Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Still Life



Still Life


I sit
by a dish of light
with darkness at my back.
I throw in words,

flowers of flame; only
the dry, bright ones--
you, remember, once, then--

while I leave the sodden
syllables in a pile--
now, tomorrow, alone, gone--

for nothing
will make them
burn.

We can't speak the tongues
of each other's pain;
still, we huddle in light
and forgive.





~August, 2018















Image: Stilleben mit Blumen, 1908, by Heinrich Kuhn    Public domain

9 comments:

  1. I was going to ask if you've been in my head lately, but... I should know better: some things can never be poetized, transcribed out of someone else's feelings, they must be lived to read this real. My soul echoes your last stanza, glorious "flowers of flame".

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  2. So beautiful, love-filled and painful, my friend. I love that you "huddle in the light". Sometimes that is all we can do.

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  3. Welcome back :) I hope all's well. Beautifully expressed. Very touching.

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  4. Surely not the grace of ease or comfort but grace nonetheless, found and burned in glory. May poems be peonies, even if they are scattered and rare. Best. --

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  5. absolutely gripping and very quietly poignant and heart-breaking, yet perhaps, hopefully, also forgiving and of some comfort for peace and rest, in closure.

    Peace to you Joy.

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  6. It is left to the poets to find beauty in pain, and profundity in sorrow.

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  7. This is exquisite in the way it highlights pain and sorrow. I like the last lines...it brings about a resolution...forgiveness. Perfect...and are you back?

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"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats