we have sodden jerks here with no value sitting on their okoles and not inspiring either student or colleague... makes me furious!

I believe there was some jealousy among two professors on his tenure committee. One said that he wasn't helpful enough with ESL students (he had a complaint from a loud disgruntled Korean student) and the other said that he hadn't authored enough "scholarly articles in refereed professional journals." Amazing...and sad. At the time, his first novel had just won the prestigious Pushcart Small Press award and he has published dozens of poems in nationally recognized literary reviews. Scholarly articles, my okole. He was a writing instructor, not a scientist. I'll tell you who those professors were if you remind me when we talk in person. I'm not about to say anything in print that may get back to them. I still occasionally take courses from the University.

good piece, john!

hey! you two were supposed to wait til i got through! *grin*

Thanks, ladies (Stacey, Marcia, Nan, Wolf). I appreciate it.

Talk to you this weekend...I will endeavor to remember (making note to put in cash box for t-shirt sales...)and we shall talk story...

(stacey) some of all, i s'pose... (reading/writing/working/playing) (etc)... very coolish up here... very un-texaslike in just about every way, but i'm adjusting... (in my fashion)... (what about you?) both the yeats and the dickinson were lovely, by the way... and john- while i, too, find myself drawn to the discipline of (mostly discarded, these days) form- i thought your verse well-made, and moving... (paula wrote this) (but everything above nick wrote) (if that makes any sense at all): (yes... very much liked the piece, john- reminds me of a cummings poem, actually... lemme see if i can find it, hold on-) "Sometimes I reach out to stroke the vacant place where your hair made the down inside the now lonely pillow jealous of its softness...." [27] "... - before leaving my room i turn, and(stooping through the morning)kiss this pillow,dear where our heads lived and were" thats what your poem made me think of... thank you for posting it. she's done now... back on her own damn terminal (we're at an internet cafe, in vancouver)... going to a laborday poetry picnic thing in a few minutes, on the beach... gonna be some kind of live hookup with some san antonio poets, which sounds very cool... though why anyone would start a picnic (labor day, otherwise) at seven o'clock at night is a little confusing (but they're very peculiar here, in many ways)...

It sounds like Hawaii, Nick. Perhaps they are too hot and laid back to do much musing before dark?!

anytime my poetry can remind someone of cummings, I am beyond flattered. Thanks Nick and Paula.

nick: (stacey) some of all, i s'pose... (reading/writing/working/playing) (etc)... very coolish up here... very un-texaslike in just about every way, but i'm adjusting... (in my fashion)... (what about you?) coolish mood wise? or temperature wise? a little of both? or a little of none? I think I'm dreamy comfortable in a realistic sorta way... fantasizing about running away with B to marry... wine country and sunshine and more fresh air than I could ever possibly fill my lungs with... *deep breath* surrounding myself with that love as we exchange vows... making it more than words... more than pretty pictures for posterity... making it breaths breathed in unison yes... dreamy. writing in my head... cursing laziness while I actively refuse to scribble thoughts onto paper... lotsa thoughts though. good ones and silly ones and grown up feeling ones... I'm pretty comfortable nick. this place is very un-texaslike in many ways ... i think I have adjusted. I have a real cozy, shady but warm home inside my house and in my circle of happiness... (and in this topic... I guess i have only recently lost my fear and lonliness and weariness... never fear... I'm sure I'll stumble upon it again one day.)

by Robert Bly A man told me once that all the bad people Were needed. Maybe not all, but your fingernails You need; they are really claws, and we know Claws. The sharks--what about them? They make other fish swim faster. The hard-faced men In black coats who chase you for hours In dreams--that's the only way to get you To the shore. Sometimes those hard women Who abandon you get you to say, "You." A lazy part of us is like a tumbleweed. It doesn't move on its own. It takes sometimes A lot of Depression to get tumbleweeds moving. Then they blow across three or four States. This man told me that things work together. Bad handwriting sometimes leads to new ideas; And a careless God--who refuses to let you Eat from the Tree of Knowledge--can lead To books, and eventually to us. We write Poems with lies in them, but they help a little.

