There are words written by
two women I used to know
& shamefully I must admit
that I did not give
either the true gift of attention:
they knew me but I could not see
beyond the boundary of my affliction;
a selfish sadness
destroying everything..
From Saint Christopher
to Blue John Stones,
they gave me everything
& with that grace, with those
prayers I drank & laughed
& let each future be
consumed by the past.
For you, the one I barely knew….
I hope that when you hit the water, your thoughts dispersed in a furious & glorious display, to finally free you from those bad dreams…
At 2 a.m in the morning the thoughts became starlings;
dispersing, flying & reforming again,
afraid a cage & the end of all freedom
lay hidden, patiently waiting.
Yet other nights they would fly above
evergreen trees, winding paths &
fresh clean streams.
Some nights the trees became
something they could never be, &
the water turned to perfect mirrors
flowing towards an endless sea.
Now
the starlings are starved & dying,
motionless on blackened trees
above a burnt & barren ground
where there is nothing so beautiful as you,
or birds flying through
the clearest
blue sky.
For you, the one I hardly knew…
I once heard about a Chinese ritual, of burning that which you
want the dead you loved to take with them:
I want to set fire to every scrap of paper; every scrawled poem
I gave you & you gave me.
I don’t believe they will ever reach you,
only that
ritual contains more meaning than truth
can retain.
Yet still I don’t dare
let the words we shared disappear.
For S (again)
Tonight I can write such derivative lines.
Lines such as:
“The moon is cold & beautiful, but so far away from me, just like you”.
The sun shines yet the trees are barren of their leaves.
Tonight I can write such derivative lines.
I love her, & she once loved me too.
Through days such as this I longed for her kisses.
She smiled at me again & again far from noises of the city.
I love her. Yet perhaps now I hate her, after those bitter parting words.
How not to love (still) her gentle green eyes.
Tonight I am writing derivative lines.
Thinking of how often I wronged her. Remembering how I lied so many times.
Listening to the old songs, so different now without her.
& the music fades into the ether, like vapour to the sky.
What does it matter that I destroyed her love for me.
I am alone & deserve to be.
That is all.
From my laptop speakers someone is singing. From a shitty laptop.
The night feels empty, & I am alone.
My mind repeats every mistake as if to atone for my sins.
My mind will not forgive me.
The sun shines on the same trees we walked between
So often. We are no longer the same.
She has another; a new amour more authentic than I; one
closer by birth & blood to the sea touched by three continents.
She loved me. Yet perhaps now we hate each other,
after those bitter parting words. I have never known a love that did not hurt.
Without me she now speaks with the prosody of contentment,
writes poetry of new elegance, & my body aches for her.
Though I am not bitter. I will never want her to suffer,
& this will be my last attempt to speak to her.
Words for Ghosts 