I call him The Cigarette and Ash
who kills within.
A life's remains existing.
Breathing in I choke
disgust in jagged lines
that deeply cut
erase all sympathy.
And she, my center force
so much the bigger part of me
indwells
as talk of past remorse
escapes from lips that always
hid her secrets well.
I glimpse the must-have-been
and should-have-been
as frying pans to fire
sizzle her.
So when can peace abound
and shadowed light break free
if not for her
then when for me
as days eke out
and I decry?
Oh pity for the woman's life
of toil and doing right
decisions made that
capture mind and heart.
The rivers freeze
no longer seek the open sea
along the banks
the dead encamp
distant voices beckoning.
Author notes
Meant to be read out loud and with some fervor, then quietly ebbing into decay.
Comments
1 - 10 of 10
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well now. bleak poetess. daughter of the shadow regions. this chokes me up a little from the second hand smoke. i see you've put in that where there's smoke there's fire. but then you forget and the rivers freeze, indeed. the rivers thaw. the distant voices you hear beckoning are not the echoes of the final deep sea, they are of fish reading your poetry.
-silverphish
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Of course... read out loud!
The flow, Errant... I'm enchanted by the flow of these words. There is nothing stiff or forced about this piece. I'm very jealous that I lack the ability to write in this way.
PS. I read it out loud twice. My better half thought I was in here talking to myself (again).
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Oh Abbey, what a treat to see you here, perambulating through one of my offerings. Thrilled you liked it and read it out loud...even though it may have seemed strange to watchers I do feel it was necessary to experience that flow that I was aiming for. Glad it hit you nicely.
Also, you lack nothing. Your uniqueness of talent shines through.
Thank you.
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Oh so wretched- not the poem, I mean the subject. A strong write which speaks to me of a life spent in duty that gets little thanks. The kind of life women were once - and stil lare when necessary- expected to lead, one of sacrifice that destroys invisibly from within;. A bt like being microwaved until the inevitable explosion. There are choices in life that are like jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. The poem reminded me of the story of a friend of mine who looked after her mother until she died, then H took advantage of the freedom suddenly afforded her in her mid forties and met a man at a holiday camp. This man was fun, an actor ( I knew him - know her because of him) a colourful character- a member of the magic circle. They hooked up together then he had a stroke, couldn't work at all, she nursed him through for a few years- now he is okay, can function and speak but still ill with other things and can't work ( a lot of all this caused by smoking funnily enough). So in their mid 50s, not old but they must live in old people's accomodation for the disabled and her lfe if spent looking after him and his elderly mother. Some people so all this and never complain about what to selfish me is other people squandering lives away they have no right to squander away. Anyway, that's what your poem made me think of.
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Thanks so much, Bunty, for your wonderful comment. Yes Yes Yes. What you wrote holds true in many lives and people fall into things it seems and feeling that they're a better circumstance and situation they go along and end up in a same/similar predicament it seems. I wonder why we fall so often for more of the same old same old, though of course we think we are exchanging for a different. Lessons still to be learned perhaps.
This poem is close to my heart. And I feel it keenly sometimes for myself and for other folks. Squandered sometimes it does seem, yet it must all have some purpose. A good deed done, or a life well lived though it doesn't always smell just sweet and right. I often wish I could pull the fat out of the fire, but sheesh that fat just jumps back in. Well I guess that heat will temper us better and stronger. One would hope! Well I'm probably speaking what seems like gibberish but it all makes sense to me.
Thanks again so much for reading and sharing your thoughts. Tickled I am.
I felt this poem from the tip of my head right down to striped sock! And I am glad that it did not fall flat.
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Yes I would echo the Loopster's comments! Very strong work and I can't pick out a weak stanza. But yes that finish is a killer and it reads wonderfully well aloud.
Did you mean to use a 'new' word in line three of the second stanza? If so I think it works well. Great work poet!
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Thanks, ara, you are always such a support.
So indwell is a new word is it? Well, hell's bells! Or did you mean by 'new 'that it fell alone and lonely in a new line? Well, either way of what you meant, of course I meant to do it! Glad it worked! It felt right. But you know, I write by the seat of my pants, so it's a treat if others accept it as worth something. Thanks again.
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Very cool, errant! Love it all, but the last stanza is my favorite. The dead encamping along the frozen river bank, with distant voices... It's erie.
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Thanks, Loop. Very kind. Yes, the older we get I suppose the more prone we are to the calling of those pleasant voices of those gone on before. They get louder and louder, more plaintive it seems.
Glad you enjoyed the poem. It is very close to my heart.
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