Thanks for that, John. This is a place I fear to come when I feel vulnerable - as I do today. Yes, those poems with little lies in them help a little...!

One of the all-time great movie lines is from Jeff Goldblum in "The Big Chill": "I don't know if I can make it through a day without a nice, big, juicy rationalization or two." (or something like that)

Stace, that is lovely. I hope you let Brandon see it...you heart and soul have found their home.

That is nice, Stacey...you have a poetic touch even when you are (just) answering a post. But it seems basically everyone who enters here has that.

damn, stacey... that was so beautiful... really happy for you (and brandon)... glad, too, that you're feeling so at home... but- 'untexas-like'? (colorado being, after all- rightfully- texas northern-most county)

Oh, life is glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Roumania. --Dorothy Parker

Thanks for that, Nan...the first laugh this place has gotten from me in a very long time!

Great, Nan! Dorothy Parker is one of my favorites...a first-rate wit, which she had to be to keep up with the rest of the wags of the Algonquin Round Table. One Perfect Rose A single flow'r he sent me, since we met. All tenderly his messenger he chose; Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet- One perfect rose. I knew the language of the floweret; "My fragile leaves," it said, "his heart enclose." Love long has taken for his amulet One perfect rose. Why is it no one ever sent me yet One perfect limousine, do you suppose? Ah no, it's always just my luck to get One perfect rose. - Dorothy Parker, 1926

Oh GOOD!! More Parker fans. ;) And I'm glad that made you laugh, Marcia. I'm also fond of her one-liners -- for example, "Brevity is the soul of lingerie." She proves that poems about loss can keep their protective edge, doesn't she? I've been searching for one poem in particular that I can remember only snatches of -- about a relationship gone south, formerly cherished, with a line about must we pretend it never was "just because it perished?" Anybody here know that one or have it in a volume? I've searched for it online to no avail.

Not yet, but I am also an avid DP fan and I shall search for it, as well, both on the net and in my books here. We shall find much good stuff Parker, even if we don't succeed in finding that particular one! Ascerbic wit - my favorite kind - with just the right amount of pain to let you know she has "been there", too...*hugs* for posting Parker!

More of it came into my head tonight... you know how that back burner works: "..... ..... ...... ... no longer cherished, Should we say it was not love, Just because it perished?" Yes, Marcia, that's why I like her too -- when her heart was broken she bled in public because she was a writer, but always with a wry, sardonic smile for her audience.

I love poems of loss, and I don't know why I haven't posted on here before, but here goes: ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE by Muireadach O'Dalaigh (early 13th century) I parted from my wife last night, A woman's body sunk in clay: The tender bosom that I loved Wrapped in a sheet they took away. The heavy blossom that had lit The ancient boughs is tossed and blown; Her was the burden of delight That long had weighed the old tree down. And I am left alone tonight And desolate is the world I see For lovely was that woman's weight That even last night had lain on me. Weeping I took upon the place Where she used to rest her head-- For yesterday her body's length Reposed upon you too, my bed. Yesterday that smiling face Upon one side of you was laid That could match the hazel bloom In its dark delicate sweet shade. Maelva of the shadowy brows Was the mead-cask at my side; Fairest of all flowers that grow Was the beauty that has died. My body's self deserts me now, The half of me that was her own, Since all I knew of brightness died Half of me lingers, half is gone. The face that was like hawthorn bloom Was my right foot and my right side; And my right hand and my right eye Were no more mine than hers who died. Poor is the share of me that's left Since half of me died with my wife; I shudder at the words I speak; Dear God, that girl was half my life. And our first look was her first love; No man had fondled ere I came The little breasts so small and firm And the long body like a flame. For twenty years we shared a home, Our converse milder with each year; Eleven children in its time Did that tall stately body bear. It was the King of hosts and roads Who snatched her from me in her prime: Little she wished to leave alone The man she loved before her time. Now King of churches and bells, Though never raised a pledge a lie That woman's hand--can it be true?-- No more beneath my head will lie.

Wow, Amy - powerful stuff. The poor man. I know that feeling of only being a half of a person while someone either encaring or unable to bring it back to where it belonged remained unattainable. It is an acute ache that never quite leaves, like a haunting... Thanks for posting that.

