I am writing poems, more poems, about him.
It has occured to me in a fluttering panic
that my shoddy attempts might be the only poems about him -
just imagine.
My cliches and half-rhymes and failures to rhyme
my struggles to structure and clumsy enjambement
completely unable to capture his light doing injustice
to his smile insulting him by their very existence but still;
existent.
The poetry equivalent of a four-year-old's portrait of God,
the first time someone throws clay on a wheel,
a cave painting I am daubing on the walls of my own heart
but something
raw and primitive and childish, maybe, but then it is new -
it will be a genre, the love-poem-of-the-untalented
the one who is so dumb they cannot write to you
but tries anyway.
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TheSpinstress
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Comments (5)
Wow, I loved this!! All the descriptions - first time clay on a wheel; a cave painting daubing on your heart. ❤️
Love makes us do crazy things, write crazy stories. We look on in spirit and wonder why are we going crazy...time has to do its job and heal the pain.
What amazing imagery. I sometimes scratch my head over poetry, having a journalism background, poetry sometimes feels too abstract, but this resonated, and is just beautiful.
"a cave painting I am daubing on the walls of my own heart" Gosh I read that line so many times! I freaking love it! Your poem was so poignantly beautiful!
I really liked this one. "The poetry equivalent of a four-year-old's portrait of God," especially hit hard. It's a scary concept that we can try to weave our words the best we can and never capture what we want. Great job!