She poured the light
into the shadows
to give the day
a place to rest.
Now all is dark
except the flecks
of silver stranded
in the sky.
She ran away
to another galaxy,
where, I imagine,
someone waits
in silence, like me,
wondering if she
will ever return.
Now it is clear that he is
the object of his anger.
Never quite good enough
for attention or praise
from others or himself.
Enclosed in a small box
he peers through a tiny hole
at all that is marvelous
in the world, knowing he will
never be enough. Just beyond
what he can see, carefully
placed, are rows upon rows
of boxes whose captives stand
bewildered by the winter sky.
i shut everything down during the storm,
never quite recovering anything. so i keep
digging, searching, following the trail back
through the wound, through the pain, through
questions that have no answers. revisit the place
somehow. retrace the steps of sorrow and excavate
that life from the past – reconnect – have mercy upon
the soul laboring beneath the burden of my expectations.
no one reads
free books
of poetry. not
even the gem
in the bargain
bin. discounted
words abound
in the realm
of free hate
speech. words
are spewed,
but poetry is
set to the music
of setting suns.
you are an iceberg
hidden by a night
without stars. yet
i search the dark
waters in the fog,
waiting to collide
and slowly sink
into the silent sea.
you walk along
the silent strand
shadowed
on the horizon
we carried burdens
for months and miles
only to collapse
when we dropped them
in the sand
and watched the tide
bury our sorrows at sea
you walk along
the silent strand
shadowed
by quiet and calm
The furies are at home
in the mirror; it is their address.
Even the clearest water,
if deep enough can drown.
Never think to surprise them.
Your face approaching ever
so friendly is the white flag
they ignore. There is no truce
with the furies. A mirror’s temperature
is always at zero. It is ice
in the veins. Its camera
is an X-ray. It is a chalice
held out to you in
silent communion, where graspingly
you partake of a shifting
identity never your own.
– from No Truce with the Furies by RS Thomas
I haven’t written much lately, or more accurately, I haven’t revised anything that I like enough to post here. Instead, I offer this poem by RS Thomas.
is there a trail back
to repair what i lost?
if irreparable, is there
a way to feel emotions
i buried neatly under
the illusion of calm,
so many years after
the storm fell silent?
the time spent
between planets
equals the space
between stanzas
worlds defined
by unseen action
engulfed within
soundless calm
the echoes are ghosts
wandering invisibly
through our souls,
the fading reminders
of what we once were.
Awaiting the Images 