Vanity Fair arrived today
my head spinning
in the month
that seemed like
yesterday
when
I stood at my mailbox
holding a magazine
that looked very similar
thirty days compressed
thirty days gone
thirty days
marking time
in pages not read
of pages not written
as if
life were a vise
squeezing my weeks
into days
and my days
into hours
and the hours
into minutes
it wasn't long ago
that every minute
seemed an hour
and every hour
seemed a day
and every day
seemed a week
and the weeks
well
they seemed
a lifetime
and all I want
is for an hour
to be an hour
10 comments:
This stanza on the cutting room floor:
(where the days
were too long
and the nights longer
and five o'clock
meant the sound
of ice
the sound of release
from the weight
of the day
which seemed
like a week
as I slipped
into that space
where colors
and sounds
danced)
That's a profound statement on the elusiveness of time, Tree. It captures perfectly the sadness of hours not lived as they could have been ~ and never to be reclaimed.
~Greg
Greg, I spent seven weeks fighting to save a company that entered Chapter 11 from moving to Chapter 7--unsuccessfully. Those seven weeks were the longest of my life. The next month, by contrast, flew by in the blink of an eye. The roller coaster of time, for me, has never been more wild and I long for that hour that is just an hour lived, an hour breathed, an hour loved.
Thanks for the kind words. Always warmly appreciated.
Poppet, this poem is exceptional.
I don't know where to start telling you how so. It is perfect, perfectly expressed, perfectly formed, perfectly complete. Symmetrical in every way, in the individual parts of the poem, in the language, in the comparison, there is such a mesmerizing balance to it, an ebb and flow, a single instance of each, like a breath, in and out, wonderfully profound, grounded and earthy, truth, heart, realization (wonderful comment by Greg!). There's a penetrating depth to your words that move beyond the particular circumstances and yet at the same time as some of your other recent poetry, you gift a sincere and unclouded insight into your thoughts and feelings pertaining to recent work-related events in a way that is quite different from the poetry you were writing in the midst of it all and just thereafter. Not less, but calmer if I may be so bold. This poem is so much more than I can say, thoughtful and sage and stimulating, magnificent. May be back if I ever arrive at post-wow.
Sweetest, this is another poem forged on the anvil of bitter experience, that exists only for the experiences of the last few months; and, to the point, I'd trade this poem to have not had those experiences in a heartbeat. Life so far this year has been crazy and above all, I just want to go back to normal, whatever that is. :-D
Your words, again, are like salve, an endless flowing of aloe on the burns of my soul. When I see you have commented, my heart rejoices for I know you have come to lift, to inspire, to heal, to be a force for good and light and love. How you do it time and time again amazes me. How our paths crossed will forever and always remain a central blessing in my life, and, to CNN, I will forever remain grateful! :-D
If only, such a thing were possible, I would wish it for you too, that you had not known these last months as they have been but as something else. All we can hope is that for you personally this is opportunity encased and that not too far down the line, you will find some way to appreciate the change that was brought into your life through no action of your own.
:-) I give thanks every single day that you stumbled upon that post written a long time ago now. Without this chance event, life would have been very different. You have expanded my heart with your writing, with your friendship but above all by just being you.
I meant to mention this both in my first comment and my reply to yours, the very last line of this poem has an astounding amount of intensity, there is such emotion in those words, so much behind them. Poignant and affecting, heart in words.
Sunshine, the last two lines are like a harbored hoarded sigh, an exhale like a ballon deflating from exhaustion. So glad to see you see the sense of ending. Your gifts of observation never cease to amaze me. :-)
Truly...time is relative...
Mona, I've known this for a long time, but it seems to live it is different than to know it.
Post a Comment