(Marcia)I know that feeling of only being a half of a person while someone either encaring or unable to bring it back to where it belonged remained unattainable. It is an acute ache that never quite leaves, like a haunting You are so, so right. It's twice as bad when the person isn't dead, because you're always tortured with the idea that someday you might get back together, someday you might make it work.

I don't know if this classifies as a "poem of loss" per se, but I once had a very emotional experience while reading this aloud: NOT WAVING BUT DROWNING by Stevie Smith Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much farther out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he's dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.

I'm going through my anthology of English literature, and I'm just finding so many poems that I loved so dearly when I took that class! A YEAR'S SPINNING by Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1. He listened at the porch that day, To hear the wheel go on, and on; And then it stopped, ran back away, While through the door he brought the sun: But now my spinning is all done. 2. He sat beside me, with an oath That love ne'er ended, once begun; I smiled--believing for us both, What was the truth for only one: And now my spinning is all done. 3. My mother cursed me that I heard A young man's wooing as I spun: Thanks, cruel mother, for that word-- For I have, since, a harder known! And now my spinning is all done. 4. I thought--O God!--my first born's cry Both voices to mine ear would drown: I listened in mine agony-- It was the silence made me groan! And now my spinning is all done. 5. Bury me 'twixt my mother's grave, (Who cursed me on her death-bed lone) And my dead baby's (God it save!) Who, not to bless me, would not moan. And now my spinning is all done. 6. A stone upon my heart and head, But no name written on the stone! Sweet neighbours, whisper low instead, "This sinner was a loving one-- And now her spinning is all done." 7. And let the door ajar remain, In case he should pass by anon; And leave the wheel out very plain,-- That HE, when passing in the sun, May see the spinning is all done.

Ah yes, hope springs eternal...for me, as well. Just the right word (or any word, for that matter) from him and the entire complexion of the world changes. Flowers bloom where there were none before; sun shines where there were gloomy clouds hovering. Everything changes! With just a little word or two from the right person... Sometimes I wonder how close to drowning I really am...

Sounds like EBB had a mother like mine! Fortunately, and thanks be to God, I have never experienced the ultimate horror of burying my own child.

My goodness, Marcia, we do have so much in common! Many times I have despised myself for letting my happiness depend upon whether or not HE would condescend to be nice to me that day, but I can't seem to stop it. I was in therapy for two years, listened to grief counselors, but nothing seems to have been successful in getting him out of my heart. I'm wondering if separation might do the trick, since we have to work in such close proximity to one another and every time I see him it just opens the wounds anew.

Separation may be the only way to heal the wounds and to let you see what more worthy gentlemen are out there looking for someone just like you. Alas, at the proximity in which you find yourself, all you can see is unworthy him. If you ever discover the secret to not depending on the sun's rising on another, please let me know...!

And I find myself not wanting to be separated from him, either--I deliberately chose not to go away for graduate school so I could still be near him. I think I would go bonkers if I didn't know that if I really get desperate, I can always pop in and say hello, just to get my bearings. I'm hopeless, I know.

I know. I truly know. If you are hopeless, you are not alone...I am in the same situation. But, I am not allowed to speak - or if I do, he is not allowed to respond...(very long story)

I have the same kind of situation (I think)--administration has said that we're not supposed to be talking to one another about anything "personal" (ie, anything other than school or literature,) so I have to think for a while to come up with a question to ask him about either of those things. There are ways around THE RULES (as I so nastily call them,) but I haven't figured out how to use them terribly effectively yet.

...ah, yes...THE RULES...it is an interesting challenge to your intellect (aided and abetted by your libido) to find a way to use them effectively. It can be done...(similar situation with different agents governing the rules) but he is either unable or unwilling to go against them.

Well, my Belov�d is a bit on the spineless side these days--he used to be very brave and thumb his nose at administration (once, I had a very bizarre conversation with him about "what if people think we're having an affair?" and he said, "Who cares? Honi soit qui mal y pense,") but now he acts like he's afraid someone is going to see him talking to me. He only talks to me when there's no one else around, and if his wife is around, he makes every effort to get out of the area as soon as he can.

