[Context: I devoured the poems of Rumi and Hafiz in my lowest deepest years. The layout for this poem is totally borrowed from one by Rumi, giving me a framework to pen myself]
Everything that comes, goes –
the Pattern.
Sit tight, my lovely: the first big one is DEATH!
Gouging crevices on your heart-face,
cleaving
knife-edged features:
Scars to channel overwhelming
tear-springs,
useful
for drowning in.
Store in your deepest, most private
chamber
a
necessary, echoing howl of anguish
or
a protracted groan, for this dark occasion.
Breathe out, my beautiful, more is
coming:
Young buds unfurl, shake out their
fronds and blow away in the wind.
Eyes mist over at their boldness,
their audacity
to
dream so brazenly.
They head off, clutching instruments
under their arms,
ready
to take on the world.
The air subsides slowly in their
wake, leaving an acre
of
emptiness
a lumpy throat
and a silhouette snapshot of their lives.
Brace yourself, m’darling, for yet another coming-and-going:
Freeze-frame the searing pain of you
leaving,
walking out the door
with a 27 year chunk of my
heart.
Along with the coats and caps at the door
I hang up my pleas,
but your manly, decisive shoulders
are set:
nothing
will deter you.
After each leaving, a period of
waiting:
waiting
for the next wave to roll through,
which
it surely does,
washing up my bare bones-
transparent
and vacant
pared
down.
Surely no better place to come home
to?
No comments:
Post a Comment