The bottom line is that you should be afraid of poetry,
coming as it does when you least expect it
and asking so much, as if it knows you well enough to do that.
Regret pulls on you for starting,
and for ending too soon, for hollowing you out
and leaving empty shells everywhere.
You should never write poetry, even worse.
There is no sense in it.
All it does is leave you wondering what you said —
Is what I just said really words and sentences,
have I lapsed into paragraphs,
or maybe I have invented a new language
(like the woman with long gray hair in my mother’s room
who spoke in chants from some ancient forest — in truth —
and frightened my children, them hovering close to me
and even to my mother, who could not speak at all,
only blinked, and me promising myself to never make them
visit again, and that was the last they saw of her)?
What is the point of all that —
danger, defying death, hanging yourself in effigy —
what not even you can understand?
Poems from in between 
10 responses to “Sort of a lamentation”
Well, I am just reading this over and over. It’s one of those. Thank you.
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Thanks. I have my doubts about it.
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Ah, but that’s what makes it beautifully truthful. It’s the vulnerability, the deeply personal, the “attempts” to get at the meaning…it’s exactly what poetry does and should do!
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As long as we can think of ever poem as a kind of proposal, I am good. Sometimes, I am not sure at all. Anyway, as always, thanks for your encouragement.
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“and asking so much…” Yes. Yet, your answer is wise and eloquent.
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Thank you! Thanks for the validation.
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Most welcome. Smile.
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Excellence itself!
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You are very kind. Thank you.
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You’re welcome.
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