...hmmm...also interesting. Sounds like he is covering his backside, as it were, for the time being. This might be a temporary situation till things cool down for a bit...that is what I am hoping for with mine.

It's been two years since we "split up"...

Oh, My Dear! How extraoridnarily painful for you! My utmost symapthies. Mine is still fresh...thus the wounds are still raw and might be felt on both sides of my situation...I shall continue doing the usual and trying to be as open to things as possible without destroying what is Me! You, as I, will always carry part of him in your heart - and he, like it or not, will do likewise...*hugs*

I know--my therapist once told me that no matter what happens, I'll always have him in here (tapping her chest.) I nearly burst into tears when she said that.

i must be quite a strange bird. because these things haven't happened to me. oh yes, i've had my crushes and thought the sun set and rose on those people but that was long ago. the only people i care about loving me are my children. i've never been in love so desperately (that i can remember). nor have i obsessed over anyone (save movie stars, who don't count anyway). and what about these rules? what rules are you talking about? am i living my life with my eyes shut? well, the above isn't entirely true. i ve had major adult crushes too, but let them go as that. and in the heat of those moments, a word or not could make the day. i'm sorry that you both feel so isolated in your grief. *HUGS* thanks for rediscovering this topic and do keep posting! and what a sad piece by EBB. hope her mother didn't really say those things (and if she did, i can relate)

Oh, THE RULES I'm talking about have nothing to do with anything in the outside world--purely academic rubbish. Not that absurd book that was so popular a short while ago. To continue with the poems of loss (like we're supposed to be doing,) here is one that tears my heart apart every time I read it: THE SPRING AND THE FALL by Edna St. Vincent Millay In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year, I walked the road beside my dear. The trees were black where the bark was wet. I see them yet, in the spring of the year. He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach That was out of the way and hard to reach. In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year, I walked the road beside my dear. The rooks went up with a raucous trill. I hear them still, in the fall of the year. He laughed at all I dared to praise, And broke my heart, in little ways. Year be springing or year be falling, The bark will drip and birds be calling. There's much that's fine to see and hear In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year. 'Tis not love's going that hurts my days, But that it went in little ways.

And I got chastised for mentioning Jesse Ventura...

Poor John...*hugs* (The rules you were talking about were THE RULES of academia I know so well...and of the whole sorry mess we find ourselves in...!)

Goodness, I thought you would have forgotten all about that, John! I'm sorry--it was a frivolous comment and I meant no personal offense by it at all. *Hugs*

(Thank you for saying that, Amy...he was going to gather up his talent and silently go away...our loss, indeed!) Great poem about breaking her heart in little ways. Oh Man! Can I ever relate!

Thank you, Amy. I feel better now.

You're welcome. Sometimes I get to be a haughty intellectual and I need to be taken down a notch.

John is worthy company of academics as he is one, as well. My dear John, you also qualify for the screwed in love topic at 163 if you care to join us...!

Unfortunately, I am screwed, but only in the sadly most figurative sense.

...um...just guessing about this, but I have the feeling you are NOT alone in this lamentable condition...*sigh*

Quite right, Marcia--we're all pretty much s**t out of luck when it comes to love!

...sounds like the lyrics of a country-western song..."I'm s**t out of luck..." (*lol* a little levity to keep me from crying)

Since we're all feeling a little crummy tonight, how about another Edna St. Vincent Millay poem that is just as bitter as we are? SPRING To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing. An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

I love it! Caterpillers reeling down out of the trees and down my back tickling and squashing when I finally caught them...Yuck! Give me Fall any time!

Not sure under which category this Dorothy Parker Gem should be posted... Ultimatum I'm wearied of wearying love, my friend, Of worry and strain and doubt; Before we begin, let us view the end, And maybe I'll do without. There's never the pang that was worth the tear, And toss in the night I won't- So either you do or you don't, my dear, Either you do or you don't! The table is ready, so lay your cards And if they should augur pain, I'll tender you ever my kind regards And run for the fastest train. I haven't the will to be spent and sad; My heart's to be gay and true- Then either you don't or you do, my lad, Either you don't or you do!

