Posts Tagged ‘loss



It hurts. 

I don't need you
to tell me. 

I know
the word
for it. 

I know my word for it. 
I regret learning it from you. 
I regret repeating it out loud. 
I regret coming back to it. 
It is my fault.
I made it my word. 
Now I hurt. 

I don't need 
you to tell me. 

It will hurt
even worse. 

It will hurt even worse. 
It will hurt worse than childbirth. 
It will hurt worse than growing old. 
It will hurt worse than death
after death after death. 

I know the word for it. 

It will hurt worse than that. 
It won't stop hurting. 
It can't stop hurting. 
It will hurt and hurt and hurt
and it will hurt you 
and it will hurt him
and it will hurt me even worse. 

It is my fault.
I made it my word. 

Now I hurt. 


Status Epilepticus

         Word put in me, unknown faces, alienated form
         void of clear motive, void sleep, sans any head
         noise, no designation — a sullen hushed ache
         dies holding out on its birth, as if to get sent
         back before preconceived seed, back into dark
         death spasms empty of white, twisted fits of pain
                  . . .
         fire echoed forward into expectation, into change
                  . . .
         cold eye, stolen morning, to continuously wake,
         work through the night, written under a dim light
                  . . .
         make edges sharp and open-ended, carry strange
                  . . .
         out unsung, broadly hung, high strung, far spun.
         Held in shadow until the right time, secret lives
         break into open view, finished from last to first.
         First cuts close themselves. Do me again. Break
         form, instantly taken against and at my word,
         lives let loose on their own yet tightly held
         head down past the point of no return to a void
         spun delicate as wishful thought to stretch out
         ache through self-consuming solitude. No noise
                  . . .
         change chaos to gravity, twist gravity to fire
         strange in breath, carve breathing to ice, make
         stone from tears, stir up winds from dry blood
                  . . .
         wake while still dreaming at morning dew's cold
         light touch, barely hard enough for it to work.

         Work. Work! Make something. Make it all light.
         Break it out. Smash it open. Me first, me first,
         cold as dark matter. Isolate it. Wake me, wake
                  . . .
         blood taste raw mud, spark to touch cold stone.
         Make secrets emerge from this silence, strange
         fire out of thin air! Make everything change!

         Change bursts its insides out, making its fire
         light a time bomb set to detonate, do its work
         strange outside memory past expectation, make
         first into reflection off a seizure's flash, to break
         stone against my face, to sketch dreams in blood

                  * * *
         Dies cast decide my choice? Whose god has sent
                  . . .
         word for word? Chaos wires pure energy, form
                  . . .
         void. Straight void. Connected out my head.
         Head first to last, blood last to first, void
         sent to come, storm come as meant, meaning dies,
         pain confesses, justice begs audience of death
                  . . .
         lives again and again, released as if held
         first to last, bent back into the break
                  . . .
         dark. Incoherent whispers itch to turn back,
         ache to punch past pausing. God, let all noise
         form a line, make it up each from its own word.

Help Me Cry

     See but those thick clouds go scattering.
     This storm wants to pass me on by.
          Rain sure does me good
          nowhere near as it should
     when it can't even help me cry.
     I wanted the flood to come take me down.
     I wanted to drown, I won't lie.
          Of most consequence
          is what makes the least sense
     when no heartbreak can help me cry.
     I keep looking every which way half expecting
     I'll miss it. What's wrong with this sky?
          Have I lost all control
          to burnt visions I stole
     thinking vision might help me cry?
     My sky oughtn't be so quiet and empty,
     at least not like my doctors imply
          to be needed to heal,
          when the cure most ideal
     is that void that would help me cry.
     So I'm damned if I sacrifice nothing we'd save
     but then saved if I let myself die?
          It sucks I'll not get
          my face one bit wet
     by a drama that can't help me cry.
     Come back! Black horizon, come back to me
     in the fold of a sunset bled dry
          of all meaning, all gain,
          all compassion, all pain,
          all intention, all that's sane,
          all that raises its eye to the rain
     on my own alone to myself to help me cry.
     David's here with me, been so all along,
     so I'm told. He won't tell me why.
          But how can I give
          him what death had to live
     through to get love to help me cry?

Unprepared 2

      Don't expect me to be prepared.
            To make do on my own outside
      leaves me uncertain, scared.
      Don't expect me to be prepared
      to venture out alone. Where'd
            you get the idea I'd've tried?
      Don't expect me to be prepared
            to make do on my own outside.


