Regret

The Funeral

/ wordsforghosts / 2 Comments

I tried smiling at your funeral,

to avoid the choking weeds of grief.


Breathing trees

no longer naked,

their limbs veiling then revealing 

a diamond-clear sky,

stood beside the road leading

to the building where your family was mourning.

  

(When she asked me where you’d gone, 

I told your daughter you had

become one with nature;


every flower,

the lambent limbs of sunlight

& all those dignified trees, 

believing

you would like that answer.


I hope I wasn’t wrong.)


A vodka (double vodka) before

the eulogy, 

& another 

(& another) after

it was over.


Then, outside: cold bright sunlight,

dreaming of you dancing; 


the prosody of your body,

singing,

as roses red & white

flowed from your hips,

replacing the weeds &

loosening their grip,

 

just long enough to bring 

some small relief


from the reality of your absence.


Yet there was nothing except

 

the brutal eloquence


of silence.

Fatal dreams

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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.

Tonight I can write such derivative lines

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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. 

Poetry

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“Words are beautiful” Che said “but actions

are meaningful”.

 

Defiant to the end, 

before a bullet broke through his skull.

 

The man of action reduced to such beautiful

last words: 

 

“You cannot kill a revolution!”

Or is that just a myth, 

am I remembering it wrong

as I have done

so many times

(too many times) 

when

we spent those stolen moments together?

Why am I writing poetry

while you are on the other side of the

city,

living a better life without words like 

these:

 

only noise thrown into the void,

another waste waiting

for rejection.

 

Why did I choose words

over actions?

Tell a truth, or tell a lie

/ wordsforghosts / 3 Comments

“I get hammered, forget you exist / there’s no way I’m forgetting this”*

That city turning pink
in the sun’s slow descent;
the night air still vibrant
yet gentle now
                      as if
in its old age the day
had finally found a way to be kind
& calm without losing all passion for
the fire
          of summer;

your hair, shed like feathers discovered in

my bed,
a mess of tresses untangled
& tangled again:

now all only a memory

of a scent & the slope of your shoulders
at 5 a.m in the morning;

photographs of long lost days

when we still adored each other,
before the decay became
                                       poison:

the silence, the speech, the years of peace

& warmth
& war
& lies
& tired eyes
& not fucking any more

& bored

            so bored
of the performance;
                                another
dancing monkey
out of sync with the organ grinder;
a comedy without laughter,
a tragedy without despair,
only anger.
All this & more now lives below
a gravestone with no
inscription,
as our dream begins to decay
beneath the surface,

where the remains may let new life flourish.

* Scott Huchison