Archive for sadness

Passage

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on August 24, 2009 by 1writegirl

Psyche swoops
Low to the ground
Cloaked in anonymity
In the pitch black of night

Quiet, barely breathing
Hanging
In the balance

Nothing to give
Nothing to take

Passing through dark alleys
And stench-ridden stairwells
Littered with days-old detritus
And the glow of eyes

Half alive

Half tethered to
Another world

Where laughter, mad and demonic
Is the only kind you hear

Searching for hope
Escape from chains
And finding nothing
But past-due depravity

The most insidious kind

And rock bottom sadness
Lurking below
Borne of the notion
Pervasive potential

That every step means
Nothing more
Than passage into the

Abyss

My Fur Coat

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , on December 15, 2008 by 1writegirl

I love you so differently than I have ever loved before, I confess to him. I am thinking, I want to give and give and give to you. It’s because this is the first time you are really loved back, he says.

I think of the other relationships I’ve been in, of Ken and Jake and Tom and Ben, and I wonder about each man in turn, and his level of devotion. Joe loved me, I am sure of it, however briefly, in a desperate, all or nothing kind of way, that went, not surprisingly, from all to nothing almost overnight. Ken probably didn’t, but that was my doing; I never gave him the chance, sabotaging any possibility of real intimacy from the beginning, in the way a very young and fearful girl will do in the face of doubt she could stay with any one person, when life is secretly beckoning her to run like the wind and not look back. Tom never loved me and frankly I didn’t care anymore at some point; I gave up wanting his affection and in doing so gave up the act of loving him as well. By that time I had a child to care for, a son to exchange love with in a forever, unconditional sort of way that prior to his birth was the stuff of fairy tales; now, understood without reservation or fear.

And Ben? I loved Ben a great deal, and in spite of the fact that he withheld his love from me in the steely way a miser will guard his stash of gold, I convinced myself that he really did love me. I could feel it, in spite of his desire to keep it confined, invisible, and unspoken. Whether it was his, or my own feelings reflected back onto me with the force of sunlight in a rearview mirror at sunset, I can’t say. I allowed it to blind me for four years until he told me he didn’t want me anymore and then the question of love or don’t love became a moot point.

Now, this new man – this wonder who has swept into my life with the force of a tornado and shaken my very foundations – is offering me the chance to love and be loved with all the redemptive powers of a presidential pardon or a Catholic confession: freedom to be accepted in all my torn humanness with everything showing that has come before, yet none of it mattering.

He is not an optimist, a glass half-full kind of man. On the contrary, he finds very little in life to wonder at, marvel over, or worship. The dark side of human nature is the bane of his existence, the weight of it great enough to usurp what is beautiful and eclipse what is light. It is not a resistance to joy that he sports, though it may seem that way at times, but a continual struggle to keep his head above the ugliness. What remains at the end of the day is not so much acceptance as it is tolerance. Once in a great while something moves him and he lets go, he gives everything while expecting nothing, yet wanting just enough to stave off what torments him a while longer.

How I chanced to wander into his path is a mystery, and how I could possibly be enough, I may never know. He wears his passion for me like a favorite old t-shirt, as if it’s the most natural and comfortable fit he has ever found. I wear it like a silk lined sable coat, reveling in its protective warmth, amazed by its softness, determined to keep it clean, supple and free of stain. Bewildered by the fact that something so beautiful is touching me, each time, as if for the very first time, and suffused with the desire to remain enough.

Bemoaning the ends

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 19, 2008 by 1writegirl

 

She undergoes in the name of love endless insult,

everything a means to an end,

comprised of acts against nature involving

 

hot wax

razors

foul smelling creams

food deprivation

scissors

tweezers

bar-bells

treadmills

abortions

a high priced psychoanalyst

eye liner

carrot juice

and the observation and feigned enjoyment of such pastimes

  as football, tv, and Nascar

… to name a few.

 

Please him, please him, please him,

she has been taught since infancy.

Never did anyone suggest please yourself.

She spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

In the end, it always ends.

 

She wanders from place to place,

repeating the cycle,

through the good years,

the years of her youth,

the years she can never get back.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

Till one day, something snaps, something changes,

and now she chooses which acts of nature

she will violate and why,

and there is no him to please anymore;

they have stopped lining up at her door

 or she has told them all to leave,

she doesn’t know which.

 

It is quieter now,

she is more focused,

and she doesn’t feel guilty nearly as much,

though she still spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

It is not that she has given up on love.

It is that she has a different understanding

of what the word means than she used to.

 

Then one day she meets someone she thinks

maybe she could love someday,

the right way,

the way love was intended.

 

She admires this man,

she respects the way he faces his demons,

and in his presence,

she feels lighthearted and joyous

in a way she has not for years.

 

He says he wants to be her friend,

and he cries when he confesses

he cannot give her more.

 

She looks in the mirror and weeps.

Not from sadness; after all, she can give no more in return.

Not from happiness; where was he twenty years ago?

Not even from habit.

 

She weeps because his hesitations are her own,

his fears, as fresh and raw as hers,

His reasons as old and familiar as the skies.

 

She realizes he may find it easier

to walk away than to walk toward,

and she will end up, once more,

 

Bemoaning the ends.