I.
peering across distorted miles
to mountains slow shrug,
it seems one formless lap of land
below dry teats of foothills
but
one does not know the lay
until one walks, keeping one eye
on apron of shale; by feel, if you are blind;
by sound, if you are deaf,
will you know this path by heart
for you have travelled it before
II.
sometimes, on that horizon,
is a formless form that beckons;
such sight, or vision, perhaps,
that is more delectable than moon
rising in darkest of dark night:
a non-essence, truly, but so known
you will walk through dry sweat of fog,
through seven valleys of sorrow
those wandering trails, where you are lost
for words, for loss of everything but a name
you carry; bent with the burden of it,
you become a quivering vessel of qualm
at precipice of canyon rims that were disguised
by your steady focus on a woman
rising out of clouds that hide the feet
you would kiss, wash with tears, anoint
with the name of Mother
II.
Valley upon valley holds rising rivers,
roaring falls, long slither and loss of vision,
but your feet know the possibilities
of another rise, another sudden, momentary, glimpse,
beyond ice fields, that one must travel
through minty muskeg and sharp Russian thistle,
across cracked tongue of truth
towards that black call of crow night after night
that smothers you with dark wings of doubt
III.
Crawling, if you must; pulling oneself, hand over hand;
waiting for wings to sprout so you move faster;
begging for vultures to remove you like carrion;
wishing for reasons to retreat, reasons to carry on,
any reason ~ that will pull you, push you, forward
when deep drop of landslide sets you astone
it is there the hand carves your deeds, and needs,
on wrinkled brow with broken nails
that prove you would do anything, anywhere, any time,
to reach one’s beloved in any form
IV.
She places her finger to her lips,
and writes a poem that I sing
as I trudge through this geography of grief
and, I see her, feel her, note the brush of her wings
lift me, betimes, when I have given up my grace
at the very foot of a hovering heaven
Author notes
Sorrow has a name these days
In a list
- Beautiful Words by Beautiful People I Know • next in list
- Silver Poetry • next in list
- The Turquoise Tears • next in list
A contest entry
- Contest: Poem Prompt - "The Seven Sorrows" by Ted Hughes by Night Hope.
1200 points, ended November 18, 9 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 18 of 18
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congrats Carol - this is a very fine, touching poem.
mark -
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ty mark, for your comment.
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First, Carol, before I comment on the poem or anything further--let me just send you a few empathetic condolences, for I too am exploring the geography of grief that you have so well described. I am in the same uncomfortable place.
The sorrow of losing a beloved family member--and above all, a mother--is something I didn't think I would experience until I was at least 35 and had my own family. At 26 and by myself, I am strill grappling to cope. I know grief doesn't age-discriminate, but I thought by then I would be better prepared. I guess I am wrong.
Your verses are penned to evoke images of desolation and pure sadness. I wish now that the vultures would now haul me away like carrion, as I do not like the place I find myself in. But then your last vignette reminds me that Mother's spirit is not far away, and stands to lift you from the bowels of the hell that we all call sorrow.
I can only hope you are as well as can be expected, and if you should have need of a sympathetic ear, well....I shall be here.
Many blessings,
Raven Aurora
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We do crawl through and go beyond the grief of a child to reach the dignity and grace of a woman. Grief is such a blessing to us should we walk it upright when the time comes. my friend, and look for the light..it is there, I have seen it over these days.
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very thought provoking
I love your imagery. It evokes passion for the walk.
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Ah, yes, out of the pitiful path into the passion of faith that there is somewhere this is leading you! I appreciate your comments.
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I agree with the previous comment - this is a stunning collection of vignettes and such stellar writing as only you can do, Carol. I know you've penned this one from a position of sorrow, which only makes you more imminently qualified to write for this one, much to my chagrin. Your pen honors your grief, my Sister. Thank you for entering my contest, Sweetie. Good luck. 
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ty, my friend. We four sisters are being given ash pendants. I will carry mine until mine can join hers. I am into a place of grace with this..not a numb place, but a surrender place.
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That is absolutely stunning, you truly have a great gift for words. That is really amazing.
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ty, serenityblue. I have long written my soul out into such as this. This time, it comes from a wounded place that is healing and accepting that I am what I believe and she is where I believe her to be!
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This makes me hurt inside, but that is only tribute to the power of your descriptive ability. You use words like a sculpter uses clay.
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Oh and I am that as well, friend. My art complements my poetry and my poetry compliments my art - for both come from such a sacred place. ty
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Outstanding!
How well you have expressed the landscape of grief and the way we walk, wallow, climb, and muddle through it in this piece. In the penning, you have moved a number of steps across that vast landscape, the progress being the penning, all the time moving within One. Bravo!
Carol
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And so it is, Carol, and so it is. One can measure the depth of love and connection by how difficult the struggle and walk, for sure. But, the landscape clears a little and the heart follows what the heart knows to be true!
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Sorrow sows us with tears and washes us with lessons and we travel on as you say so well. For all our aches, we know our time is but a nod of a higher blessing for subtraction and addition are a human pastime. Beautifully spoken, my friend
Love,
Tom B.
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ty, Tom, for your incredible follow-up poem. It is absolutely perfect!
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Magnificent!!!
simply spellbinding!! you journey through the mind of the heart in sorrowful grasp clutching and lighting the dark corners of regret, i am staggered by your visions , descriptions, phrasing and imagery. hats off on this!!!
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o, ty, aychellus, for such a great comment on my poem. It definitely was work of the soul!
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