For some reason, Facebook is giving me a lot of links to or copies of poems, probably because I am friends with a few published poets and because I do respond to the poems. Mostly, I save them for posting elsewhere. Here are a few, with commentary.
I have vaguely heard of Bukowski. This poem hit me as, well, poignant but also possibly bitter and critical. Perhaps his father had little opportunity to get to know his son, and perhaps the son did not want to be known, or was imperceptive of whether he was known or not. We parents know our children more than they think we do. He rejected his father's time management and work ethic. Lesson: poetry can be ambiguous or hit people differently.
Ah! Never a beauty or someone entranced by my looks, I still feel those last two lines deeply.
A short reflection on attention, I think. And rest. The child is not neglected, the parents (I take it) are taking a break. Parents do not need to hover over children, do not need to engage and entertain them every second. Children have their own spaces, and adults theirs, for different times.
A good reminder to be surprised by joy. I don't think you can prepare for it. It does slither in through cracks we don't even see.
This next one, I am not sure of the name.
In English, we say: “I miss you.”
But in poetry, we say:
“I trace the shape of your absence in the spaces where your laughter used to linger,
and let the echoes of you fill the hollow hours.”
In English, we say: “I don’t know how to let go.”
But in poetry, we say:
“I carry you in my chest like a stone—
heavy, unyielding, and carved with the sharp edges of what once was.”
In English, we say: “I feel lost.”
But in poetry, we say:
“The compass of my heart spins wildly now,
its needle drawn to places it can no longer call home.”
In English, we say: “I wish it were different.”
But in poetry, we say:
“I water the garden of could-have-beens with tears,
waiting for flowers that refuse to bloom.”
In English, we say: “I hope you’re happy.”
But in poetry, we say:
“May the sun that warms your days and
be as kind to as the first kiss of dew on the dawning light upon the leafs of the laurel that we once made love under”
In English, we say: “You hurt me.”
But in poetry, we say:
“You planted thorns in my chest with hands I once trusted,
and now every breath feels like an apology I shouldn’t owe.”
In English, we say: “I wanted to stay.”
But in poetry, we say:
“I lingered at the edge of your world,
a star burning quietly, unnoticed in your vast, indifferent sky.”
In English, we say: “I’m trying to move on.”
But in poetry, we say:
“I untangle your name from my veins each morning,
only to find it woven into my dreams again at night.”
In English, we say: “I’ll be okay.”
But in poetry, we say:
“I gather the shattered pieces of myself like broken glass,
knowing someday, even scars can catch the light.”
With poetry I write paths through gardens of grace with words in ways my body dare not go as a whole.
And finally, my own "prose poem."
I live in mountains, specifically those of Northwestern Georgia. We have our own kind of light, of sunlight, at different times of the day. The sun rises over the Blue Ridge mountains to the East, mountains that sometimes are gloriously snowcapped, a hope for this week. To the west is a range where Lookout Mountain TN and GA stands at the north end of our vision.
This morning dark clouds hovered over the entire sky except at the Eastern horizon. A ball of fire perched on the eastern peaks, and the color was a new one for me—orange, amber, coral in combination and diffuse. The light tinted the barren trees and hills I drove on my way to work before 8:00 a.m.
I caught a glimpse. I had to get to the office. But I also had to write this down and the next day, driving the exact same route, I looked for the exact same sunrise and it wasn’t there.
And it struck me that art is trying to make the ineffable permanent, the abstract concrete, the short feeling something that lasts, the momentary image a surviving story, the two-second experience years old.
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