Tuesday, August 14, 2007

NO GOAT: FEATHERS...

c
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.
C

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!

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