I think DP needs her own topic! Wolfie, can I create it? Or shall you?

Although I love both DP and ESVM and their wry, sardonic wit, here's another view of loss, the hopeful one that I still have and wish that my own words could express one-tenth so eloquently: What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. from William Wordsworth "Ode: Intimations of Immortality" stanza 10.

Here are a couple of English Renaissance lute songs over which I have wept a time or two: Oft I have sigh'd for him who hears me not: Who absent hath both love and me forgot. O yet I languish still through this delay. Days seem as years, when wish'd friends break their day. Had he but lov'd as common lovers use, His faithless stay some kindness would excuse: O yet I languish still, still constant mourn For him that can break vows, but not return. --Thomas Campion Now, o now, I needs must part, Parting though I absent mourn. Absence can no joy impart: Joy once fled cannot return. While I live I needs must love, Love lives not when hope is gone. Now at last despaire doth prove, Love divided loveth none. Sad despair doth drive me hence, This despaire unkindness sends. It that parting bee offence, It is shee which then offends. Deare, when I from thee am gone, Gone are all my joyes at once. I loved thee and thee alone, In whose love I joyed once. And although your sight I leave, Sight wherein my joyes do lie, Till that death doth sense bereave, Never shall affection die. Deare, if I do not returne, Love and I shall die together. For my absence never mourne, Whom you might have joyed ever: Part we must though now I die, Die I do to part with you. Him despaire doth cause to lie, Who both lived and dieth true. --John Dowland

Ms Dorothy Parker and Ms Edna St. Vincent Millay have their own topics! please enjoy!!!

I don't know much about American literature and poetry. But I once bought a book with poems from Robert Frost, because I was looking for a special one that I found (some lines) cited in a novel, but I couldn't find the one I was looking for... :-[ (All I remember is that it had something to do with a tree and winter...)

Could it have been this one, Isabel? STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING by Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

It's lovely! Thanks, Amy! That's why his poems impress me so much,they seem so mmh - yearning... But sorry it's not the one I'm searching... I remember something like an apple tree in winter (???), which should not bloom, otherwise it could froze...mmh, something like that. It was a bit sad...but expressed a feeling I had some time ago, when I lost somebody very close to me... That's why I want to find it.

Sorry--I don't have anything like that in my anthology of American lit, and I'm not a big Frost fan so I couldn't tell you exactly what one it is. I don't do the American thing--I'm a British and French lit person.

Isn't it a bit curious that a lot is happening now in the Poetry conf.? Now, when it got autumn and the days are getting shorter and darker, I felt a strong urge to unpack my books, that's what I will do in the next week, besides getting the garden ready for winter. I got some new books and reading is my favorite habit in winter, besides needlework, when in summer I don't find any time to do so. In the cold season I like to sit on the sofa with a good book and just dream of better seasons coming...

Angles By Debra Tenney 4/19/98 I awaken to a bed devoid of sharp angles & deep furrows and I am reminded of a light house on a windy strand, September waves rolling over its base, and of yesterdays when that was enough. Of time when the chilled wind of February did not fill me with spring longing. Buried beneath this desert of tangled bed, in which I am drowning, in a space once my asylum, I am a winter cottonwood surrounded by tumbleweeds, static form amidst chaos. I lay awake and drink deeply of your pillow�s essence hoping as the first hyacinth purples March�s burnt umber I will hear your footsteps in twilight�s first blush.

WITH RUE MY HEART IS LADEN by A.E. Housman With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipt maiden And many a lightfoot lad. By brooks too broad for leaping The lightfoot boys are laid; The rose-lipt girls are sleeping In fields where roses fade.

Debra, that is a lovely poem. Amy, I've always considered Housman underrated.

