But why stop at seven?
A magic number I suppose
And seven sings with sorrow
In a way that eight or ten
Or a million does not.
Though a million sorrows
Is closer to the mark.
This world is a world of sorrows,
Sorrows piled on sorrows,
Sorrows to numerous to mention.
A black curtain of sorrows
Before which we act out
Our fleeting moments of joy
Perhaps the poet was just being kind
And stopped at seven
to have his tea
Because he thought his reader
would have had enough by then.
A poet has to be kind like that
And dole his toxic truth out
poco a poco, little by little
Least his reader be driven mad
Or close the book In despair.
Author notes
Read the poem and this came to mind fast and strong. Maybe not what you were looking for but I hate to ignore such a strong impulse. Thanks
A contest entry
- Contest: Poem Prompt - "The Seven Sorrows" by Ted Hughes by Night Hope.
1200 points, ended November 18, 9 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - Contest: Poem Prompt - "The Seven Sorrows" by Ted Hughes, Part II (By Invitation Only, Please) by Night Hope.
1200 points, ended November 22, 17 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
-
Your "strong impulse" has served you well here - your poem is vibrant and strong, but also leavened with flashes of humour.
Good work,
Bill
-
Thank you for returning with this fine poem, Budart. 
-
This reminded me not only of Hughes' and Plath's works, but also that of Emily Dickinson, in her poem "Tell all the Truth, but tell it slant". Indeed, as writers we must be kind and generous to our readers, and not give them more to digest at any one time than they can do so easily, or their gluttony would surely backfire on them. 
Thank you for entering this in my contest, Budart. Good luck.
Adding your comment:
