Memory of sky over
the constant fog of illusory
loves no not even abandoned
junks, useless washers
or iridescent foam
in the lifeless trickle
swirled through secret
childhood sanctuaries,
these are the wastes
of time and excess
in paradise.
The heart can bear
loss with age
and grief, hear the wood
dove at morning, certainty
rises in a new spring
greening on a day
nature will choose,
with or without us.
What the heart cannot
bear is the maddening prick
of desire, sorrowful embrace
of our own yearnings forever
lost beyond the visible
horizon, far past our reach
or the present season.
4 comments:
I really do like your first stanza, rolls off the tongue. Though this part still irks me:
'loves no not even abandoned'
The 'no not' doesn't read that well. Other than that it looks and reads a lot better than the first draft. Hopefully this is not the first draft. :P
sorry its taken me so long to comment...i really like the first and the third stanzas, i think they have a great rythm. i love the first image of "the constant fog of illusory loves". i also like "iridescent foam".
something about the second stanza trips me up, though. i think its the combination of the line "dove at morning, certainty / rises in a new spring..." maybe more of a physical break there? or maybe not...its up to you, that's just my preference. :) thanks for this!
I wonder if you might need a comma after “greening” in the second stanza. I’m not sure. I’ve read it both ways…
This is one of those that seem to sneak up on you. It tends to build while at the same time maintaining even tone. Outstanding!
Thanks very much to all of you. You were right about this being a first draft, Tiger. It most certainly was rough. Great insights and very helpful. You guys are the best!
Here's the rewrite so far:
What the Heart Cannot
Memory of sky over
the constant fog of illusory
loves with abandoned
junks, trinkets, memories
of evenings imagined only
alive in the heart nowhere
else receding in old age,
throbbing in a trickle
swirled through secret
childhood sanctuaries,
these are the wastes
of time and excess
in paradise.
Our hearts can bear
loss with age and grieving.
We hear the wood dove
at morning, certainty rises
in a new spring greening
on a day nature will choose,
with or without us. Can we
recognize true love amid
the artifice and illusion
or will we wander endlessly
along these fouled waters
searching for the one
who never was?
What the heart cannot
endure is the maddening
prick of desire, sorrowful embrace
of our own yearnings forever
lost beyond the visible
horizon, far past our reach
or the present season.
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