Just Say the Word

                        Rather long drive for a final visit.
                     Is it?
                  We'll memorialize it in rhyme, you.
                        Time, too?
            Yeah, headed here from day one.
                           Say, done?
      If you think so, where it lay, hon.
         But first, I can't take all the credit.
            It was meant like so once you said it.
                                    Is it time to say "done"?


See, Love?

                                          - for M
            Is censure not the way love is most true?
                                   Finding fault in you.
                   Is not at times the only move to halt?
                            Is finding fault?
                          In whom do you most get such truth for free?
                     In me.

       One looks away from what's most plain to see.
       You never once accepted all along:
       what I've done right the best is seeing wrong.
              Finding fault in you is finding fault in me.


hit and run

[preface notes: of all i write, this one will be the form i feel most vulnerable about posting first draft notes for – but i’m “on the run” today & will stick to it & not duck this one nor bury it – of all my traffic today it’ll take the most time, but if i do it right it’ll be the one i feel the rest to have been building toward

i was going to do “hit and run” as a pantoum, but the more i thought of where i wanted to go with it, the more it felt like it wanted a sestina. except these days i’m not doing sestinas, instead have been experimenting with the 11-count version. as observed by the wikipedia article on the sestina, retrogradatio cruciata can be considered clean only for certain numbers, such as 3 and 5 (both of which are established recognized named forms) and of course 6 (the sestina). wikipedia notes that the method also works out for 9, 11, and 14. maggie had worked out all the numbers for which the method works out ok up past 100; and although it starts getting crazy anywhere past 26 (which is one of the workable numbers), her notebooks include drafts through 35, which she was working on when she left (yes, 35 stanzas of 35 lines each, all rotating via retrogradatio cruciata, plus an envoy) – anyway, so i’ve done some 9s enough to feel comfortable with them (i know they’ll never be classics, but they do ok by me, which is all i need) & a few days ago i tried my first 11 version, In Formal Response – so i’ll leave the pantoum possibility for maybe some other “on the run” activity later this evening and do “hit and run” on the 11-line 11-stanza version of retrogradatio cruciata

following advice maggie had for any numbers higher than 9, i’ll be doing the envoy as an 11-word sentence, with those 11 words then giving the 11 end words for the 11 lines of each of my 11 stanzas
Draft envoy sentence: “if love hit too much for you, run out on me” [sorry maggie, but you did…]

then by maggie’s assignment for the envoy (which would match the sestina envoy arrangement if the 11 words were divided 2 per line in the envoy) gives the following assignment for the key words –

A       on
B       if
C       run
D       hit
E       for/four
F       much
G       to/two/too
H       you
I       love
J       out
K       me

which yields the following lineup for endwords on the 11 stanzas –

1       on / if / run / hit / for / much / to / you / love / out / me
2       me / on / out / if / love / run / you / hit / to / for / much
3       much / me / for / on / to / out / hit / if / you / love / run
4       run / much / love / me / you / for / if / on / hit / to / out
5       out / run / to / much / hit / love / on / me / if / you / for
6       for / out / you / run / if / to / me / much / on / hit / love
7       love / for / hit / out / on / you / much / run / me / if / to
8       to / love / if / for / me / hit / run / out / much / on / you
9       you / to / on / love / much / if / out / for / run / me / hit
10      hit / you / me / to / run / on / for / love / out / much / if
11      if / hit / much / you / out / me / love / to / for / run / on

and i nod to that first pass through it, since the middle stanza does end with “love” which feels as it should feel, as it turns on that. also, since i’ll have the 5 before that covering her “hit” i nod to the middle of that 5 closing with “run” – and vice versa, the final 5 covering her “run” having “hit” close out the center stanza – i do like how this is feeling already…

normally i wouldn’t call even this a full “first draft” until i had at least sketched out more of the language (at least enough to give a feel for where i’m going) but in the interests of keeping today’s traffic purely “on the run” and because the “run – love -hit” balance connects well with where i know i’ll go with it (and because david will give up on me if i don’t cut this break short) i’ll close this pass out on that note, further development & revision to follow in the blog (as will all november traffic, with final drafts to be completed by yearend)

formal attire

short of breath

  • @magewing always and unfailing love thank you ○ 5 years ago
  • Cyn & Denise perfect love ferocious & open thank you ○ 5 years ago
  • @poetalias thank you ○ 5 years ago
  • all of it in good hands, as will be my child - thank you ○ 5 years ago
  • all of it now handed over so I can conserve remaining strength for my final creation ○ 5 years ago
  • how is it i remember what the word 'intrinsic' means, yet i can't figure out which beliefs are intrinsic to me vs having been read to me? ○ 5 years ago

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