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the dearest of times


when once
these brides of blue
wore cheerful countenances
in hospital gowns and rosary beads
(diminished by nuns)

but then
your youngest of sons
was still utmost in mind,
unable to love
where love seemed
undue. (not of him,
I speak of you)

of course I was still young, still
drawing from my tired well
the founding
of your father’s drink, the
crowning of your
mother’s anxious reign.

never fair, never
visible, you never seeing
the half of it (the ungodly
whole of it)

still
your body did speak
in sickness and in death, a
marriage
that claimed us both. as

season after season,
I fell
to the soul of you,
landing where a body
wears contempt

(for
what god had looked for you?)


ii.


but perhaps it’s small
and sweet
and far away

like bonnets thrown to vast Easter blue
adorned with chains of small white daisies
lost

as when in timeless cottages, washed
white and blinding
in their pleasing desert sun. like
hallowed birds, or sacred visions through
children’s eyes
all filled with heavenly predilections toward --
unheard of
in your time, as in mine. as

season after season,
I fell
to the soul of you,
landing where
a body wears contempt

to avenge the deeds of
those worn blue
by hospital gowns
and rosary beads
(diminished by nuns)

where once

we came
to fall


v i o l e t, 1999



edit: found a double word, now corrected... v.

Violet wrote:the dearest of times

is it about 8 on a saturday evening when the young drunk fools come out of the bars, is that the dearest. I would charge them double with their drippy dribbling desires and idiot softness.

Harry S wrote:

Violet wrote:the dearest of times

is it about 8 on a saturday evening when the young drunk fools come out of the bars, is that the dearest. I would charge them double with their drippy dribbling desires and idiot softness.

.. that sounds a bit like "Of Human Bondage"... Then again, unlike your comment, this poem doesn't speak of this whole mortal mess we find ourselves in in quite such black-humorous terms... at least from where I sit... (actually, I reserve judgement on the novel, as I only know the story as a Bette Davis vehicle) (though I always liked it as such, and think her performance might indeed contain some very black humor)...

I looked up Somerset Maugham, finding this quote (by him) about this book of his:

"This is a novel, not an autobiography; though much in it is autobiographical, more is pure invention."

I actually think this way about this poem... I like to think it starts to fly to places unknown in a sense, so to escape something that feels dark and inescapable... those darkest passages of the heart, where wounds remain...

... anyway, Harry S., thanks for stirring up these thoughts in me, as no one else knew quite what to do with this poem, maybe because I'd had a fairly personal sounding introduction originally and that can be off putting sometimes... or maybe it's not a very good poem... or perhaps it's a bit opaque, which sometimes happens, although I'm not so sure that that's always a bad thing... I mean, sometimes I like it when I start to feel like I'm reading a foreign language, even though I'm not... it's to say that poetry needs to be exactly what it is, and can't be pulled apart, or narratively made sense of...

... anyway, thanks again H.S., for spurring me on here... (even if you are a very bad man indeed (!))... (and you're not even charming or seductive, I don't think... the way Mr. Sirus is (!))...

... (... where are you Mr. S., by the way??)????...

v i o l e t


editorial note to Manna: I've been using in this post what are termed, I believe, dangling modifiers (oh, no, maybe that's dangling prepositions)... any case, they'd been thought grammatically sinful in the past, only I've learned only recently, by a very good wordsmith person on NPR, that it was all a bunch of hooey to begin with... (see I just did it again).. So I do think we should get the word out, especially to Lord M., who does enjoy dangl

Violet, I love these repeating lines,

I fell
to the soul of you,
landing where
a body wears contempt

They let me loose somehow and I am not really sure of their meaning and I don't care because I am off sailing, sailing through thoughts like a mindonaut.
That's Poetry.

MatbbgmephistoJ

mat james wrote:Violet, I love these repeating lines,

I fell
to the soul of you,
landing where
a body wears contempt

They let me loose somehow and I am not really sure of their meaning and I don't care because I am off sailing, sailing through thoughts like a mindonaut.
That's Poetry.

MatbbgmephistoJ

That's interesting, Mat.. since to me (given it's my poem and I have specific reference points with it), that part is very clear to me... but when it's off to Easter bonnets and white cottages and hallowed birds, etc... then for me at least it becomes more about that mindonaut feeling, since I'm not entirely sure what it's saying exactly, even as it's moving me along with it... But that's also what's interesting about poetry, given how private each experience is, with each of our own very individual points of reference coloring how things read to us.. all of which no doubt shifts over time as well...

Thanks so much for sharing that, Mat, that sailing feeling, since I so wish to impart that (!)

v i o l e t

$5 per hour. but $10 for your bottom line.

... would you consider some ghost writing instead??.. that would be 10 dollars a word, love...

v i o l e t

Violet wrote:... would you consider some ghost writing instead??.. that would be 10 dollars a word, love...

v i o l e t

we are talking sex not writing.

... uh, no.. I believe you are talking sex not writing... v.

Violet wrote:... uh, no.. I believe you are talking sex not writing... v.

you are talking sex and writhing. anyway I didnt find this place to exchange pleasantries. Geoffrey sent me on a mission.

... one last point, though.. I mean, even when I'm talking about sex I'm talking about writing.. but that might be over your head.. (to deliberately insert a pun here)... (my dear Mr. Harry S... you bad bad very bad man)... (just where are you Mr. Sirus?)...

v i o l e t


... oh, and Geoffrey... why can't you do your own dirty work???... the cat's got your..

head- too obvious a pun

writhing - you didn't even notice it.

vote subtlety every time.

Harry S wrote:head- too obvious a pun

writhing - you didn't even notice it.

vote subtlety every time.

.. Sir, uh, Mr. Harry S., who's to say I didn't notice?? (I did, monsieur)... it indicates wit and even writing ability... and so, wherefore art thou so unkind to us all, with such gifts as these to share? And Geoffrey too has such gifts, though methinks he doth protest too much his given talents... 'Tis a puzzle...

Princess Violet

Violet wrote:... one last point, though.. I mean, even when I'm talking about sex I'm talking about writing.. but that might be over your head..

Harry S wrote:head- too obvious a pun

writhing - you didn't even notice it.

vote subtlety every time.

... just one more point, Mr. Harry S... I wanted to take issue with the notion of head being too obvious a pun, as it wasn't the word itself, but one's proximity to and/or location with regard to the word (or those meanings being designated by such word) that I was referring to (there's another dangling preposition, I love them now)... If it was just to use the word head for the sake of its double meaning, now that might very well be too obvious or boring, depending on the context...

Anyway, just thought I'd clarify... (not that I think we should lose our heads here, especially the men who may be reading this, since they have more than one kind of head to lose)... v.

(V. wrote:
not that I think we should lose our heads here, especially the men who may be reading this, since they have more than one kind of head to lose)

...and – in this thread at least – Harry S. is thinking with the little one...

(Violet – I have completely lost all control over those elipses...)