Musings of a Nascent Poet
Page 12
She kissed it as she mourned the awful price that she had paid.
'O love,' she wept, 'I know my pride would send you in to fight
And someday you would miss one move and day'd be endless night.
Your death—I cannot cause it—so I saved with price of lies,
Of hearing footsteps fading and of gazing in your eyes.'
She struck the jade upon the floor; the sparks were emerald flame.
She struck it till a single sharpened edge of jade remained.
She sat there and remembered how his eyes looked when he left. . .
With a strike of her jade-green knife, she took a final breath."
And, as his lyrics faded,
The minstrel saw her smile:
"At last, you've made me happy,
Though not in your usual style.
Did you not know I wrote that,
That you sang my sorrow's call,
Sang the reason for my grief
Despite this gilded hall."
She smiled, but tears were in her eyes
Once bright, now dimmed with time.
"Yet, though I longed for gentle death,
That death could not be mine.
The King would hold him killer
If my death was through his love.
I lived—I lived in sorrow—
And I wore the Emperor's glove. . .
I hope his life grew wondrous,
Yet, I hope he dreams of me,
And thinks, for but a moment,
Of the love that could not be.
And, now, we could be happy
For, at last, my hand's my own.
But dreams will fade through thirty years;
I'll live my years alone . . ."
Lovelorn
Unrequited or truncated love is a fairly common theme in tragic poetry and mine is no exception. I was (and to a lesser extent still am) a hopeless hopeless romantic. I'm not as idealistic as I once was or as fatalistic, but you can certainly get a sense of how a teenage girl (particularly an unpopular one) might think. Be warned. Some of it is downright maudlin. On the plus side, many were experiments for me in different sounds and using sound schemes to reinforce the theme. In that aspect, I'm quite proud of several of them.
Love Song
She said, "Love me . . .
Can't you see how much I care?
Love me
And my heart I'll gladly share.
Love me
And forever I'll be true.
Love me,
For my heart belongs to you."
He said, "Love me . . .
For I want you by my side.
Love me.
Let me take you as my bride.
Love me
And I'll make my heart a slave.
Love me
And I'll love you 'til the grave."
She said, "Love me,
Let me hold you every day.
Love me
And don't ever go away.
Love me
And I'll play whatever role.
Love me
For you are my heart—my soul."
He said nothing
For there were no words to say
For someone
Was drawing him away.
Another
Who would "make his butt behave"
And leave her,
Her "he'd love until the grave."
Teardrops
Are as burning as the sun
Reminders
Of the man, the love, the one . . .
She loved him
Though he gladly slipped away.
She cries now
When she bows her head to say:
"Love me
For, without you, dreams are sand.
Love me—
Can't you feel my wasted hand?
Love me
And forever I'll be true.
Love me
For my heart belongs to you."
The Echo
I didn't know I loved him so
Or know that he loved me.
I didn't feel our love was real;
Too blind I was to see.
Pity every woman who has ever been so blind!
And hear the echo echo in my mind.
I let him know, 'twas free to go;
I'd found another man.
The look he gave, a tortured slave,
Much more than I should stand,
But then he kissed the hand of me who'd treated him unkind.
I hear the echo echo in my mind.
I now regret I told him that
I loved him not at all.
A change I'd need when I was freed,
So, please, don' t even call.
When I was through, his handsome face, though young, seemed old and lined.
Oh! Hear the echo echo in my mind!
I left alone, but heard a groan—
Why didn't I turn back?
His toughened heart was torn apart
For only I could crack
His heart which loved no other. Only for me did it shine.
Dear God! The echo echoes in my mind!
When I had left his heart bereft
Of all that he adored
He worked to gain and then attained
All I was working for.
He sent it as a gift to me! His heart I now can't bind!
But I can hear the echo in my mind.
Still unaware how much he cared,
I met the other man,
But in his place, I saw his face.
I stopped what I began.
Back to my love I turned to go; God how our travels wind!
And hear the echo echo in my mind.
When I returned, a fever burned.
I opened up the door,
But something new, a feeling grew
I'd never felt before.
I felt a certain emptiness that prickled up my spine
And heard the echo echo in my mind.
Oh! What a cost—my lover lost—
And I had done it all!
