Tuesday, August 14, 2007


Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune
—without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.
Emily Dickinson

I send the Goat a raft of poems, and he responded right away. You never know when he will get close enough to his computer to take notice of anything, no matter where you are; it was lovely to have his response, though I couldn't help noticing that he responded most strongly to the one that laid my dependence on him out most completely. That's just the kind of guy he is. And I couldn't help pointing it out to him; that's just the kind of guy I am...

My love, I move away from you at speed
And still the love that you declared keeps pace,
Clings to me like a shadow or a burr,
Now part of me, now mine. Dare I believe?

Those three short words tear through me and I bleed.
Oh, what I would not give to hold your face
In my two hands, kiss those lips I prefer
To every other pair, to give, receive.

A little shred remains that doubts your creed;
I tremble lest I lose that gift of grace.
Deserted, as I once deserted her,
I’d have no lot in life except to grieve.

My love, if you speak true, you grant me breath;
But if you lie, you doom me to slow death.

Then there was this...

I tell you you should keep it in your pants.
You say you haven’t had a soul since June —
Then ask aloud if you can really claim
That, say perhaps you did sleep with one friend.

Now, there’s a new step in our little dance,
A new note where we two had seemed in tune:
You can’t recall? That renders rather lame
All those fine words you fed me — to what end?

Please don’t misunderstand, don’t look askance:
I’m all grown up, no matter how I moon.
But I do wonder, when you call my name,
What message I should think you mean to send.

I guess I might have known, when we began,
That all your friends were lovers, to a man.

Oh, well.

The balance is definitely in favor of taking love where you find it and letting the chips fall where they may. I just wish I didn't keep stumbling on new chips...

Hang in there, all.

1 comment:

  1. Nice poems! "in your pants"...the contrast between them is too funny.
    Chips: with new chips...get some dip and eat up!