Sunday, September 16, 2018

Single Mitten






Single Mitten











You're lost.

You
the fact forgotten,

you 
the bramble-stolen path;

you 
the lantern empty,

the coat that feeds the moth;
the one

whose voice was taken,
whose breath

could not get in,
whose absence

 breaks the coupled;
the pocket-eaten mitten

that makes 
its partner useless,

a rag 
to be disposed;

you
the shadow flying,

you
the eye that's closed.

Lost.











~September 2018












Personal update: So many apologies for not reading or visiting these days, dear readers. I miss your poetry, and my own; all the voices which will no longer sing for me just now. My husband continues to fight the long defeat against his illness, but the time is getting short. I am hoping for some clarity on the other side, in which these frayed threads may be taken up again in some way. Til then, many thanks for all the concern, support and love you have shown me in this barren, foggy time.









 Image: top: author unknown, via internet. All rights reserved to author.
Gulls, 1982, ©joyannjones

16 comments:

  1. I certainly hope that you are keeping as well as you can during this difficult time; I think of you often and offer up positive thoughts and prayers so that all suffering will end and that peace may be had for everyone involved. Lingering is such a hard edged place to continue to have footing ... and I hope that your days are somehow filled with small moments where you can find breathing room and space .... and maybe, subconsciously, are gathering wool and sticks and small gems that will eventually come to be new words for you.

    Thinking of you Joy - and keeping you in my heart as you're living this exhausting and sorrowful time.

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  2. the other half of the pair, the you to the me . ~

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    1. Thanks, M. for your thoughts, here and elsewhere.

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  3. How could the passage be other than almost inarticulate (though almost has offered so much in so little space). Store it fully up, and know your friends are round you from our distances and depths.

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    1. Much appreciated, B. Sorry to be unable to digest your depths at the moment...I hope to be back someday.

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  4. Your voice is not forgotten, Joy. Even these words, which seem to echo from a troubled wilderness, hold your keen spirit.

    Much love to you in these uncertain times.

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  5. Oh damn. Such a visceral expression of a particular kind of grief.

    ((((((((((Hedgey))))))))))))))

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  6. In the The Thirteenth Tale, one of my favorite novels, there is a passage where a character is howling in heartbreaking pain as the loss of a loved one hits her after a very long time. A second character, who lost a sibling, consoles her... tells her, "I know. I know." and holds her. It sounds like a simple passage, the words feel so... ordinary. But I've never been moved by another proof of understanding of grief as I am moved by that passage. Until now. Because I know. I know. And knowing breaks my heart. Every line of this poem screams of the sort of loss that can't be explained, just shown... and felt. And it feels soul-ripping.

    You are in my thoughts...

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    1. And you are in mine. I think of your courage and spirit every day, and it never fails to light a corner of the darkness. Thanks for these insightful and understanding words, and for you.

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  7. The bramble-stolen path. I am thinking of you, Joy. No path is harder.

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    1. Thank you Sherry--so many hard paths for too many...

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  8. Oh hunny, you are both in my prayers, all will be well in the end, hugs.
    And some things can only function with another, others shine on their own...

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    Replies
    1. Thank you, Shadow. It means a lot to see you here.

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  9. When I went through this (unbelievably, six years ago already) I found that poetry was the very thing which gave me succour and clarity when I came out that other side of it. May it be so for you too – and I don't see how it could not. Still there was pain, but I was thankful that the poetry was my companion through it.

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