Friday, December 11, 2009

grief poem. written Friday, December 4, 2009, in the afternoon. 1 Day Short of 1 Month.


He's gone-- he's gone!
Come back--come back--!
He's gone beyond all coming back
Those suicides of Shakespeare plays
And operas are fools
To see him again-- some day-- some day!
I must bend with the wind and endure;
To do myself in is to shut myself out.
But I wish I could die of grief,
So easy to do before penicillin,
When knocked out immunity
Quickly'd do you in...
But there is no easy relief
I must bend with the wind
And lean into the grief
I would weep--I would wail--
I would swoon and shout--
I would storm heaven's gates--
Let me in! Let him out!
But this is all vanity, all futility,
This is all chasing after the wind.
I need to learn how to live
Without my heart--it was buried with him.
He'll surely live again--resurrection
Will come. There's no power on earth
That can break our connection.
But who'll resurrect me?
I am blind, deaf, and dumb;
Sore weary, and numb.


While he is in heaven, this earth is my hell.
He's wearing his crown; I carry his cross.
We should have been crowned together
Ere he was crowned thus; but now, never.
Woe is me! Woe is me! Who'll burst my bonds?
Who'll loose me from Hades?
Ezekiel, tell me, shall these bones of mine live?
His bones shall rise, but mine are dried up;
He lives in Christ, while I wander half dead.
I moan like a zombie, while I seek my heart;
Like a ghost, like a shadow,
Crying, Where is my love?
Like a ghost who is doomed to wander the earth,
I lie down in my sleepless and empty bed;
All thy waves and billows are gone over my head.
My ship has no harbor, my soul has no berth.
Where is my love? Where have you taken him?
Tell me, that I may go to him,
And anoint him with myrrh.


Christ is risen from the dead,
Trampling down death by death,
And upon those in the tombs, bestowing life--
But I, though alive, am dead in this world;
While he, although dead, is alive in Christ;
Without harbor, without rest,
The whole earth's become my tomb,
I, the widow who never was a wife.

Have you no blessing for me, Father?
Or have you love for Jacob only?
I mourn like Jacob did for Rachel--
Three other wives, but he was lonely.


Better our parting'd been a breakup
And he'd lived 60 more years
Happy, surrounded by his children,
And me, barren with bitter tears--
I wanted him alive and happy
I wanted him, at least, alive--
I wanted him, altogether
As a woman wants a man
I loved him, with everything in me
More than I could understand
I hoped we'd always be together
Sharing a home as man and wife
Now he is gone, and I am left
With pictures, memories, lovely gifts,
A diamond necklace, a promise of more,
Before he from my side was reft--
I'd rather have him than all his stuff
Though I had all, it were not enough--
I want him only, and never can,
The world's most unattainable man...


His viola's silent now. His violin
Now sits forlorn. I cannot bring them
Back to life. I cannot play a single note.
I cannot make them sing
As he could. He could play;
Instead, I write, and wrote--
Though all my words stick in my throat.

Play, play, lovely violin! Play, viola, play!
Like me, they sit alone, untouched;
They are waiting still for him
To work his magic with his touch.
Come back, my love! Play me again!
I sit as silent as your violin.

All music sings to me of you,
Especially the lovely strings,
But none will ever ring as true
As when your bow danced upon the strings--
Come back to me! Play me again;
I'd gladly be your violin.

1 comment:

  1. It would be extremely kind if you could let your readers know about the latest issue of our journal 'CHRISTVS REGNAT', which makes some attempt to bring something new in the field of thought and study about our Catholic heritage, liturgical, cultural, historical, biographical, musical and, of course, spiritual:

    You are also most welcome to link/follow/blogroll our blog:

    Please pray for me!

    May God bless you!

    St. Conleth's Catholic Heritage Association (Ireland)