Sometimes I wonder if Love
came to us from Hell,
all these trembling hands
to hold,
disconsolate,
hands that need someone to hold,
and then of course my own.
Author notes
the title in this tiny missive has been changed to reflect Odyssey's insight, and the author wishes to express his thanks for her vision in this matter.
Written July 26th, 2003
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1 - 10 of 10
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Great job. I like it. It's really short.....yet extremely powerful. I can feel the emotion. Phenominal!
Great work. Keep it up!
DanielleMarie
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The title seems to be some sort of anagram, and the only thing I can make out of it is "Waiting by the Hope" or 'Pond' at the end, who knows? Well, you do of course.
People would like to think any negative feeling must come from a negative feeling, that there really isn't a yang to the yin, but, those who see things for what they are, see things much clearly I feel.
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Sometimes love turns so bad it seems hellish. Pain isn't thow. Pain cause by love only happens because you know love. But love turned to hate...that is hellish.
Great insight.
Sam
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First of all, (Claire's comments are almost as punchy as her poems. She is one heckava mind)
But this is about YouR poem...
First - the title in itself is a cryptic puzzle with the odd spelling but its funny because 'awaiting hope' could almost jump out at you. Maybe that was something that only happened to me. (hehe if the P went further down hoPne)
Good structure, the spirals words effect due to layout.
Hands, over and under
under over - but shaking too hard
to hang on, or let go...
Edited on Aug 01, 8:46 because ''. -
This made me remember a poem by Marge Piercy....
"To Have Without Holding"
Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.
It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.
It hurts to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch; to love and let
go again and again. It pesters to remember
the lover who is not in the bed,
to hold back what is owed to the work
that gutters like a candle in a cave
without air, to love consciously,
conscientiously, concretely, constructively.
I can't do it, you say it's killing
me, but you thrive, you glow
on the street like a neon raspberry,
You float and sail, a helium balloon
bright bachelor's button blue and bobbing
on the cold and hot winds of our breath,
as we make and unmake in passionate
diastole and systole the rhythm
of our unbound bonding, to have
and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger
and anger moment by moment balanced.
- Marge Piercy
Just thought i'd share that with you :-)
~ Wendy -
....holds your hand
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the title is good because it installs the feeling of falling to pieces .... like the words... waiting for this phone call.
again fractured thoughts but sealed together in a way to let the reader FEEL the pain. short it may be... but it has impact. so it works.
Lisa x -
of course of course of course your own - and it has to be love if their hands were before your own, how could it ever not be?
"very short" - (no shit sherlock) but it numbs for longers and it creeps for longer and phones have this habit of ringing again and then later - so it has to be in bursts, or how could there ever be a in between? -
nice poem. very short, but there's no need for it to be longer. well done.
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hmmmm...one does wonder. On the other hand, the darkness is not as dark, nor the hour late, when one is holding someone else. Of that there's no debate. ~~~Val
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