this too
Monday, September 12, 2005
  (updated)


Your hands are clenched, my heart is clenched
and I can barely stay my hands
from yours.

You’d think I would have learned by now
to be content alone, I know,
but no.

So now I find there is no choice
but not to come here any more

at all.

Next day: I probably should apologise for inflicting this. I'm no poet. It did make me feel enormously much better, though. As good as howling and sobbing for half an hour!
 
Comments:
Ai. That's wrenching.
 
I refused to let a place become tainted by a bad relationship or break-up, instead diffusing it and going often and with different people. Because life is full of hurts and disillusions, attaching them to a place carves your world away.

A relationship ended is like a plane crash landing. It's a good one as long as you can walk away from it.
 
Not that bad, zhoenw - never started! and the here is a group of people, not the whole town.
 
Please, inflict more!

I promise I won't call them poems, and I won't call you a poet, if you'll write some more of these short paragraphs with odd right margins.
 
Jean,
Sorry, I was reading in. In the wrong direction. But a compliment to your poem, that it is open to different interpretations.
Different when the love IS the place.
 
Isn't poetry a great release.
Please don't apologize.
Not that I relate or anything. :)
 
Of course you're a poet. I like the diminishment in line length in each stanza and how well that matches the content. This also meshes well with the syntax, so structured as to enforce a measured pace, as if the words are riveted to the page. I can well believe that you found the finding of just the right words to be a healing thing. We shouldn't write poetry for the therapy - we should write it for poems, and the pleasure they give to others - but like any good, honest work, it does help the heart and breath recover their natural rhythms. I hope you'll decide to make this a more regular habit, Jean. Thanks for sharing.
 
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