only a son can write these lines
to his mother only a son can
perpetrate this lonely crime
the crime of leaving far behind
leaving estranged the moons and moments of his childhood
and your youth
to leave you picking the touch left behind
on the doorhandles on the staircase
under the poisonous bloom of a magnolia tree
you seek the hidden noise of soundless feet
you seek them in shade in sun on the steps
of a cool veranda on the window sill near the
favourite sofa where you paraphrased shakespeare
and taught the difference between
sensitivity and negative capability
when you taught that ripeness is all
and we are merely as flies to wanton boys
and you said that knowledge is suffering
and so is love you said
but these lines that you will never read
and these words that i will never whisper
and your night that i will never live
and my night that i will never show you
will all end all end in vain
and you did me wrong to take me out of grave
you said and awakening is painful you added
i am living in reality what you paraphrased in fiction
Una respuesta extensa
7 years ago
3 comments:
i am relieved you say you are glad, i wasn't sure if you wanted me/anyone to comment, because you didn't say anything... anyway.
i found this, which mirrors my thoughts about poetry: 'I want poetry to be a knife; yours is a caress.' - Miroslav Holub
this is a very powerful poem, like a blow in the heart - it makes me speechless in this way.
Roxana, you are so, so welcome. you and atenea are the only ones i have linked this tentative blog to, the rest as i said earlier, have assumed silence.
i like the holub quote.
the 'poem' i wrote is so personal, i live it. anything else i say about it will be un-neccessary.
thank you so much.
yes, i felt exactly this way, about the poem. that is why i felt that any other comment would be useless... and yet, despite being so personal, it touches me so deeply. this is the mystery, and no mystery at all.
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