What misery as empty be
My footsteps in the hall.
The empty echoed footsteps that make my heartstrings grind—
The empty echo echoes in my mind.
He had not stayed and I had made
Him leave without a trace.
Though he loved me, how could he see
My once remorseless face?
How could I, with words unkind, leave the one I love behind—
That lover that I cannot find? God, how could I have been so blind?
Yet hear the echo echo in my mind?
Guilt
Strange voices softly call me—
In the morning, through the night.
They call me—sometimes different,
Voices deep and low—then light.
I can hear you! Do not taunt me!
Who are you to criticize?
Do not charge just me with sinning!
There are others more unwise.
Why do you not haunt the soldiers
With their rifles by their sides
Who send their noisy nightmares
From the places that they hide?
Why do you not torment spouses,
Those unfaithful where they wed,
Who leave their "loved ones" lonely
While they warm another's bed.
Why not haunt politicians
Filling screens with ivory lies.
They play their games with people's dreams
Then hide with false replies.
Why, voices, do you call me?
Make me your tortured mate?
And tell me of my life's mistakes
And liltingly berate?
Well, my mistake was foolish
But he loves me still—I know,
So go and find another soul
To give
your murmured show.
The Blind One
They called the man "the blind one"
And they looked through pity's eyes,
Their eyes on such a barren man
Who'd grown, too late, too wise.
His eyes, once blue and laughing
Have grown sad and darkly slate,
And though they call him "blind one"
He could see, but far too late.
His eyes, so self-reliant
Had once gazed at her with scorn,
Her face so pale, uninteresting,
Her long hair unadorned.
Her eyes were pale, a common gray,
But plain, though clear and bright,
With nothing really there except,
With him, they'd grow alight.
She loved him, nay, adored him—
All could see her love-sick daze,
And she had not the wiles to hide
That soft adoring gaze.
All knew, he knew, suspected
But he laughed at e'en the thought
That with this sallow, boring girl,
His future could be caught.
Even hearts of constant faith
Can only wait so long
And she had never really dreamed
His heart could come along.
So, she had left, unloved, alone,
But loving in her flight
And when she'd gone so far away,
She died one lonely night.
The rain poured down that fateful night
She gladly met with death.
With whispered words of love for him,
She spent that final breath.
And he was home, relieved, alone,
Relieved that she was gone
Though he didn't know her soul had flown
Before the wake of dawn.
But, though "untouched", his heart would miss
Her simple honest smile.
His mind would hear that halting voice,
That held no trace of guile.
Recordings of her quiet laugh
Would echo through his day
His nights were haunted by her face
And eyes of silver-gray.
He found the pest, that heart-sick fool,
Possessed him constantly
And now he loved the beauty
That, before, he would not see.
The search began, then ended,
With an wiser sadder man,
Who'd thrown ambrosia all away
For all he saw was sand.
Boy Meets Girl
When he met her, when he saw her,
He did not know what he saw;
He couldn't sense the picture that
His fate with her would draw.
Imagine his discomfiture
When this girl he hardly knew
Raised her molten eyes to his
And whispered, "I love you."
He hadn't seen her face before—
This face he'd not forget—
A touching smile and soulful eyes
That glistened as if wet,
Her velvet skin, her crimson lips. . .
Well, what was he to do?
To leave her, take her, ask her out?
She just said, "I know you."
She took his hand. He felt a thrill
He didn't understand:
One doesn't get excited from
Just touching someone's hand!
She gave him, then a melting look
That warmed him through and through,
And, before he'd chance to think,
He told her, "I want you."
Through many days and many nights
He yearned her every touch,
Her smile, her laugh, her soulful look. . .
He loved them all so much,
But never claimed to love her
Though he knew that it was true,
Just told her on the rainy nights,
"I'm warm when I hold you."
But could he hold this gentle girl?
Her death was near at hand—
An accident, a hospital,
And dreams are changed to sand.
She lay upon the sterile bed,
Eyes wet with painful dew.
He begged, "Don't leave me here alone!
O God, how I need you!"
He begged and pleaded all in vain;
He knew she couldn't stay.
She knew she could not grant his wish,
So turned and looked away.
"I'm sorry, love, for leaving you.
