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Posts tagged ‘loss’

Poetry

There may not be magic
But there is poetry
Poetry is easier to define
And no one is in charge of its occurrence
It just happens endlessly in life
And depending on what sort of person you are
Or think you are
You might find it more or less regularly
Amongst the broken rubble of your existence
Peeking out in the shape of an unexpected meeting
A troublesome illness, an ironic twist
And thanks to the modernists
It doesn’t even have to come in the form of a neat verse
It can in fact be clumsy and not in the least pretty
Alone in the eye of the perceiver
Does it hold value
Which makes it much like other things, or non-things
That strike a note in the cold chambers of the heart
Once warmed by love, or hope, or whatever
Now held together
With the glue of simply being
And not knowing what else to do

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Wandsworth

On the eve of my big trip to the States I take a walk to my beloved common to say goodbye to the ducks, and feel genuine sad joy at leaving them, knowing that if I return there are some reliable sources of happiness awaiting me.

Back home ostensibly packing, sifting through notebooks decorated with unsent letters to old non-boyfriends, inexplicable cartoons and provocative notes from dharma talks, I find a poem I must have written by the pond in Winter.

I just keep breaking through
more walls
falling through floors
a hard no becomes
soft gel mush
weeping waterfall
proximity of dogs is bewildering
missing you
in the perfection of a duck’s beak
the cold clear evening
never to be shared
and still believing
in love like a wise warrior fool
clinging to the skimpy
edge of a crescent moon
reclining into dusk

Wandsworth Common

no struggle

trying not to think of you
is like trying not to think of a tiger
seeing an image of you is like bathing in fire and ice altogether
life continues to emerge day after day
like a persistent wildflower
neither beautiful nor ugly but in the eye of the beholder
drenched in futile plans and dreams
lost chances that were not really chances
lost hopes that evaporate into silence
trying not to love you is like trying not to love the ocean
empty hours filled with waves of longing
work is done or not done and nothing changes
moments of joy punctured by the memory of loss
trying not to miss you is like trying not to miss what is missing
drawing a neat fabric over the cracks left by your absence
doing a fine job of it whatever it is
and sometimes breaking into wet folds like a deep egg
coming together again for the sake of continuity