FIVE OF HEARTS (Poems)
I've been doing a lot of cleaning and organizing of my files and came across these several old poems with a theme of "heart." Except for the last little one ("Under A Blossom Moon") I don't think they are examples of my better writing or thinking. However, read together they do touch on an issue I've been mulling over a lot recently: how can I live "heartfully"?
All five of these poems are quite old (one at least 20 years old, and none less than 14), though I have revised them through the years. I find them a mix of disturbing and oddly encouraging as I continue to work to keep my heart open in the face of my weaknesses and life's challenges.
WOULD THAT MY HEART
Would that my heart were like a snake,
wriggling surely through shadows
out of its old skin to reveal the new.
But this heart is like a Phoenix,
which goes down in flames each time
and in the centuries of seconds
between death and rebirth, a sere peace
settles, like a layer of ashes,
from beneath whose pall a new heart
inevitably rises, trembling and naked.
* * * *
DELAYED REACTION
I have lost my heart many times.
"Given it away," as they say,
opening the left side of my breast
and handing it over.
A ghost heart pumps blood
and produces replicas of passion,
as life goes on, pretty much the same.
Strange that pain only descends,
contracting me into a bemused ball,
when my heart comes home to roost.
Strange that only then do I notice
I had given my heart away again;
only then do I bear the numbing ache
of its long absence;
only then do I suspect that hearts
can touch and share, or briefly mingle,
but may be meant for keeping.
* * * *
THE TIN WOMAN SPEAKS
The distance between a star
so new and far away its light
has not yet reached the earth
is no greater than that which
glitters between you and me.
The former will require miracles
of technology to travel it.
And though my shyness grasps
at mind games to tool a path
from me to you, I fear
this latter distance only
asks for heart to bridge it.
* * * *
THE HEART OF THE MATTER
I can not truly know what you feel,
though I can clearly see your pain.
I can not know what you should do,
but I deeply feel your confusion.
I can not wish that you would
try it this way, or consider that,
for your soul's path is unique,
unfolding in its own time,
in its own way.
I can only cultivate a space
in the corner of my breast
where the wild, enduring things
you've lost, like curiosity and hope,
can survive and grow should you wish
to claim them for your own again.
I can be your surrogate heart.
* * * *
UNDER A BLOSSOM MOON
Hope, that silver-tongued bandit
steals again
across the midnight field
of my heart.
* * * *
Would that my heart were like a snake,
wriggling surely through shadows
out of its old skin to reveal the new.
But this heart is like a Phoenix,
which goes down in flames each time
and in the centuries of seconds
between death and rebirth, a sere peace
settles, like a layer of ashes,
from beneath whose pall a new heart
inevitably rises, trembling and naked.
* * * *
DELAYED REACTION
I have lost my heart many times.
"Given it away," as they say,
opening the left side of my breast
and handing it over.
A ghost heart pumps blood
and produces replicas of passion,
as life goes on, pretty much the same.
Strange that pain only descends,
contracting me into a bemused ball,
when my heart comes home to roost.
Strange that only then do I notice
I had given my heart away again;
only then do I bear the numbing ache
of its long absence;
only then do I suspect that hearts
can touch and share, or briefly mingle,
but may be meant for keeping.
* * * *
THE TIN WOMAN SPEAKS
The distance between a star
so new and far away its light
has not yet reached the earth
is no greater than that which
glitters between you and me.
The former will require miracles
of technology to travel it.
And though my shyness grasps
at mind games to tool a path
from me to you, I fear
this latter distance only
asks for heart to bridge it.
* * * *
THE HEART OF THE MATTER
I can not truly know what you feel,
though I can clearly see your pain.
I can not know what you should do,
but I deeply feel your confusion.
I can not wish that you would
try it this way, or consider that,
for your soul's path is unique,
unfolding in its own time,
in its own way.
I can only cultivate a space
in the corner of my breast
where the wild, enduring things
you've lost, like curiosity and hope,
can survive and grow should you wish
to claim them for your own again.
I can be your surrogate heart.
* * * *
UNDER A BLOSSOM MOON
Hope, that silver-tongued bandit
steals again
across the midnight field
of my heart.
* * * *
Resource: From the Fishouse, a rare treat -- a place to listen to poets reading their work.
‘til next time, keep dreaming,
Roswila
[aka: Patricia Kelly]
****If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”)****My other blog: ROSWILA’S TAROT GALLERY & JOURNAL.
Labels: living heartfully, phoenix
posted by Roswila @ 7:18 AM
2 Comments:
WOULD THAT MY HEART
and in the centuries of seconds
between death and rebirth,
[I like the sound effect in "centuries of seconds" and your grasp of the concept that even small units of time can loom large if you don't know how long they will last. Can the Phoenix really be sure of rebirth no matter how many times it has happened?]
DELAYED REACTION
and produces replicas of passion,
[How true that no subsequent love is like the first one. How true that sometimes we fool ourselves in thinking we are in love. How true that some are only pretending.]
oino
I really appreciate your thoughtful comments on these old poems, oino. Makes the risk I really hesitated to take in posting them worth it. :-)
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