Prophetstown by John Burnett, copyright 1994 I grew up in Prophetstown, a place of farms, frost and football-- where once an Indian prophet named White Cloud counseled the mighty Sauk and Fox chief Black Hawk, where a young Indian fighter named Abraham Lincoln learned to respect the savvy of adversaries most called savages, a place whose hallowed history vanished with the vanquished. There were towns not far away which still bore names they were called by natives: Annawan, Kewanee, Oneida, Winnebago, Wataga, and Tiskilwa-- names with power, pride and poetry. The names were all that was left. Sometimes in right field while waiting for the ball to be batted my way, wedging the rubberized tips of my Converse All-Stars into the dirt, I'd unearth a significant discovery: an Indian arrowhead or a piece of tomahawk that somehow surfaced when the wind and rain stripped away the topsoil, where the grass had been eroded by the incessant shuffling of youthful feet. I'd take my find home and put it in a shoe box. My Florsheim box of antique stone was a precious to me as a pirate's treaure chest filled with gold doubloons. One night after inventory I ran downstairs and asked my father, "Dad? What happened to the Indians?" "Most of them are dead," he said. "Killed by the white man's guns or by disease they had no resistance to. Those who survived the Black Hawk War in 1832 were rounded up and driven West to a reservation." "Will they ever come back?" I asked through tears I vainly fought to keep from coursing down my cheeks. He shook his head and softly answered, "No, Son."

...oh John...how poignant...! (I love how the meter insinuates itself in my brain as I read this...)

Nicely done John.

Shit River by John Burnett, copyright 1994 Pinatubo sunset exuding beauty that bursts the prismic envelope. Poverty blankets the atmosphere like the fecal coliform stench permeating the brackish air from the burnt-brown surface skin of Shit River. There are rowboats, eight abreast riding high on the toxic tributary, positioned on each side of the bridge with plaintive voices rising from the scum: "Hey Joe, you boo-koo guapo! C'mon, Joe! Throw me pesos!" There's a young girl in each dinghy all dressed in the uniform of the day: Spandex bike shorts, skin-tight midriff blouses, stuffed brassieres and sailor caps embroidered with their names. They use the caps to catch coins the sailors throw to them. Each girl has a younger boy on board clad in skimpy Speedo knock-offs. The boys plummet headlong into the merciless mire to retrieve the coins the girls miss, some of which are purposely thrown awry.

Been tossing coins awry in the Philippines, have you?! Hmmm...Pinatubo did not erupt that long ago that you were in the Navy then...either it was another eruption (leaving that untouched) or you are taking justifiable poetic license (where else could it be more appropriate?!)

Good grief, I nearly forgot this poem! VITAE SUMMA BREVIS SPEM NOS VETAT INCOHARE LONGAM (The brief sum of life forbids us hope of enduring long) by Ernest Dowson They are not long, the weeping and the laughter, Love and desire and hate: I think they have no portion in us after We pass the gate. They are not long, the days of wine and roses: Out of a misty dream Our path emerges for a while, the closes Within a dream.

Pinatubo was used to mark the setting (poetic license, I suppose)...and I NEVER purposely threw a coin awry to make a kid take a dip in that foul ditch (between the Subic Bay Naval Base and Olongapo City). I would never do that to another human being.

I know you to be a gentle man in all things...I am happy you were not one of those perverse enough to....was it really raw sewage? I had hoped that was poetic license, as well. Pinatubo was splendid, and I was immediatley transported to the Philippines...(I DO know my volcanoes!)

Raw sewage it was...it is a third-world country.

I remember visiting Mexico - one never appreciates the good old USA than when they have seen how bad it can be in other places...! Thanks for not causing the boys (or any human being) to have to get into that filth! There is no other stench quite like it!

SINCE THERE'S NO HELP, COME LET US KISS AND PART by Michael Drayton Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part; Nay, I have done, you get no more of me, And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart That thus so cleanly I myself can free; Shake hand for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.

Ah, chacteristic personification...

One of my favorites -- It's possible I am pushing through solid rock in flintlike layers, as the ore lies, alone; I am such a long way in I see no way through, and no space: everything is close to my face, and everything close to my face is stone. I don't have much knowledge yet in grief -- so this massive darkness makes me small. You be the master: make yourself fierce, break in: then your great transforming will happen to me, and my great grief cry will happen to you. --Rainer Maria Rilke, from A Book for the Hours of Prayer (No. 22)

Lovely, Nan. I am not coming back here for a while. I put something from my past in posts yesterday that were read and misinterpreted. Be very careful of what you say and how you phrase it...someone just might read something entirely different into what you write and take it personally. Aloha!

