Sorry, terrible old chestnut, that.
I have been asked if I write poetry. Um, er, yes, I do. Lyric-romantic stuff - but chiefly only when I'm in love. The last time I was writing much was about two years ago. No prizes for guessing why. And I haven't written much at all since then; again, no prizes...
Over a year's end, without ceremony,
Times slips past. Our festivals are done, we
Have offered our hearts and love,
Our blessings, kisses, strength of gifts. And now
We have come here, all
Celebration past, in the official
Slack time, the everyday dull heart
Of winter. Over our heads
As we cross the car park
January's first moon is haunting the windy clouds.
Funny, tonight I do not feel
What convention says I should - neither
Melancholy, wintry, nor another
Year older. We haul our shopping
Into your car boot. You are smiling.
The night is mild, windswept, as if
Spring's here already; blessings
And festivals continuing quietly on.
Year's end is no breakwater
To their flowering, no stop to hope.
And what's begun today, unhesitating,
Carries us into our new-come moonlit year.
(January 1st, 2007).
It feels,as ever, peculiarly sad to re-read a love poem to someone one has lost. I'll step back a decade and see if an older piece still has the same ring of pain.
I have seen the spring...
I have seen the spring turn to autumn without a sound,
And the turning weir spill jade water endlessly,
But I have never seen you smile turning to me.
I have seen the trees streaming with scattering leaves,
And the river weeds flowing in the endless stream,
But I have never seen your dark hair stream
Across your shoulders as you turn to me.
I have seen the dead leaves frozen to the pavement
And winter like a stranger in the garden,
And I have seen you smile upon each season,
But you will never smile and turn to me.
That year is past in which I saw my spring.
Ah, this is not good for me. Find me a fella and you might get something new from me; otherwise I'm blue, and through, and done with it all.
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