This was a poem that seemed to jump into existence. What I write is not gloomy stuff, although I fully acknowledge and even appreciate the role of gloom in a life, so it's not too surprising a topic. I didn't write it for any particular occasion or for any particular relationship between people, it is quite generic. I decided to post it today mainly as in the UK it is Mother's Day and the sort of day that can highlight a loss. (My own mother is entirely well and full of news regarding loft insulation, and, of course, the vagaries of weather.)

This Beast

What is it, that I am being told?
You are here, I know you are.

This beast, my grief
At my heels anytime
Shifts weight, changes shape

I will not acknowledge it

Why should I acknowledge it:
I can carry on as usual, nothing
Can change, if we do not look

If we do not look or speak of it

Roll into intolerance
Roll, rage, and the more
It makes no difference: rage

Why is this story to be told?
It is wrong: too heavy, awkward
All this red eyed swollen exhaustion

The real story, isn't like this
I could write it different
I will, I will make it perfect

I should, I should have
Made it better, not perfect
But so much sweeter

Left too late: gone over
Memory in mould, in useless
Bloom, foul hot-breathed blooms

You are not here: the shape
Of you, a negative, a shadow
Cliché: you are not here, not here

In the dark room, sit
Holding memories, unlit
Until the light lifts

Memory, rolls into use
Can be held: a memory can be held
I remember: from darkness: the light lifts


Geo. said…
Lily, You should know how much this means to an orphan my age. I'm glad I'm writing that instead of trying to speak. Very moving.
Lisa Southard said…
When this poem arrived, I felt these words- it was like all the stages of grief rolled through me- almost like another presence came through, and wanted this said. Often writing has a sort of conduit feel, but this was decidedly odd and oddly uplifting. xxx
Suze said…
I heard a lecture about the genius behind a work of art. The author described it as a force that tore over mountains to leap into her and execute the work.

This poem's genie seems to have crouched quietly alongside you. And you listened.
Lisa Southard said…
It did- and I did- and I love the vision of leaping crouching inspiration genies :-)

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