NO SECOND TROY by William Butler Yeats Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage to equal desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

LEISURE by William Henry Davies What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars like skies at night. No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance. No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began. A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. (I would like everyone who reads this to remember to take a moment to smell the roses today!)

NO SECOND TROY by William Butler Yeats Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage to equal desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.

Milton wrote this sonnet about his blindness, considered his greatest, less than a year before his death. Sonnet XIX by John Milton - 1673 When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide, "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts: who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait."

Oh Marcia -- I'm sorry to hear of that misunderstanding, whatever it was. I'll miss your voice here. Hope you're not away for long.

That's one of my favorite sonnets, John. Memorized it eons ago in high school - still hold phrases in my memory banks. Thanks. ;)

...how could I stay away when people as lovely as you are here?! Thank you, Nan... *big hugs*

...John...that is magnificent - and always moving to read...thank you! Puts things into perspective, does it not?!

To put it in its simplest terms, I like it.

(wonder how many people quote that last line and never know from whence it came)

I've used it when pitchers who warm up don't get into the game (but I always give Milton credit).

marcia, don't worry about what other people think or read into your poetry, do not let them stop you from writing or visiting. afterall, i had one misread too, but that's the way things go. please don't leave us here in poetry!

*hugs* Wolfie...thanks more than I can say...*sniff*

Don't let the irony of the title line of this sonnet fool you. It IS a poem of loss, and one of Wordsworth's better "later" (beyond his 30s) works: Surprised by Joy by William Wordsworth - 1815 Surprised by joy - impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport - Oh! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind - But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss! - That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

Lovely, John - very moving, indeed...

But for lust we could be friends, On each other's necks could weep, In each other's arms could sleep, In the calm the cradle lends, Lends awhile, and takes away - But for hunger, but for fear, Calm could be our day and year, From the yellow to the grey, From the gold to the grey hair - But for passion we could rest, But for passion we could feast On compassion everywhere. Even in this night I know, By the awful, living dead, By this craving tear I shed, Somewhere, somewhere, it is so. Ruth Pitter

nice one but sad.....thanks mark :)

That is an amazing poem, Mark. So beautifully poignant and so true!

I should know better than to come into this topic to read. Lovely, Mark! 'Tis true....*sigh*

ok, y'all don't pass out, but i've got a new piece to share: My Friend How I miss you, my friend, Mere words cannot express. Although I saw you rarely, You meant the world to me. Your kindness and steadfast Love and friendship was an Unexpected treasure. Please rest where you are And miss nothing of This life. Look upon Me with forgiveness, I Never said I love you. (for Jeff Chambers, 1967-1999) i miss him very much!

My heart weeps with yours knowing how incredible this man was to you. That last sentence says it all, really! My sympathies, again *hugs* Thank you for sharing something so deeply felt...

that is beautiful, wolf. thanks for bringing it here -- you have my sympathies too.

DEATH WATCH -- (for Allyn) He died as night rolled back on the next to last day of the year, when frost coats dead weeds by the road and old leaves glow with cold fire like pale glass that winks in the sun. Ice takes its own slow time to melt, flows out of my heart the way hope leaks, like red wine spilled from a glass by his bed in drips - It may be my own blood - I can't see yet - but the stains have marked a sort of map of the sky on the backs of my eyes, and this dark weight sinks deep like silt in my veins. Breath of life flies like a gasp from his gaunt frame - he lies still as wax. We sit stunned on his bed and watch it go. Hear the clocks tick. Where is the thing that was once his laugh? Off on a jaunt? Will it be right back? Dawn broke pink and orange that morn, I saw it light the clouds, meet the bright star that pulled the new day up to the tip of the sky, and I knew then he could fly - My heart rose like a lark with the sun, grew wings - His race was won. He was home.

