as hue
to petal
as warmth
to ray
home
in
your
arms
drifting
beyond
shore's
sight
voices
once heard
but
seen
this place
of
quiet
lapping
warm
sun
beyond
words
beyond
endless
discourse
in
your
arms
Yul put the poem down, a solitary stain falling upon parchment.
6 comments:
If the hour permitted, I would go in search of certain chapters. Chapters like the one where Yul
is in hospital and the ones concentrated around her dock story in order to draw therefrom,
concretely, in comment upon this chapter, upon the tear. I was about to write perhaps especially Yul, but then I thought of Mairi and I thought of Kyra (Zoe and Caitlin too for that matter) and the conclusion eclipsed the beginning before it was begun, namely whether we know or whether we only imagine, our hearts and souls yearn for the same. Softly spoken, mere whisper in places, enchanting rhytym. And tone(s). These words between her fingers, time spent at the cottage, I worry, not that there will be a parting, but that as time passes, whether this poem will become lost to them. Beautiful poem, simple, utterly lovely, and a wonderfully evocative post. My comment does not do justice at all to the many thoughts and emotions provoked. I hope to make this up soon.
Ms Storm, as you suspect, Yul sees what Rog doesn't. And I suppose more importantly, feels it, feels the void that is now exposed, always there, but perhaps dormant in the not looking. But now with Trev and Em, there is no place to hide. First Kyra, or even before Kyra there was Areil and her halos, and now Yul. This poem she finds, written by Trev, penned literally in a minute after dinner, stuns her. She knows Rog cannot do this and foe a moment is lost not in what Rog is, what Rog can do, but what he cannot. And, as you so aptly remember, she has reason to doubt where she stands with Rog, namely, that hospital scene where she slams the phone against the wall wishing to never hear his name spoken again.
This, I think is the danger of love--that it doesn't speak, can't speak but in manifest, in verb, in the act of 2+2=5. And those who see the light the brightest are those in the shadows, not the dark, but standing on the edge, just out of light's reach. Within them an ache and a longing to move into the light, but as a dream, their feet don't move. Yul is yearning for what she knows exists but has never had, not from her father, and it seems, at least to her, not from Rog either.
To put it this way, and we might see this in a future chapter, Em tells Yul one day that her and Trev have never had sex, will never have sex. When she notices the incredulity on Yul's face, she adds, but we make love every day. And this is like a dagger to Yul because in this moment she knows that what she has with Rog, as great as it is, has been, will be, it is sex, pure and simple sex, not, as Em says it, the making of love.
As much as I love the story, your poetry is what I hold so close to my heart. SIGH (and yes I know this is part of the story).
TIGHT HUGS and WARM KISSES
LOVE ALWAYS, XOXOXOXO
hhHHHH
LotL, you are not the first to favor the poetry over the prose. Sigh. Such a bittersweet sentiment. Sweet in the sense of acknowledgement. Bitter in that the prose is what I labor over, the poetry is like a flowing afterthought. Seems odd that what I work so hard at is seen in less regard than what I just thrown down on the page with no more effort than thought. Big Sigh. All the same, your kind, kind words are deeply appreciated. Thank you.
It may be that the ease, or simplicity is what I love. I know at one point I mentioned to you that I never read poetry before your. Well, you can say that you have sparked that fire inside of me. I love the flow of a simple poem, as well as the many interpretations, as many interpretations as there are readers. As enjoyable as The story is, and I do love it and enjoy it, it forces me to think...LOL...and your poetry just seems to fill me. Again, I can't seem to get my thought on paper...I guess in the sense that you labor over writing it, I labor over reading it. Not so much lately, it's been more poetry, but...ughhh, nevermind, just know that I dearly love them both.
TIGHT HUGS and WARM KISSES
LOVE ALWAYS, XOXOXOXO
hhHHHH
I know what you mean. The prose tends toward the baroque whereas the poetry, not always, but usually is slim and simple and, again not always, to the point. Sometimes I think my prose is more poetical than my poetry, as if I have confused the two forms, one for the other.
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