poetry

Think of You

August 18, 2017

I’m a Tanita Tikarim song

Her dulcet sadness

Haunting me

And in my head I sing along

“I think of you”:

And as I breath – I think of you,

And if I walk – I think of you,

I’ll fake a smile – and think of you,

Or fall asleep – still dream of you.

I know you were my biggest fan,

My friend and now and then

I’m calm enough again

– and think of you.

If I cry once it’s not enough,

If I try not to it’s too much,

And I’m not strong enough

To miss you yet,

Can’t settled on it yet,

And I can’t contemplate

You gone and yet I do.

June 19, 2016

They bottleneck

In my throat

It aches:

I float away.

They break bank –

And flood me:

Rapid pulse

The current

It takes me.

Dictates of Mournable. Prescin(d/g) Out.

March 10, 2016

Elevating, framing

this visual metaphor:

Of writ misogyny;

The bold audacity

Of disenfranchised

Over-writ, over it

Not social power.

But real misogyny ?

That happens here:

In this discourse,

Where you dictate

What is mournable

To me.

If you animated grief I reckon it would be one of those dogs on the beach in Thailand. The kind that hobble along a few meters behind you, and sleep at the window while you relax in your air conditioned, German owned, ‘nouveau riche’ Thai operated concrete Villa.

Precious Few

He would be the one you made eye contact with that first day and just don’t have the heart to shoo on. He seems content, you would think, yet resigned, or maybe sad, you would say gazing down at him from the beach side bar. In reality though, as the days went on he would really just look like death knocking. Like if he spoke he would recount tales of a harsh existence. Like he just needs someone with the guts to put him out of his misery.

Katie Kaff-eine

As you sip your Mojito you promise your companion you will not touch him. No seriously, you promise. And you certainly will not feed him. Just some water maybe. No, nothing, you promise. But then she is not looking and you whisper a kind hello. And suddenly there he is, a bestie, all yours.

I am scared to get that close to grief. I don’t imagine I could pack up and leave it in Ko Lanta. It would be in my luggage emitting mysterious odours and arousing suspicion. Or worse, I would be sorting out my affairs and joining Soi Dog, another crazy ex-pat raging against the machine.

And yet this one is a pointless battle, because grief is the silent partner to love. It waits for us to sign that dotted line before it shakes our hand. It is deception, compassion, fear, strength, guilt, regret, remorse, joy and anger. It is the dog you cannot love and cannot leave. It pulls you in and changes you. It makes you feel. It is relentless in it’s appeal.

I always thought that Phillip Larkin’s poem Going was about death, but now I imagine it might be about the inevitable grief that accompanies it:

p style=”padding-left:150px;”>There is an evening coming in
Across the fields, one never seen before,
That lights no lamps.

p style=”padding-left:150px;”>Silken it seems at a distance, yet
When it is drawn up over the knees and breast
It brings no comfort.

I feel that imminent evening coming now. As certain as sunset, it is coming to greet me again. I wrote about it when I saw the Hanky Project. I wrote that my own hanky would say: “She opened her eyes briefly in the hour that I sat looking upon her and I leapt into that last connection like she was a pool of water and I was on fire”.

I don’t know what I will write on my next hanky. I guess I am going to have to feed the dog.