Just when I though there were no more tears to shed...I find them blessing my keyboard (as the Hawaiians say of the gentle rain we get here) again... Nan...I am speechless with sorrow and the beauty of your poem. I am wrapping my arms around you and Wolfie and having virtual catharsis *HUGS*

((((((((marcia)))))))) thank you.

It was very difficult for me last evening (perhaps I was ovely tired) to relive your loss. I am not sure there is anyone on earth who has ever loved me that much. I have loved that much, and understand your feelings so strongly, but to have been loved that much is a gift I cannot even imagine. You were, indeed, blessed with a most excellent brother. Again, thank you for sharing. *hugs*

thanks nan and marcia *hugs* nan, i can't imagine what you went through (and still go through). please find comfort in the knowledge that "he could fly". my piece was really a lame attempt at words. how can someone describe what it meant? but thank you for obliging!

...and you, Wolfie, were blessed with a most excellent friend. I was very moved by your poem...perhaps because you honored me by allowing me in on your grieving. Hugs and love to you both from this lady in Hawaii *sniff*

I am blessed to be able to share what was, with you. Thank you for accepting it with such tenderness. Being able to stay with my brother for his last journey and help him go home was a precious gift, and seeing that incredible dawn -- and the morning star that drew back the night's curtain -- well, it's an image I'll never forget.

I am sitting here with chicken-skin just thinking of your divine revelation. What else could it have been?! *hugs* again...

Intransiet Modes of transportation, Vehicles of conveyence Always smell -- Of cleaning fluid and vinyl. I'm intransiet. A disjointed traveler looking out the window Feeling nebulous. Reflected in the darkness I notice All the cracks and fissues in my face -- That no one else can see. Outside Splinters of myself are flying by. I'm shattering. They say even the stars die. Sometimes I think that under the gravity of the situation, I'll start collapsing into myself. I am filled with sweet memories that cloy. Maybe I'll learn to remember Without pain. My memories are sweet, But they stick -- Like an icepick in the mind.

thank you for stopping in and leaving a piece of you here, cheryl *HUGS*

Oh Cheryl...my heart cries with yours! Does the pain ever go away? I think not. At least not for me... not yet... It remains a dull ache in the back of your psyche ever ready to leap to the forefront and bring fresh tears.

Thank you for the encouragement and comments. This poem is actually several years old. I was one of the easiest things I ever wrote. It was written backwards, as it were. I got the lines: My memories are sweet/But they stick --/ Like an icepick in the mind., as my first thought. It just seemed that these had to be the last lines of a poem, not the start. I pretty much worked back from that point to the completed piece, and it was the complete piece. There really was no rewriting to speak of, I took out about three words of the original draft. Still, this is basically the orignal concept. Oddly, I've never really thought of it as a particularly personal poem. It was written from my own experience, but it could apply to just about anybody. I've never felt it to be specific to, nor about me.

It surprised me that it is not intimately personal to you. Perhaps I plugged into your words my own loss. It still effects me profoundly and could reduce me to tears if I read it at a time I was feeling vulnerable.

I think it may well have been a conscious decision on my part to distance myself from it. Maybe a way to cope with my pain by placing it in what I perceive as a more universal context. Everybody hurts, it isn't unique to me. In writing it, perhaps I found a way to define what I was feeling. In definition I found limits, and by doing that I found that move on with my life. Of course, it could be that it is extraordinarily personal, and I just can't perceive it because I'm too close and want to keep an illusion of distance.

Let is rest as a sublimation. I think it is a form of catharsis to put down on paper and send it out to the world. It transforms it from being merely personal angish to a universal "been there, felt that" truth. Thanks!

Thank you for reading my babbling about it. Thanks for you kind words.

O handsome chestnut eyes, evasive gaze, O fiery sighs and falling tears, O night Obscurely black through which I wait for light for nothing, O clear dawn of the futile days! O lamentations, O obstinate desires, O wasted time, O grief scattered about, O thousand deaths, O thousand nets throughout my life among the worst insidious fires, O laughing lips, brow, hair, arms, hands, and fingers, O funereal lute, viol, bow, and voice! A woman's heart always has a burned mark. I sob because of you. Your fire lingers in every place my seared heart would rejoice, Except in you who keep no single spark. --Louise Lab