I only live for you."
Softly, she slipped into death.
Then, he said, "I love you."
How could she go? How could she die
And leave him all alone?
How could she so betray his heart?
Desert his reverent throne?
Pain fed anger's hungry mouth
And how his fury grew!
He spoke the words she'd never heard:
"I hate you, girl, I do."
But, even as he spoke the words,
He knew they were a lie.
He knew they were but bursts of pain;
They were his anguished cry.
His heart was weeping tears of blood
For words of hate untrue,
And also for his tragic loss.
He prayed, "How I miss you!"
And day by day he faded to
A ghost, a former man.
This shadow grew more lonely
Reaching for an absent hand,
But, often to the hopeless,
Death is quick to take its due,
And to the man, its kiss was dear.
He sighed, "Now, I'm with you."
Can You Hear Me Now?
Oh, darling, can you hear me now?
If only I could know.
This song's for you beloved
Cold and silent down below.
I feel your breathing in my sleep
And see your rose-blushed face.
How could life leave you, love, so soon
And leave your body waste.
I can't believe that death can frost
Those warming and blooming lips,
Could call your soul away from mine,
Yet, into death, you slipped.
I know that you are here with me . . .
But why will you not speak?
Surely I can touch your hand
Or feel your silken cheek—
And, yet my hands touch only air:
Your cheek's not in my reach.
Unhappy souls where love can't touch:
One death that murdered each.
How can I see her moon-spawned eyes
When she is past my sight?
Is that soft sound her whispered breath
Or just a breeze of night?
My mem'ries cast my sense in doubt.
Do I know what I see?
Is that face pulled from mental drawer
Or is she there for me?
Or is she only in my mind,
Her soul as dead as shell?
And, in recesses of my soul,
Does she find place to dwell?
Throughout the caverns of my brain
Can she, senseless, speak?
So, can I touch her smiling face
And never feel her cheek?
When I, too, die, will I be gone
To die with mem'ries film
Or will I dance with my sweet wife
Within her vaporous realm?
The Stories of the Wind
Have you ever heard the wind call?
It calls to fools like me
Reminds us what we dream of
Yet cannot hope to see;
It tells a thousand stories,
Each one told differently.
Do you wonder what the story is to me?
Have you ever known what love was?
Love that cannot be described,
That cannot be imprisoned
And cannot be disguised,
That has no thought of futures
Just dreams on, starry-eyed
And pulls you with a strength one can't deny?
Have you ever loved a someone
From the bottom of your soul,
Whom you longed to do the world for
But never asked control,
Whose smile was all you wanted,
Whose laughter made you whole—?
You'd follow him to Hell and shovel coal.
Then only you can hear it,
Hear it on the breeze's moan,
A song that says he's left you
In a prison not of stone
But of that awful emptiness
That few have ever known
Of knowing that, forever, you're alone.
She calls to me and taunts me
With his name upon her breath,
She sings a song of mourning
With a voice that's never wept.
What can she know of sorrow
When all you love has left,
And all you have is wind-sung emptiness?
Off the Beaten Path
Given my natural eclecticism and odd-ball take on poetry, the notion that these poems are more off-kilter than others might seem silly. Truth is, they just didn't fit neatly into other categories, so the leftovers and some more experiments found their way here. For instance, the first poem, "Charley" is a strange three-line stanza format I'd never used before or since. If you've read my stories in Conjuring Dreams, chances are you read the prose "Charley." So, you'd know how it ends.
Charley
There once was a girl, young Virginia Dare,
Who, bursting with love, lived to lavish her care
On a rag-tattered critter, Charley the Bear.
So many embraces to his battered head,
So many kisses as they romped on the bed.
"What a sweet twosome," the old people said.
But nothing is perfect and Ginny got ill,
And nothing could help her, not potion or pill.
The grownups around her got terribly still.
Burning with fever, she finally gave in
To the fight for her life which she could not win,
And breathed one last time, surrounded by kin.
But parents and uncles, they have other dears
To bring joy and love, to wipe away tears;
Charley had no one. He'd been hers all those years.
He could not cry in anguish or scream out in pain.
As all through his existence, he couldn't complain.
Now was no different; he was silent again.