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She...

There’s a lonely guitar standing in the corner
Longing to be touched again by you.
There’s a broken hearted woman who is longing for the same,
And hasn’t got a clue what she should do.

There’s a house that’s deathly quiet without music,
Cause each song seems to make a deeper scar.
For her each single lyric brings back memories of you
Just sitting there and strumming your guitar.

The bed’s no longer welcoming, just empty.
There’s no one there to hold her when she’s blue.
She aches to feel your body pressed against hers once again
And move in her just like you used to do.

The boots are out of sight inside the wardrobe.
The leathers and the toys are put away.
And you’re the only person who knows what she really needs
And you know how much pleasure that she gave!

She watches the world passing by the window.
She longs to hear your key turn in the door.
But she knows in her heart of hearts the fairy tale is over,
Cause you proved you don’t love her anymore.

She knows what doesn’t kill her makes her stronger,
And G-d won’t send her more than she can bear.
Though she wonders what comparisons they based this all upon.
But at this time she doesn’t really care.

They say that love can hurt, that love is painful,
Now that’s an understatement if you please.
She knows that love is just a form of torment and despair,
To bring a man or woman to their knees.

And though you’ve left a woman broken hearted,
Her love for you will still remain the same.
And she will come back stronger even though it may take time,
And maybe one day learn to play the game?

Karren B

xx

http://youtu.be/cPdUkWCDmGM

I can feel the stillness of the place, the quiet creeping over what was once a place full of life. Great images Karren, I couldn't help but think of Leonards 'my guitar' poem which seemed to fit so well with the image of an untouched guitar in the corner.

I saw in poem a while ago with the line 'love is in the exhale' and really loved the thought of that ... it seems true to me. I've also been thinking lately that 'letting go' might also be on the exhale - I can't say for sure because I seem to have a tendency to want to hold my breath.

Hi cate

There's definitely a feeling of emptiness here. And just when I think I'm able to take a deep breath and let go, something grips my heart and the pain starts all over again.

Maybe the answer is to learn to play that lonely guitar.

Karren B
xx

Somehow, Karen, the rhythm and topic of your poem took me of this long forgotten classic.
Ahh, Love is such a whim of fortune (Fortunata)

The Green Eye of the Yellow God

by J. Milton Hayes

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Khatmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshiped in the ranks,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew,"
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.


MatbbgJ

I just love the music of verse 9 above:

"When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom."

Karen, a thought for you;
What would life be without that exquisite melancholy?

Your poem along with its natural, yet packed, rhythm moved me immensely, Karren.
I'm so sorry... that such a work of beauty should have to come from such pain.
My heart is with you in your loss.

~ Lizzy
xxx

Hi Mat,

I haven’t read that poem since I was at school, it was nice to be reminded of it. It is a very melodic but sad poem.

I often think that the brain retains every scrap of information that we absorb, and we can draw on it sometimes without even realising. A couple of years ago I wrote something called ‘Can’t sleep’ which Hartmot pointed out could be sung to the tune of ‘A Thousand Kisses Deep’. I’d never even thought about it till I tried it; and you could.

Cant Sleep

The shadows fall and night comes on,
a silence fills the air.
Then time slows down and almost stops,
and leaves you waiting there.
You count the minutes one by one,
the hands of time go round.
You long for sleep or peace of mind
but neither can be found.
The sounds of night come crashing in,
they saturate your mind
And fill you with an emptiness;
a dark foreboding kind…
Then finally when eyelids close
and sleep is on its way,
a chink of light creeps softly in
and starts another day.


‘Exquisite melancholy’ now that has to be a title for a poem if ever I’ve heard one! Sounds a bit masochistic like ‘Exquisite pain’!

Thanks for your comments Mat.

Karren
xx

Hello Lizzy

Thanks for your thoughts.
There are worse things that can happen in our lives but at the moment its still raw.

I'll get over it eventually. What's the alternative?

Karren
xx

Hi Karen,

Who am I to say???... but I avoid the use of "you", (writing in second person) in my poems, if I can.
I prefer to own the moment when writing so I go for (first person) "I", "me", "my" ...
...so I adjusted your poem to my liking.

I hope you are not offended; (but I am now in your moment and not lost somewhere in between poet and reader).
The use of "I", "me", "my" (in this context) says, "I own this thought", this moment, this pain...

Mat
xxx


Cant Sleep

The shadows fall and night comes on,
a silence fills the air.
Then time slows down and almost stops,
and leaves me waiting there.
I count the minutes one by one,
the hands of time go round;
I long for sleep or peace of mind
but neither can be found.
The sounds of night come crashing in,
they saturate my mind
And fill me with an emptiness;
a dark foreboding kind…
Then finally when eyelids close
and sleep is on its way,
a chink of light creeps softly in
and starts another day.

Hi Mat,

I know exactly what you mean! I do have a tendency to write things that way, especially when I’m trying to distance myself from what’s on the page. Hard to explain; but once I’ve got it out of my system and onto paper it’s no longer mine but someone else’s pain (as you pointed out), hence the ‘She’ poem! When I write poems like that I think it’s more therapy than poetry!

I am in no way offended by your comments. I think that’s the whole point of this part of the forum. Constructive criticism is always helpful and sometimes the reader can see things the writer has overlooked or not even thought about.
When I first started posting here we used to have a few very good critics that would often pull apart a piece I’d posted and really make me think about what I’d written; sometimes taking me out of my comfort zone and pointing me in a totally alien direction; hard to take at first but once I realised they knew what they were talking about, and were trying to be helpful, I could appreciate the criticism and use it to improve what I’d written. Though some were more tactful than others!

Thanks again for your comments (I will try harder in future).

Karren
xx