In absence

When springtime comes

and poets near and far

search out the end chewed pencil,

to write of earthworms, trees

and long lost dear relations,

I think of you; 
Of afternoons spent hand in hand,

when love was all, made no demand.

When summer comes

and poets near and far

search out the end chewed pencil,

to write of flowers, sun

and days of idle play,

I think of you; 
Of nights spent under starry skies,

of kisses, sweet repose and sighs.

When autumn comes

and poets near and far

search out the end chewed pencil,

to write of seasons fade, a falling leaf,

the bare brown clay,

I think of you; 

Of guitar rifts and blue, blue eyes,

of promises that masked the lies.

 

Yet now you are so very far away,

your winter weighs more burdensome than mine.

For I can hold the gift you gave,

the son I bore, those blue, blue eyes,

that though they may not ever see

the other half of him and me,

will someday come to understand, 

those afternoons spent hand in hand,

when love was all, made no demand. 

Reviews

[h d e rushin]

your such a young woman Beccy yet you can drift to a 15th century style to capture the essence
of observation. "Full eyed aspects, and secret glances" George Herbert would write. (see Herbert's
poem "Virtue").

And it's so true, the poet inside of all of us will "search out the end chewed pencil" which
perhaps is an allusion to Judgment Day when the world will end in a general conflagration;
searching for a tiny sign, a certain mannerism perhaps, or the way he holds his hands
that screams out his lineage.

Lost within these lovely romantic lines is this longing. And ain't that always the case?
well done.....dana

[Lydia Shutter]

A poignant beauty of a write. Through the calendar pages, through the eyes of a poet, the loss of a love is overwhelming. Left with a child who will never know his father....tragic. Gentle and tender, your emotive words are heartfelt and touching. Lydi**

[SleeplessVolcano]

Your use of all four seasons, and mixing them with tender memories, both positive and negative, creates a very visual poem, as if it was inspired by pictures, even just pictures in your mind. Considering the tendency of poets to focus on negatives when writing about love lost, you show tremendous fortitude to remember the positive too, very vividly expressed in "of afternoons spent hand in hand". You grasp the painful realities of life so well, with "of promises that masked the lies", reminding us all that our cups in life cannot just contain sweetness. Even though the music (guitar rifts) have stopped, new music started, and continues to play, in the next generation, also proving again that when doors close, sometimes harshly, new doors open, masking the pain, with new life, and new love.

Thank you for this inspiring poem!

[Frank]

I wondered if your darling son would figure in the poem, and it did. It took me back to a time when my second son was taken every morning to be washed in the metal sink we had and I witnessed the relationship between mother and child (my child) and we all laughed every time at the same routine. It lasted three months until he grew out of nappies and then it ended, never to return.

The another time, my older boy would come home from nursery and throw his tiny suitcase to the ground, with disdain, and enter the house and his younger brother would creep up and savour the discarded suitcase. He coveted that suitcase you see, and I took a photograph of him savouring that suitcase.

He grew up and married and his wife asked me about the story behind the photograph because it has attracted her attention. She loved the story and wanted a copy, it was her way of joining in to his childhood.

That's what your poem meant to me. All I could tell you if you happened to ask is: take plenty of photographs, shed fulls, especially record his voice. We lost the recording of my boys speaking with a Rhodesian accent, just as well it would have made me cry to hear it again.

What happens to all these memories when we die? are they lost, or is there a storehouse where they are all stored. Why does love hurt so much? Why are we complete in love.

See what you done, you made me cry.

Well done Beccy
ps.s I forgot this so I will tuck it on the end:

Yet now you are so very far away,
your winter weighs more burdensome than mine.
For I can hold the gift you gave,
the son I bore, those blue, blue eyes,
that though they may not ever see
the other half of him and me,
will someday come to understand,
those afternoons spent hand in hand,
when love was all, made no demand.

This stanza is quite brilliant, you could cut out most of the proceeding verses and the repeats and the poem would and as strong, if not stronger, simply because a surfeit of words hinders the reaching of the ultimate message, of love, forgiveness, sadness, regret, joy and adoration of your gift found in this stanza.

I love that you voice speaks of what you know, its honesty, your adoration. And although this adoration is common in most mothers, yours is that quiet voice, yet loud enough to wake the dead. And I am enjoying that about your work.

[NoelHC]

I enjoy repetition done well, as you have used it here, and love the story this tells.
"Some things are meant to be" is the title to one of my favorite country songs; the that title sums up your poem well.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ncXc0n4J8Lc

[ANTO]

Wow - Beccy this is truly moving. The year finely chronicled in beautiful imagery -I didnt see the end of that coming at all. Well crafted and composed dear poet.
This "those afternoons spent hand in hand,
when love was all, made no demand." is so delicate and like gossamer sticks to the minds eye. Its a really class poem Beccy. Thanks for sharing it with us. :))